I've been planning this backpacking trip through Idaho's
Sawtooth Wilderness for months. As someone who spent a summer
interning with the Forest Service, I prided myself on
navigating remote areas and I chose our Rd. carefully.
A four day loop that started near Redfish Lake, wound through
Alpine Lake, and dipped into the rugged solitude of Hell Roaring
Canyon. My fiance Tasha, along with our
friends Milo and Erica, agreed enthusiastically.
We needed a break, a taste of wilderness untouched by crowds
and civilization. The 1st morning felt promising.
A thin layer of smoke from distant wildfires hazed the
horizon, giving the jagged granite peaks a surreal glow.
We adjusted our packs at the trailhead, Milo cracking jokes
to mask his inexperience, while Erica, a trauma nurse who always
exuded quiet confidence, triple checked our medical kit.
Tasha's camera shutter clicked rhythmically, capturing photos
of the trailhead sign and the distant Alpine landscape.
Within hours, we settled into an easy rhythm.
The air was crisp, scented by pine and dry earth, and we
passed the occasional hiker on our way to Alpine Lake.
But soon the trail became ours alone.
By late afternoon, we made camp beside a clearing rimmed by old,
towering lodge pole Pines. The wind picked up as evening
approached, rustling through branches carrying the smoky
scent more strongly. As dusk fell, I wandered a short
distance to scout our route for the following day.
The setting sun cast long, deep shadows across the trail, and as
I walked, something caught my eye.
Off to my right, parallel to our route, fresh boot prints cut
through the soft dirt. I knelt to examine them closely.
The tread pattern wasn't familiar.
Not mine, not Tasha's, not Milo's, nor Erica's.
I stood slowly, scanning the thickening forest around me.
It wasn't unheard of to find prints out here, but these felt
close, oddly aligned with our path.
A twinge of unease curled inside my gut, but I brushed it off.
I returned to camp and decided not to mention it, reasoning
there was no need to stir unnecessary worry.
Dinner passed uneventfully, conversation easy and light.
We laughed as Milo exaggerated his survival skills, claiming he
could build a shelter from pine needles and optimism alone.
But soon our voices faded into silence as exhaustion settled
in. Erica doused the small fire we'd
made, and darkness closed around us, heavy and complete.
It wasn't until well past midnight that I was startled
awake. The forest had become oddly
still, the normal sounds of night strangely absent.
My breath quickened involuntarily as I strained to
listen. Moments later, a sharp snapping
of branches echoed just beyond the thin nylon walls of our
tent. I glanced over.
Tasha's eyes were wide and alert, staring into mine.
We both waited perfectly still. Another crack, louder this time,
and footsteps, soft, deliberate, circled around the far perimeter
of our camp. Carefully, silently, I reached
for my flashlight and knife, crawling to the tent flap with
slow, controlled breaths, I unzipped just enough to peer
out. Nothing but darkness greeted me,
a blackness deepened by the smoky haze.
I swept my flashlight beam in a careful arc, highlighting only
ghostly shadows cast by trees. No animals, no movement.
Whoever or whatever had made those noises was now quiet,
hidden. I zipped the tent back shut,
heart thudding in my chest, and sat awake until dawn crept
slowly over the ridges, certain in that moment that our peaceful
trip had already started to slip from my control.
Morning broke Gray and heavy, the sun little more than a dull
orange smear through the smoky veil overhead.
None of us had slept well after the noises outside the tent.
Milo was grouchy and kept shooting glances into the trees,
muttering about raccoons or bears.
Erica remained quiet, packing with sharp, tense movements.
Tasha hovered near me, watching closely as I studied the map
again, tracing our route toward Hell Roaring Canyon.
We set out shortly after breakfast, hiking silently as
the terrain steepened. The Pines loomed denser here,
their trunks scarred by past wildfires.
The landscape shifted into something unsettling, twisted
branches and blackened earth, silent evidence of nature's
indifference to destruction. About two hours in, Milo let out
a sudden, harsh shout behind me. I spun around just in time to
see him pitching sideways into a patch of thick brush, his leg
jerking violently upward as if yanked by an invisible hand.
Milo. Erica shouted, rushing toward
him as Tasha and I followed close behind.
He was lying in the brush, eyes wide and panicked, cursing
loudly. Around his shin was a thin but
strong length of wire, biting into his skin, now smeared with
blood. My stomach tightened as I
scanned the ground and realized this wasn't some random
accident. This was a trap carefully set.
Together, we freed him, Milo groaning as Erica wrapped his
wounded leg with practiced efficiency.
He glanced at me accusingly, his voice edged with anger and fear.
What the hell, Ryan? Where have you LED us?
I didn't answer, scanning the trees, wondering who had placed
this snare and why, my mind returned to the strange
footprints from yesterday evening.
I had brushed them off as coincidence, but now my doubts
surged back, potent and cold. We quickly decided to turn
around, agreeing without words that something was deeply wrong.
But when we retraced our steps, the anxiety that had lurked
quietly within me exploded into panic.
The trail we'd walked down only minutes before was blocked by a
pile of freshly displaced rocks. A wall of heavy rubble
deliberately toppled from the steep slope above.
My breath caught sharply in my chest.
Erica stared at the barrier, silent and pale, while Tasha's
eyes darted nervously around the steep ridges above us.
Someone had deliberately cut off our route.
Ryan. Tasha's voice was low, urgent.
Someone's watching us up there. She nodded subtly toward the
ridgeline above. My heart hammered as I followed
her gaze for an instant, silhouetted against the smoky
sky, I saw a figure, dark, hooded, motionless, unmistakably
human, watching us intently. He stood perfectly still,
holding something long and slender, perhaps a bow or a
spear. But before I could say anything,
he stepped calmly backward and vanished behind the rocks.
We need another way out, I said, forcing calm into my voice.
But beneath it I felt deeply shaken.
Later that afternoon, we made camp again, this time nervously
checking the ground around our tents.
Erica volunteered to inspect a clearing near the tents and let
out a quiet gasp that sent dread rushing through me.
Buried beneath leaves and pine needles was another crude
device, a sharpened wooden stake positioned upright, its tip
aimed upward to impale a careless step.
The discovery sent chills racing down my spine.
This was more than someone trying to scare us.
This was someone actively hurting and hunting us.
I moved alone toward the Ridge, scouting a new path for escape.
As shadows grew long and the smoke thickened, dusk pressed
closer. Every snapped twig, every
rustling leaf jolted my nerves. A flash of something white drew
my attention ahead, stark against the darkening bark of a
dead tree. I approached slowly, my stomach
clenching tighter with every step.
Pinned at eye level, grotesque in its bloody display, was the
mutilated carcass of a rabbit, skewered by a Flint tipped
spear. Blood trickled sluggishly down
the bark. I recoiled, nausea rising as I
understood the clear, chilling message.
We were no longer just hikers. We had become prey.
The Canyon walls loomed higher and narrower, their granite
faces dark and imposing. Each step felt heavier, our
bodies exhausted, senses frayed by constant dread.
