I always used to roll my eyes at ghost stories and all those
things that go bump in the night.
Growing up in a small Utah town, though, you start to realize
that the landscape can play tricks on you.
My house sat right where the building stopped and the
wilderness began. Beyond our backyard fence was
just this enormous field, stretching on forever until the
desert touched distant mountains.
On some days you could see dust devils spinning across the Flat
Earth like they had a mind of their own.
Living there felt like living at the boundary between normal life
and the unknown. My best friend lived next door,
though next door was really just across a patch of wild grass.
Our homes formed the last two spots of civilization on this
lonely St. which ended in an empty cul-de-sac.
As far as anyone could tell, the town had planned to expand at
some point, but they never got around to it, so the cul-de-sac
sat forgotten, half carved into the dirt.
It was high school, and I spent more time at my friend's place
than my own. His basement was our hideout, a
tattered old couch ATV that barely worked, and a mini fridge
usually stocked with soda and leftovers.
The window, well in that basement, was the only view
outside, but it was a comfort until nights fell and it turned
into a black void that made us both feel uneasy.
Every so often we'd be in the middle of a late night gaming
marathon when a noise drifted through that window, a slow
scraping shuffle mixed with something like a gargling cough.
The first time it happened, we paused the game, stared at each
other and thought maybe it was just the wind blowing trash
around. Then it happened again.
Another night and it started to feel too deliberate to be the
wind. Neither of us had the nerve to
walk up stairs and fling open the back door, so we just sat
there, telling each other it had to be animals or who knows what.
But there was a tension growing between us.
Neither of us believed the excuses.
We tried shining flashlights through the glass once.
Nothing jumped out, but the beam caught hints of movement, the
kind that makes you question if your eyes are messing with you.