Milo's leg injury had slowed us considerably, and Erica stayed
close to support him. Tasha and I walked ahead, eyes
constantly scanning the dense shadows along the rocky slopes.
As we move deeper into Hell Roaring Canyon, I realized the
smoke above had thickened, darkening the daylight to an
eerie amber hue. We passed through a burned over
landscape, blackened trees jutting skyward like charred
Spears. Visibility was poor, the smoke
stinging our eyes and filling our lungs.
Tasha halted suddenly, face paling as she frantically
searched her backpack. The map's gone, She said
quietly, voice trembling. I felt a stab of panic.
Gone. She nodded slowly, eyes wide
with realization. Someone took it while we slept.
Maybe when we left our packs unguarded.
Erica cursed under her breath. Milo stared bleakly at the
ground. Without a map, we were
essentially blind and unfamiliar territory.
Let's stay calm, I forced myself to say, though my voice lacked
conviction. We'll follow the Canyon down.
It should eventually lead us out.
Erica nodded silently. Milo said nothing.
We trudged on, the air thickening further as the Canyon
walls pressed closer, oppressive and suffocating.
Within hours, we stumbled across an encampment tucked beneath a
rocky overhang. Crude and primitive.
Animal bones lay scattered around a filthy sleeping bag,
old tin cans rusted by the elements.
I felt a nauseating sense of intrusion, as though we'd
stepped into someone's private sanctuary, a sanctuary of
madness and isolation. Then, from the shadows, an arrow
struck a tree near Milo's head, embedding itself with a solid
thunk. Milo shouted, stumbling backward
into Erica. My heart slammed against my
ribs, pulse roaring in my ears. Run.
I shouted. Chaos erupted.
Another arrow whipped past, narrowly missing Tasha.
We scrambled into the Deadwood, crashing through brittle
branches and tripping on hidden roots.
Milo lagged behind Hanford by his wounded leg, his breathing
harsh and ragged. As I glanced back, I saw him
stumble and fall heavily to the ground.
Erica reached to help him, but Milo cried out in pain.
Leave me, he gasped. Just go.
An arrow sliced the air overhead.
Instinct overpowered hesitation. I grabbed Tasha's hand, pulling
her forward. Erica hesitated briefly, then
sprinted to join us, eyes wide with guilt and fear.
Seconds later, we heard Milo's scream, a single, agonized cry
cut brutally short. We kept running until darkness
forced us to collapse, hidden within a dry, rocky Creek bed,
hearts pounding furiously, breathing shallow and strained.
No one spoke, the weight of Milo's loss pressing down
heavily. Tasha silently wept beside me,
and I wrapped my arm around her trembling shoulders.
Dawn arrived, casting weak Gray light through the Canyon.
From our hiding place, I spotted a thin column of smoke curling
upward farther down the Canyon, barely visible through the haze.
Maybe someone's there, Erica whispered hopefully.
Or maybe it was another trap, But we had no options left.
Cautiously, we moved toward the smoke.
As we drew near, the distinct shape of a human body came into
focus. Milo, alive but tied roughly to
a stake, hammered into the rocky earth.
He lifted his head weakly, eyes pleading.
It's a trap, he rasped. He's here, waiting.
My stomach nodded painfully, instinct screaming danger.
I motioned to Tasha and Erica, signaling them to circle wide
around the perimeter while I approached Milo head on, moving
slowly and deliberately. A branch cracked nearby.
Turning sharply, I glimpsed the hooded figure emerging from
behind a blackened trunk, a bow gripped tightly, arrow notched.
His face was obscured by shadow, the hood dark and stained.
His presence radiated threat, primal and unmistakable.
Now. I shouted.
Erica and Tasha rushed from behind, surprising him
momentarily. In that brief distraction, I
lunged forward, slamming into him with desperation fueled
force. The bow clattered away.
We grappled fiercely, rolling over broken earth and sharp
stones. The attacker fought silently,
his movements strong and practiced in the struggle.
We stumbled backward toward a concealed pit He had masked with
branches and dirt, a trap meant for us.
Too late, he realized his mistake.
With a guttural cry, he fell backward into the pit, landing
hard. His body twisted awkwardly.
I stood panting at the edge, staring down at the dark figure
sprawled in the shallow trench. He groaned faintly, clearly
injured but alive. My mind raced, filled with rage
and adrenaline. Leave him, Erica said harshly.
We need to get Milo out of here. We quickly freed Milo, half
carrying him away from that terrible place, stumbling along
the stream bed until nearly two days later, exhausted, starving
and numb, we reached a Ranger station near Alturas Lake.
In the days that followed, authorities recovered our
stalker, a man who'd vanished into isolation decades earlier,
driven mad by loneliness and survivalist paranoia.
Human remains found near his primitive camp confirmed that
we'd narrowly avoided becoming another grim statistic.
We all promised never to return to the Sawtooth wilderness.
I burned our trail notes and Milo moved far away, haunted by
nightmares. For me, only one secret
remained, hidden quietly in the drawer of my night stand, a
single stone tipped Arrowhead mysteriously found embedded in
my boot after we escaped. A reminder I could never truly
shake. I'd spent more than half my life
in the Adirondacks, photographing peaks and valleys,
guiding others through rugged trails, and trekking solo
through some of the wildest terrain New York State could
offer. By my early 40's, the mountains
felt as familiar as home, but the wilderness always had ways
to remind me that it was anything but safe.
Late October was risky, and locals knew it.
Snow squalls, ice covered trails, rapidly plunging
temperatures, conditions that could change without warning.
Still, I needed one more perfect photograph for my winter
exhibit, Avalanche Lake, framed in autumn frost from atop Mount
Colden. I left early, my gear
meticulously packed, certain I could handle whatever the High
Peaks Wilderness threw at me. The morning hike had been
perfect, clear and quiet. As I followed Lake Arnold Trail
upward, the chill bit lightly through my insulated layers,
fresh snow crunching softly under foot.
But by afternoon, the mood of the mountain changed.
The air thickened, swirling with sudden gusts that bit sharply at
my exposed face. At first it was just flurries,
harmless, picturesque. Within minutes, though,
visibility dropped sharply. Wind howled relentlessly.
Snowflakes hardened into icy pellets, stinging my cheeks and
forehead. I checked my GPS and cursed.
Signal was lost. Worse, my landmarks, rocks,
fallen logs, even familiar trees vanished into a wall of white.
Disoriented, I pushed forward, desperately trying to find
shelter. My heart pounded harder as I
moved blindly across increasingly steep terrain.
Gusts clawed at my balance, sending me sliding down slick
granite slabs hidden under powder.
My flashlight did little to Pierce the murk and I realized,
sinking into my gut like an anchor, that I was off trail,
alone, lost. Then, barely visible in the
swirling gloom, a narrow opening appeared, like a black, jagged
wound in the cliffside, a cave not large, but deep enough to
escape the cutting wind. Relief flooded through me.
Climbing inside, I found solid rock beneath my feet and walls,
tight enough to keep out the driving snow.
My pulse steadied slightly as I removed my pack.
Shivering, hands shaking, I fumble for dry layers, grateful
for small mercies. When I heard it for the first
time, a soft scraping noise from deeper inside.
My head snapped around, shining my flashlight into the darkness.
Nothing. Only rough, irregular walls
disappearing further back. I held my breath, listening.
Nothing moved. It's just wind.
I muttered aloud, attempting to convince myself more than
anything else. But the silence in response was
profound. No echo, no reassuring sounds
from outside, just heavy, pressing quiet.
I glanced toward The Cave entrance, dimmed now as evening
thickened. Outside conditions were
worsening fast. Leaving was impossible.
I settled in slowly, laying out emergency gear and focusing on
my breathing. Stillness returned briefly, but
my nerves refused to fully settle.
Then, just as my heartbeat had begun to slow, the scraping
noise returned, slightly louder, accompanied now by something
else. A slow, rhythmic clicking,
gentle but deliberate. It wasn't wind.
My breath caught in my throat, my flashlight trained on the
cave's depths. The beam showed nothing, but
jagged rock formations, shadowed crevices where anything could
hide. Again, silence returned when the
beam was steady, but the instant I clicked off the light to
conserve battery, the scraping sound resumed.
Closer, now, unmistakably closer.
I clicked the light back on, and again, silence.
A cold sweat formed on my neck. I tried calling out, my voice
echoing weekly. Hello, someone there.
No answer, just stillness. I listened, hoping for some
rational explanation. An animal seeking shelter,
perhaps. But deep inside, beneath the
layer of forced calm, I knew differently.
Animals made noises, moved predictably.
Whatever this was, it was quiet, patient, watching.
I slid back toward the entrance, putting distance between myself
and that oppressive darkness. My instinct screamed to leave,
but the storm outside was unrelenting.
Sub zero wind gusts, visibility measured in inches.
If I stepped outside now I'd freeze or fall, guaranteed I was
trapped. The scraping resumed,
methodically inching forward again, stopping just short of my
flashlights reach. It remained careful, cautious
enough not to reveal itself. I shone my light aggressively
probing shadows, desperate to prove myself paranoid.
Only rock and emptiness stared back.
Nothing definitive, just a persistent, deliberate presence
I couldn't see but could sense. Filling the cave's air with
palpable tension. Hours passed like this.
Outside, darkness swallowed the mountain entirely.
Inside, silence stretched, broken occasionally by faint
movements that stopped whenever I dared illuminate the cave's
interior. It never rushed me, never
revealed itself clearly. Just a dragging sound of
something shifting position, a faint rustling that might be
skin brushing stone. And always those gentle clicks
echoing softly off rock walls. I pressed against the cold stone
near the entrance, flashlight clenched tightly, eyes straining
uselessly against darkness. I whispered to myself, half
prayers, half reassurances, but the unseen presence remained,
patient, watching, waiting with infinite calm.
By dawn, when the dim Gray light finally crept toward The Cave
mouth, exhaustion had worn my nerves raw.
Every muscle ached from prolonged tension.
With shaking limbs, I crawled outside, desperate to escape the
silent watcher, but stopped short in horror.
Just beyond The Cave entrance, half buried in drifting snow.
Scattered along the slope toward the tree line lay remnants of
hikers who'd come before. Torn packs, boots frozen into
the ground, a pale, skeletal hand protruding grotesquely from
beneath A crusted drift. Shattered gear, shredded
clothing, evidence of struggles long past.
My stomach churned, bile rising sharply.
How many had been here? How many had spent their final
hours listening, watching shadows move slowly closer?
And was I destined to become another silent, skeletal
monument? I turned, staring back at the
black mouth of The Cave. It gaped silently, revealing
nothing of what lurked inside. The decision wasn't even
conscious. Survival took control,
adrenaline surging through exhausted limbs.
Without another glance behind me, I plunge downward into the
snow covered forest, fleeing blindly, terror chasing close at
my heels. My boots sank deep into the
fresh snow, legs aching as I staggered downhill through dense
Pines. Breath came in shallow, painful
bursts, each exhale clouding sharply in the freezing air.
I kept glancing back at the caves entrance, now just a dark
slash of shadow against whitestone.
Nothing emerged, yet the feeling of something watching never
lifted. I pressed forward, eyes scanning
the ground for anything familiar.
The storm had altered the landscape overnight.
Snow buried every recognizable landmark.
The faint, comforting outlines of trail markers or footsteps
were nowhere to be seen, just an endless blanket of white.
About 20 yards down the slope, something partially buried in a
drift caught my eye. I hesitated, then carefully
brushed the snow aside. The sight that greeted me made
bile surge into my throat. A tattered backpack, crusted
with ice and stained dark in patches, sat abandoned in the
snow. Beside it lay hiking boots,
their leather cracked frozen solid, the interior filled with
brittle frost and dried rusty stains, unmistakably like blood.
A sinking dread filled me as my gaze followed more scattered
debris leading away from The Cave entrance.
Shards of a metal tent stake, torn strips of fabric, and
pieces of a plastic water bottle warped and punctured.
I moved slowly, heart hammering as my attention landed on a
drift concealing something larger.
I push snow away, my breath trembling.
A skeletal hand appeared first, Gray bone stark against snow and
dirt. My stomach twisted sharply,
forcing me to step back. Shaking, I knelt carefully and
examine the remains. They were not recent, but also
not decades old. Bones still showed hints of
sinew, dry but clinging stubbornly.
I found a leather bound trail journal, edges swollen with
moisture, buried next to the bones.
With numb fingers, I flipped carefully through the warped
pages. Nearly everything was unreadable
except 1 short scribbled entry. It watches all night, doesn't
eat, doesn't leave, just waits. My chest tightened, breath
quickening as the chilling words repeated in my mind.
I glanced involuntarily back at The Cave.
It seemed darker now, deeper somehow.
The wind shifted slightly, blowing down from higher on the
mountain, carrying with it the same faint scraping noise I had
heard throughout the endless night.
Panic clawed its way up my spine, and I rose abruptly,
desperate to put distance between myself and whatever hid
within those rocky walls. Dropping the journal, I stumbled
downward, sliding on patches of ice hidden beneath the snow.
Every step felt awkward, clumsy, each misstep jolting painfully
through my bones. Yet no matter how far I ran, the
heavy sensation of eyes remained fixed upon me, boring into the
back of my skull. Shadows seem to flicker between
trees, brief glimpses of elongated shapes and distorted
figures darting just outside my peripheral vision.
My pace quickened to a reckless run, nearly tripping over
exposed roots and hidden rocks. Keep moving, I muttered through
gritted teeth. Just get off this damn mountain.
After nearly an hour of exhausting, directionless
descent, I spotted something else in the snow.
Shreds of bright fabric snagged in branches, and blood flecked
footprints scattered erratically along the slope.
Someone had fled the same route before me, their trail leading
deeper into the wilderness, away from marked paths or any hope of
rescue. A sharp crack echoed through the
trees. I spun around wildly, peering
through the branches, heart slamming against my ribs.
The forest stood motionless, yet something felt terribly wrong
above me. Tree limbs, thick and sturdy,
had snapped cleanly, splintered ends pointed down like broken
bones. My eyes traveled upward.
Marks scarred the trunk 15 feet above, deep gouges made by claws
or blades or something impossibly sharp.
Another crack, closer this time, startled me into a blind Sprint.
I pushed through tangled branches, snow clinging to my
pants and jacket. My lungs burned fiercely, chest
heaving from effort and fear as I reached a small clearing.
I froze, straining to listen. Silence again, but unnatural,
heavy, oppressive. A soft whisper floated through
the trees, carried faintly on the breeze.
My blood ran cold. The voice was mine, a mocking,
distorted imitation of my own words from The Cave hours
before. Hello, the voice called gently,
echoed mockingly between frozen trunks.
I forced myself forward, stumbling toward a Ridge that
might lead back to the marked trail below.
My vision blurred with exhaustion and fear, snow
blindness threatening to overwhelm me.
Branches scraped across my face and arms, thin lines of blood
welling up beneath torn fabric. Something moved ahead, visible
for only a fraction of a second. Tall and pale, too elongated to
be human. My throat tightened painfully.
The clicking sound returned closer now, rhythmic and
methodical. The figure flickered between
trunks, never stepping fully into view.
It circled me, silently, matching my pace, effortlessly
navigating terrain that left me stumbling.
I tried to shout, but my voice failed, reduced to horse gasps.
It paced alongside, drawing ever closer.
I felt its gaze upon me despite seeing no eyes, only glimpses of
shadowed hollows where eyes should be.
Desperation surged, adrenaline flooding my battered muscles.
With reckless abandoned, I surged downward, slipping
wildly, tumbling painfully through shrubs and sharp rocks.
My leg caught beneath a hidden root and I fell hard, rolling
uncontrollably into a rocky hollow.
I lay gasping, ribs aching, body trembling violently.
Above, the figure stood partially obscured, unmoving,
its pale skin stretched tightly across distorted limbs, the
skull elongated, grotesquely, empty sockets staring blankly
downward. Then, without warning, it
withdrew into the shadows once more, the clicking fading
gradually until silence reclaimed the forest.
For several minutes I dared not move, certain it would return if
I showed any sign of life. Finally, I rose shakily, tears
mixing with blood and sweat as I pressed onward.
My path was uncertain, the snow impossibly deep, but one thing
was clear. I was no longer just lost.
I was haunted. Every shadow became a threat as
I stumbled downward, half running, half falling through
the thickening forest. Branches whipped past my face,
slicing my skin. My breath came ragged and
shallow, each inhale feeling like fire.
Yet nothing could drown out the sound of something paralleling
my every move, an occasional cracking of branches, deliberate
yet stealthy, matching my pace through dense underbrush.
I risked a glance behind me. There, just a flicker between
snow laden Pines, a pale limb, impossibly thin, vanished.
Silently, my heart lurched, adrenaline surging painfully
through my veins. I turned away sharply, sprinting
again despite the searing pain in my muscles, my limbs numb and
sluggish from exhaustion and cold.
The route downward twisted chaotically.
Any clear sense of direction vanished entirely beneath snow
and panic. Still, I forced myself on
blindly, trusting instinct. I recognized glimpses of
familiar terrain, half buried boulders, frozen streams that
twisted downward toward Avalanche Pass.
If I reached the pass, I could follow familiar landmarks down
to Marcy Dam, and from there to the Ranger station and safety.
It was a thin hope, but it drove me forward.
The forest thickened around me, shadows deepening under dense
stands of spruce. Ahead.
Movement flickered through the trees, a pale, elongated shape
darting effortlessly between trunks.
I halted abruptly, slipping to one knee as my boot hit hidden
ice beneath the snow. My breathing became shallow and
panicked, freezing mist hanging before me as I stared into the
gloom. It watched from behind a tall,
dead pine, partially hidden impossibly still.
Its body seemed elongated beyond reason, limbs spindly, bones
prominent beneath pale mottled skin.
Its skull stretched grotesquely, hollow sockets gazing without
eyes, yet somehow clearly locked on to me.
A clicking sound, rhythmic and steady, echoed softly, an
unsettling metronome amidst the oppressive quiet.
Fear rooted me to the spot. For long seconds, neither of us
moved. It just watched, patient and
quiet, assessing me, perhaps savoring the moment.
Then it stepped forward, a jerky, unnatural motion, body
bending and shifting as though joints and limbs were unfamiliar
constraints. Terror snapped me from
paralysis. I bolted downward, blind panic,
overwhelming fatigue and pain. My legs churned through snow and
brush, heedless of sharp branches or hidden obstacles.
Behind it moved fluidly, limbs cracking, branches effortlessly,
pace measured and relentless. A sharp, animalistic scream,
high pitched and reverberating, shattered the silence behind me.
It echoed hauntingly through the valley, driving me faster still.
Ahead, the terrain broke into open rocky slopes, a familiar
stretch leading down toward Avalanche Pass Hope surged
desperately, driving fresh energy into my limbs.
I sprinted recklessly, slipping repeatedly, catching myself at
the last moment each time. Sharp granite tore through my
gloves, skin scraping raw, but I refused to slow down.
I couldn't. At the pass, I caught sight of
the frozen lake surface, glittering in pale winter
sunlight. My heart leapt painfully.
I was close, so close to trails, safety to people.
The thought propelled me forward, lungs burning, every
muscle protesting. Yet as I sprinted across open
ground, it appeared again, blocking my path ahead.
It stood silently, motionless on the shoreline, its elongated
frame impossibly still. My steps faltered.
I hesitated, panic gripping me again.
Then, slowly, it moved forward, head cocked at an unnatural
angle, as if studying my reaction with detached
curiosity. I had no choice left.
To stop now meant death. Instead, I veered sharply toward
the frozen lake, boots crunching onto ice, praying desperately It
was thick enough. Cracks formed beneath each step,
ominous groans rising from the frozen surface as I ran.
The figure halted abruptly at the ice's edge, watching
silently as I raced recklessly toward the distant shoreline.
I stumbled ashore, breath rasping harshly, legs trembling
so violently I could barely stand still.
I dragged myself forward, weaving through dense trees
until, miraculously, a familiar wooden sign appeared ahead.
Marcy Dam, .5 miles. Tears stung my eyes, relief
flooding through my battered body.
Footprints appeared along the trail ahead, fresh and human.
My vision blurred from exhaustion and emotion.
Voices sounded nearby, distant but unmistakably real hikers
chatting casually, oblivious to the nightmare I'd just escaped.
I glanced once more. Behind me, the creature lingered
at the forest's edge, partially obscured by shadows, silent and
patient. For a moment it stood still,
head angled slightly, as though memorizing my escape route.
Then, slowly, silently, it stepped backward, disappearing
into the darkening woods. I staggered forward, voice
cracking weakly as I shouted hoarsely toward the hikers.
Faces turned toward me, startled and concerned.
Hands reached out, catching me as I collapsed into trembling,
sobbing relief. Later, in the warmth and safety
of the Ranger station, blankets wrapped tightly around me, I
recounted the story desperately. Rangers listened skeptically,
exchanging glances filled with doubt and concern.
When they investigated days later, they found The Cave in my
abandoned gear. But the bones, the scattered
remnants I'd stumbled upon, had vanished entirely.
No claw marks, no footprints other than mine.
My camera revealed nothing either, only blurred shots of
snow and trees. No proof of the horror I'd
endured. Exhaustion and hypothermia, they
concluded, exchanging sympathetic nods.
Hallucinations from exposure. But as I gathered my belongings
days later, preparing to leave, I noticed something tucked
within the pages of my notebook. My fingers trembled as I
unfolded the small, worn piece of paper.
It wasn't mine, but the handwriting was clear and
unmistakable. You left, but it knows the way
down now. A chill settled into my bones,
deeper than the mountains cold had ever penetrated.
I knew with terrible certainty it was watching, still waiting,
patient as ever. The Boundary Waters Canoe Area
Wilderness in northern Minnesota is the kind of place that
promises solitude, the kind of quiet you can't find anywhere
else. Covering over 1,000,000 acres,
it's a wild mosaic of lakes, streams, granite cliffs and
thick boreal forests, all intertwined in a maze that makes
maps feel like mere suggestions. Out here, there's no cell
service, no easy rescue. The only sounds come from the
wilderness itself. Loons calling over misty lakes,
the distant splash of moose entering shallow water, the
rustle of wind through Pines. I had always loved it, until
that trip with Tyler. My younger brother and I had
drifted apart over the years. Tyler had moved away for college
and never came back home, trading our shared outdoorsy
upbringing for a career in tech. When he agreed to join me on a
late season canoe trip deep into the Boundary Waters, I thought
it might be the perfect chance to reconnect.
We started early, pushing off from Lake Agnes just after
sunrise. The autumn air was cool and
crisp, biting lightly at our faces while a thin fog rolled
gently across the surface of the water.
We paddled in silence through narrow passages that cut between
steep granite walls, their surfaces slick and Moss covered.
Our canoes slipped smoothly over water so clear we could see
trout gliding through the shadows below us.
After several hours, we reached Boulder Bay, setting up camp on
a narrow strip of land that jutted into the lake.
Towering Pines enclosed us, their branches thick enough to
obscure the sky. I remember the feeling of
isolation being comforting at first.
No cell phones buzzing, no distant highways humming.
Just raw wilderness. As darkness fell, we built a
small fire and ate dinner quietly.
Tyler poked at his plate of freeze dried Stew, glancing
nervously at the encroaching blackness beyond our firelight.
You good? I asked him.
He shrugged. Just not used to being this
disconnected, I guess. I laughed it off, trying to ease
his tension, but deep down I sensed it too, a subtle unease
settling into my bones, amplified by the oppressive
quiet. We turned in early, retreating
to our tent as night wrapped around us.
Sleep eluded me. I lay there, listening to the
faint lapping of water against rock, my senses alert despite my
exhaustion. It was sometime after midnight
when the splashing started. At first I assumed it was just
wildlife, perhaps a Beaver or an Otter skirting the shallows, But
the noise persisted, rhythmic and deliberate, too heavy, too
consistent, like footsteps. Tyler sat up sharply beside me.
You hear that? His voice was barely above a
whisper, taut with fear. Probably just a moose, I
whispered back, trying to reassure myself as much as him.
But then it stopped abruptly, and unsettling stillness settled
in, like the wilderness itself was holding its breath.
I reached slowly for the tent zipper, heart pounding as I
eased it open, peering out into the moonlit darkness.
The shore was empty. Still.
The water lay flat and calm, reflecting faint Starlight.
I stepped out cautiously, flashlight in hand, and scanned
the shoreline, but there was nothing there, Just dark water
stretching out into shadowy forest.
Tyler hovered at the tent entrance, eyes wide.
There's nothing out here. I called back, my voice thin and
unconvincing even to me. The following morning, a heavy
mist clung to the lake surface. Obscuring everything beyond a
few dozen feet, I walked down to the shore to refill our water
bottles, and that's when I noticed them.
A set of long claw like impressions pressed deep into
the soft mud. I crouched, examining the
Prince. They were unlike any animal
tracks I'd ever encountered, narrow and elongated,
disturbingly deep. My pulse quickened.
Jake. Tyler called from camp, breaking
my focus. I stood quickly, wiping sweat
from my forehead despite the chill in the air.
What is it? He asked, noticing my expression
as he joined me by the water. I shook my head, unsure what to
say. Just some animal tracks, nothing
to worry about. Tyler stared down at the Prince,
face pale. Those don't look normal, man.
I nodded slowly, scanning the misty lake again, now acutely
aware of just how vulnerable we were out here, miles from help,
with nothing but a canoe and a thin layer of nylon between US
and whatever left those tracks. A sudden, irrational feeling
settled deep in my gut. We weren't alone.
We broke camp hastily, packing our gear with silent urgency.
Tyler was visibly rattled, hands trembling as he shoved sleeping
bags and cookware into his pack. My own heartbeat drummed in my
ears as we loaded the canoe and launched swiftly onto the water,
aiming E toward Boulder River. I told myself moving would ease
our nerves, create distance from whatever had visited us.
Deep down, though, a nagging sense of dread was steadily
tightening around my chest. We paddled quietly through the
morning fog, our paddles cutting the lake surface with gentle
splashes. Tyler sat behind me,
occasionally glancing back at the shoreline, eyes narrowed in
anxious vigilance. Neither of us spoke much.
We both understood, without needing to say it, that
something was deeply wrong. By midday, the fog began to
thin, replaced by low hanging clouds that cast the forest in a
gloomy half light. Thick pine stood shoulder to
shoulder along rocky shorelines, pressing in tightly as we
navigated into the river channel connecting the lakes.
I felt strangely claustrophobic. The narrow passage was shadowed
and still, filled with tangled fallen trees and submerged
boulders that scraped ominously along our canoes hull.
Suddenly, Tyler stiffened behind me.
Jake, he whispered sharply. Over there.
I stopped paddling, my breath catching as I followed his gaze
toward a distant inlet where the river widened briefly.
My heart hammered. Standing silently, knee deep in
the water was a figure. Thin, pale, impossibly gaunt.
Its skin seemed almost translucent, A sickly white tone
that stood out vividly against the dark water and dense
evergreens behind it. It didn't move, it didn't blink.
It simply watched us, still as a statue.
I swallowed hard, feeling a chill travel slowly down my
spine. Let's keep moving, I murmured,
resuming paddling at a faster pace.
Tyler's paddle sliced nervously through the water behind me.
We reached a small, secluded lake by late afternoon, miles
from our last campsite. As we unloaded, Tyler was
visibly shaken, darting glances toward the surrounding trees.
Did you see how it looked at us? He asked, voice low and
strained. Yeah, I admitted reluctantly,
unable to shake the unsettling image.
But it was probably just some weird local out here messing
around. Tyler shook his head,
unconvinced. That wasn't human, Jake.
I busied myself building a fire, ignoring the growing knot of
dread in my stomach. Darkness descended swiftly, the
woods closing in around our small campsite.
Tyler refused to sit by the fire, retreating to the tent as
soon as it was pitched. I stayed out a while longer,
ears straining at every rustle and crackle from the forest.
Hours later, jolted awake by Tyler's frantic whispers, I
heard it clearly. Something was moving through our
campsite. It was slow and deliberate, the
sound of wet feet pressing into soft ground.
My throat tightened as I fumble for my flashlight.
The beam pierced through the thin tent walls, illuminating A
distorted silhouette. I couldn't breathe.
Just beyond the edge of our campsite stood the pale figure,
half obscured by shadow, dripping with water.
Its elongated limbs hung limply by its sides, and its eyes,
wide, glassy and empty, reflected back at us.
Tyler grabbed my arm tightly, shaking uncontrollably.
What does it want? He hissed.
I couldn't answer. Frozen in place, I watched as
the figure slowly backed away, disappearing into the darkness.
Minutes stretched on, impossibly long.
When I finally found the courage to step outside, the campsite
was empty, but the ground around our tent was dotted with
shallow, watery footprints surrounding us completely at
first light. I stumbled toward the canoe,
desperate to leave immediately. My stomach churned violently as
I stared down in horror. The canoe was filled with murky,
foul smelling water and clumps of black, greasy hair floating
atop the surface. My chest tightened as panic
flooded through me. Jake Tyler stood frozen behind
me, his voice quivering. How are we going to get out of
here now? I stared blankly, paralyzed by
the grim realization of just how trapped we were.
The Pale One was hunting us, and escape was slipping rapidly
through our fingers. We abandoned the canoe, leaving
it half submerged and festering on the shoreline, and made a
desperate break inland through dense forest.
Tyler's eyes were wide, wild with fear, mirroring the dread
pulsing relentlessly in my chest.
The forest closed around us like a dark green vise, branches
clawing at our faces and clothes as we pushed through tangled
underbrush. Each step we took deeper into
the woods felt more uncertain, every rustle in the foliage
behind us fueling my paranoia. Hours passed in silence,
punctuated only by our ragged breathing and the occasional
snap of branches under foot. Eventually, we stumbled onto a
forgotten campsite tucked in a small clearing, its remains
charred and scattered. Torn fabric hung limply from
snapped tent poles, and deep gouges ran along nearby tree
trunks. Tyler's face drained of color.
Jake, look at this place. My heart twisted painfully as I
scanned the site. At the base of one tree, I found
a weather beaten journal half buried beneath fallen leaves.
Kneeling down, I flipped through its brittle pages.
The entries were frantic, disjointed, the handwriting
becoming increasingly erratic, panicked.
One phrase stood out vividly, A pale face rising from the water.
It comes at night. It walks across the lake.
We need to keep moving, I muttered, shoving the journal
into my pocket. That evening, as rain began to
fall in steady, cold sheets, Tyler slipped on a slick log and
collapsed hard onto rocky terrain, crying out sharply.
I knelt beside him quickly, dread rising as I saw the
twisted angle of his ankle. I, I can't.
He gasped, clutching at his leg, face contorted in pain.
My stomach churned, panic clawing up my throat.
Darkness was settling around us quickly.
I glanced around desperately, spotting a fallen pine with
thick boughs nearby. Dragging Tyler, we fashioned A
crude shelter from branches and tarps, huddling together in
fearful silence as night fully engulfed us.
Sleep was impossible. Hours later, through a gap in
our makeshift shelter, I saw movement at the edge of the
clearing. A pale shape crawled slowly from
the dark bog nearby, dragging something heavy behind it.
A grotesque mass, bloated limbs splayed, awkwardly, followed the
creature across the muddy ground.
It paused briefly, head swiveling toward our hiding
spot, those same lifeless eyes reflecting faintly in the
moonlight. My heart hammered painfully in
my chest. I held my breath, hand gripping
Tyler's wrist tightly, urging him silently to stay quiet.
Finally, the creature turned away, disappearing into the
shadows beyond. At first light, we staggered
forward through fog so thick it smothered the forest around us.
Tyler limped heavily against my shoulder, his breath shallow and
strained. Every step was agony for him,
yet neither of us dared stop. I navigated using a faded old
Forest Service map, clinging desperately to the hope of a
Ranger outpost marked faintly along a distant Ridge.
The fog eventually began to thin as we climbed upward.
Tyler stumbled beside me, mumbling incoherently, eyes
glazed from pain and exhaustion. As we crested the Ridge, a
strange feeling of relief washed over me.
I stopped abruptly. Jake.
Tyler's voice was weak, confused.
Etched clearly into the granite rocks before us were faded
ancient pictographs, stylized figures, men fleeing across
water, strange elongated beings emerging from lakes.
My fingers brushed lightly against one symbol that stood
out starkly, A marking unlike the others, carved deep and
bold. It felt oddly reassuring.
As we moved beyond the Ridge, an eerie calm settled over the
forest. No more snapping twigs, no more
rustling leaves. It was as if whatever pursued us
couldn't or wouldn't follow any further.
A few desperate, aching hours later, the trees parted suddenly
to reveal the shape of a small Forest Service cabin, weathered
and Gray. I nearly collapsed with relief
as we stumbled onto its porch, pounding weakly on the locked
door. Tyler sank to the ground,
sobbing quietly with relief and exhaustion.
Inside, I found a battered emergency radio, my voice
trembling as I relate our coordinates.
As I waited for a response, my mind drifted back to that pale
creature standing motionless in the lake.
Whatever it was, it would haunt me forever.
But at least for now, we were safe.
I grew up hunting the Allegheny National Forest.
My Uncle Greg showed me these woods when I was barely tall
enough to see over the briars, teaching me to recognize deer
sign, how to move quietly, and how to respect the deep
stillness of wild places. Over the years, I learned every
Ridge, every hollow, every Creek crossing.
But I'd never ventured past Minister Creek alone, never
pushed this far into the old growth stands where the Pines
grew dense and sunlight struggled to penetrate the
canopy. Something had always held me
back. Stories whispered at the bait
shop and the local bar. Tales of gutted deer left
untouched by scavengers. Hunters hearing impossible calls
echoing from the darkness. Something inhuman mimicking
familiar voices. I always dismissed it as
folklore. Until that weekend.
It was late November, just days before firearm season officially
opened. Frost clung to the edges of
fallen leaves, crunching lightly beneath my boots.
My breath misted in the chilly air as I navigated the faint
remnants of a logging Rd. eyes alert for movement.
My trail Cam had caught a large buck, eight points and thick
bodied, and I'd made-up my mind that this was my season to bring
him home. A mile into the woods, far from
the nearest marked trail, I found my first sign.
Hoof prints, deeper and broader than usual, pressed cleanly into
the soft earth. I knelt down to study them,
puzzled. The tracks didn't match any
whitetail I'd tracked before. The spacing was off, the hooves
splayed too wide, too large. Odd, but my mind settled quickly
on a rational explanation. Probably a buck running hard.
Startled by something, I followed the tracks through the
thinning trees toward the top of a Ridge overlooking a steep
ravine. The Prince led me to snapped
twigs. Branches splintered as if
something heavy had forced its way through.
On one tree trunk, a tuft of fir had snagged a dirty brown clump,
dangling in the breeze. I rubbed it between my fingers,
confused. Again.
It felt wiry. Coarse deer fir, certainly, but
somehow wrong. The forest darkened slowly as
the sun lowered toward the horizon, stretching shadows
across the ground. The air was perfectly still,
eerily quiet. No rustling leaves, no birdsong.
I stood to stretch my stiffening legs.
And that's when the silence broke.
From somewhere deep in the hollow below, a high pitched
bleeding shattered the evening calm, the unmistakable cry of a
fawn in distress. My instincts stirred uneasily.
Fawns weren't this young by late autumn, and the cry itself felt
unnatural, too shrill, too drawn out.
Still, instinct kicked in, driving me cautiously forward,
down into the ravine. As I moved, the hoof prints
continued ahead, but gradually changed.
I paused, disbelief clouding my senses as I knelt again to
examine the marks closely. The hooves had lengthened,
reshaped, morphing from deep, heavy indentations into
something narrower and elongated.
My gut tightened sharply when I realized what I was looking at.
Footprints. Bare footprints, human like, but
ending in pointed claws digging sharply into the damp earth.
My heart accelerated, cold dread pooling in my chest.
Every story I'd ever scoffed at now flooded back, clawing at the
edge of my rational mind. My fingers tightened around my
rifle. I had to get out immediately.
I stood quickly, spinning around toward the slope.
I descended, but nothing looked familiar.
The trees felt thicker, twisted strangely, as if they'd shifted
while I studied the prints. I pulled out my GPS, trying to
ignore the tremor in my hands. The device flickered, glitched,
showed me standing in an open clearing when I was clearly
surrounded by dense Pines. Useless.
Another bleep pierced the gathering darkness.
Closer now. This time it wasn't just shrill.
It was lower, distorted, almost as if someone were trying to
mimic a wounded deer but couldn't quite get it right.
My skin crawled, every nerve screaming danger.
I lifted my rifle, chambered around, backing slowly away from
the source of the noise. Another glance at the strange
footprints made it clear they weren't random.
They were deliberate, measured pace toward the direction I just
come from, the direction I had intended to go.
The sudden, sickening clarity hit me.
I was being LED, herded into confusion.
Night closed in swiftly, shadows merging Into Darkness.
My breathing echoed raggedly in my ears as I scanned desperately
for any landmark, any recognizable feature.
Panic bloomed cold and heavy inside my chest.
The unnatural bleeding stopped abruptly, leaving silence so
oppressive I feared even the sound of my breathing might
betray me. A twig snapped loudly to my
left, breaking the oppressive quiet.
I froze, rifle aimed, finger curled tightly around the
trigger. My eyes strained against the
growing gloom, searching for movement.
But the forest revealed nothing. No shape, no silhouette.
Only the quiet taunting me, daring me to break it.
My chest tightened, every muscle coiled in anticipation.
Whatever was out there was patient, playing with me,
waiting. The realization settled over me
like an icy shroud. I wasn't the hunter anymore.
I was prey. Darkness swallowed the forest
whole, reducing everything around me to murky shapes and
shifting shadows. My heartbeat drummed loudly in
my ears as I fought to control my breathing, to steady myself
against the panic clawing at my insides.
The sense of direction I'd always relied on had abandoned
me completely. Each tree, each Bush, each
contour of the land was foreign now.
I reached for my headlamp, hesitating only briefly before
clicking it on. A faint, pale beam illuminated A
narrow circle of ground ahead of me, just enough to move
cautiously without stumbling. I crept forward, carefully
retracing what I hoped were my own footsteps.
The clawed footprints continued to appear, intermittently
weaving in and out of my path, as if whatever left them was
shadowing me closely, silently, always just beyond sight.
Every now and then I'd pause to listen, desperately hoping for
any familiar sound, an owl's distant hoot, the rustle of a
small animal. But the woods remained
unnaturally silent, as if holding their breath.
The stillness felt heavy, oppressive, pressing against my
shoulders. I tried the GPS again, jabbing
buttons and frustration, but the device stubbornly refused to
cooperate, the screen flickering and useless.
Something cracked loudly off to my right, close enough to make
me flinch. I swung my rifle toward the
noise, my breath frozen in my throat.
Another sound followed, branches snapping, underbrush rustling
violently. I clicked off the headlamp,
plunging myself into complete darkness, gripping my rifle
tightly in the blackness. A shape moved, a quick, fluid
blur passing between two distant trees.
My eyes strained, desperate to catch more detail, but the
figure was too quick, slipping through the gloom effortlessly.
It was tall, impossibly thin, and seemed strangely pale.
I caught the briefest glimpse of antlers, long and gnarled,
protruding from what appeared to be a human like head.
My pulse thundered harder as I waited, frozen.
The thing circled, slowly, deliberately.
It stayed at the edge of my vision, just far enough away
that I could barely track its movements.
My finger twitched against the trigger, debating whether a shot
might scare it away or draw it closer.
I held my breath, torn by indecision.
Suddenly, a sound echoed through the night, a low, guttural
imitation of a buck snort, rough and strained, not quite right.
It was too deep, too ragged, distorted enough to make the
hair stand on the back of my neck.
My blood went cold as it repeated the noise, varying
slightly each time, as though experimenting with its mimicry,
learning as it went. The realization struck me hard.
Whatever this creature was, it was intelligent, observant, and
patient. My legs trembled, forcing me to
move, to get away from the noise, but every step I took
felt uncertain, directionless. Every tree looked identical,
every shadow menacing. Time stretched endlessly.
Minutes felt like hours. Eventually my boots touched
ground that sloped upward. I moved quicker, hoping higher
ground would Orient me. Near the top of the slope, I
found a sturdy pine with low, accessible branches.
I climbed awkwardly, rifle slung across my back, careful not to
slip and injure myself in the darkness.
Settling into a perch 10 feet up, I tried to regain some sense
of control. At least up here I felt safer,
unreachable. I pressed my back against the
rough trunk, eyes searching below, listening.
Minutes passed, then an hour. The night stretched on silent
once again, lulling me into exhaustion.
Just as my eyes grew heavy, something moved at the edge of
my sight. Below, at the base of the tree,
a pale figure stepped quietly into view.
My heart lurched violently against my ribs.
I held my breath, unwilling even to blink.
The creature stood tall, horribly emaciated.
Its limbs thin but sinewy, its skin stretched taut over a frame
that seemed skeletal. Its head was tilted upward,
staring directly at me, its face half hidden beneath A grotesque
merging of bone and flesh. A deer skull sat atop its head,
antlers protruding sharply, blending grotesquely into
something disturbingly human. Its jaw hung unnaturally open,
mouth agape, lips peeled back, revealing teeth that gleamed
sharply in the pale moonlight. My chest burned with the effort
of staying perfectly still, desperate not to betray my
location more than I already had.
The creature made no move to climb, but it's eyes, or
whatever passed for them in the deep sockets beneath the skull
never wavered from my position. It's breathing matched my own,
slow, deliberate, unnervingly synchronized.
Every inhale and exhale mimicked mine precisely, as though
mocking me. I held the rifle, gripping it
tightly, my finger tense and ready.
But I knew deep down it would do little against something like
this. The thing didn't seem concerned
by my presence or my weapon. It seemed merely to study,
curious, waiting, deliberate in its calmness.
After what felt like an eternity, the creature turned
away, melting back into the dark.
I stayed frozen, every muscle screaming with tension, until
long after it vanished. Only when the first faint glow
of dawn began to breakthrough the trees did I dare to climb
down, my limbs weak and shaky. When I finally reached camp, my
stomach lurched with dread. My tent lay shredded, belongings
scattered and torn. The ground was trampled with
dozens of hoof prints, claw marks interwoven amongst them.
Panic surged fresh through me. These prints didn't lead away
into the forest. They pointed directly toward the
narrow trail leading to my truck.
My hands trembled as I lifted my rifle and started forward,
desperate to leave this cursed place behind.
But as I reached the head of the trail, I froze again.
A fresh set of elongated footprints LED forward along my
route, moving deliberately ahead of me, waiting patiently, ready
to guide me deeper into a trap I now knew I might never escape.
The grey dawn light filtered through the forest canopy,
casting everything in a muted, pale haze.
My heart hadn't slowed since descending from that tree, and
adrenaline flooded my bloodstream with every step I
took toward the trailhead. Each breath felt ragged and
insufficient, my lungs burning from the hours spent holding
them shallowly. Afraid to disturb the forest's
unnatural silence, I moved cautiously, stepping around
fallen branches and thick tangles of underbrush.
The clawed footprints continued to appear ahead of me, leading
steadily in the direction of my truck, occasionally fading, only
to reappear again further along. Each set mocked my progress,
tauntingly fresh, as though deliberately placed there
moments before I arrived. It felt calculated, measured to
ensure I knew I wasn't alone. Halfway back, the path widened,
revealing a small clearing. At its center stood a hunting
blind, one of those camouflaged pop ups that hunters often set
up before the season. But it had been ripped apart,
the fabric shredded into ribbons, metal poles bent and
twisted as if by immense strength.
My stomach churned as I approached slowly, rifle at the
ready, fearing what I might find inside.
There was no body, thankfully, but the damage was enough to
make my throat tighten. A trail camera lay embedded in
the trunk of a nearby pine. It's hard plastic casing cracked
open, batteries spilling out onto the ground.
Deep grooves marked the surface unmistakably from teeth, sharp,
powerful jaws that bit through plastic and metal like it was
nothing. I staggered away from the blind,
mind racing, my boots crunching loudly against dry leaves.
I couldn't slow my breathing, couldn't shake the gnawing dread
that crawled beneath my skin, urging me to run.
As the sky clouded further, mist began to roll silently through
the trees, enveloping everything in a disorienting fog.
Familiar landmarks blurred, twisted, vanished altogether.
Panic rose in me again, my senses betraying me completely
as I stumbled forward, trying desperately to stay true to the
direction I knew would lead to my truck.
Then a shape loomed from the mist ahead.
I stopped, heart pounding painfully against my ribs.
It was a deer, hanging upside down from a sturdy branch, its
belly sliced open inside scooped clean, the hollow cavity stuffed
crudely with dead leaves and twigs.
The carcass swung gently in the breeze, grotesque and unnatural.
A shiver ran down my spine as I moved cautiously around it,
refusing to look back, eyes fixed on the faint trail ahead.
But the moment I turned away, a voice echoed from the fog, clear
and chilling. My voice.
It called my own name softly, in a hesitant tone, as if unsure.
Practicing. Derek.
I whipped around, rifle raised,
eyes scanning frantically through the Gray fog.
Who's there? My shout sounded hollow,
strained. The voice didn't answer, at
least not directly. Instead, another voice spoke,
deep, familiar, hauntingly clear.
It was Uncle Greg, his voice unmistakable but distant,
echoing strangely through the trees.
Derek, keep moving, boy, don't stop now.
I staggered backward, breath hitching sharply.
My uncle had died last year. I'd stood beside his grave.
I'd lowered him into the earth. But there it was again, calm and
reassuring, exactly how I remembered.
Follow me, Derek, it's just ahead.
No, I shouted, my voice cracking, frantic now.
You're not real. Leave me alone.
I turned and sprinted through the fog, rifle gripped tightly,
stumbling, pushing blindly forward until I emerge suddenly
into the trailhead clearing. My battered pickup sat exactly
where I'd left it, a comforting shape even in the mist.
Relief flooded me momentarily washing away the fear.
I raced toward it, boots crunching gravel, only to skid
to a halt. All four tires were shredded,
gouged deeply, rubber torn open as if by giant claws.
My heart sank, stomach twisting into a sick knot.
I scanned the empty parking area wildly, my breathing harsh and
uneven. There was no sign of the
creature, no sound, only silence.
With trembling fingers, I unlocked the truck and climbed
quickly inside, locking the doors behind me.
I lay low on the front seat, gripping my rifle as I tried to
calm my shaking body. My eyes strained against the
windows, waiting for something to emerge from the fog, certain
it would appear any moment. Minutes stretched painfully,
agonizingly long. Then a scraping sound whispered
across the metal. Something moved slowly,
deliberately around the vehicle, sharp claws tracing delicate
lines in the paint. My pulse thundered in my ears,
sweat dripping down my face. Then came a soft tapping, gentle
but insistent on the glass, mimicking a careful knock.
I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the rifle tighter,
preparing myself for whatever might come next.
Suddenly, from deep within the fog shrouded forest, a piercing,
horrific scream erupted, mingling animal agony and
something else entirely. It echoed through the trees,
vibrating painfully in my chest, louder and more anguish than
anything I'd ever heard. My finger curled around the
trigger, ready to fire the last round if needed.
Then, impossibly, headlights sliced through the gloom,
bathing the truck and clearing in stark illumination.
A Fish and Wildlife pickup emerged slowly from the fog,
tires crunching gravel. The lights revealed nothing, no
figure, no creature, just empty trees and mists swirling
harmlessly away. I scrambled out of the truck,
barely managing to stand upright, waving frantically as
the Ranger parked and stepped calmly from his vehicle,
studying me with wary eyes. You all right?
He called out cautiously. I hesitated, glancing at my
shredded tires, the deep claw marks gouged into the metal body
of my truck, then back at the silent, empty forest.
I, I got lost. I stammered weakly, voice
trembling. Something was out here.
The Ranger glanced at the damage, then nodded slowly,
almost knowingly. He didn't ask questions, didn't
press for details, simply motioned for me to get in his
truck. Come on, He said quietly.
Let's get you out of here. As we drove away, leaving my
ruined truck behind, I stared silently out the window into the
mist shrouded woods. The trees passed in a blur, my
mind numb with relief and dread. I knew I'd never returned to
this place, would never hunt again.
Yet somehow, I knew that wouldn't be enough.
Because even now, staring blankly into those shifting
shadows, I heard it again. Faint, distant, unmistakable.
The tortured bleeding of a dying fawn, echoing softly from the
woods just beyond the road.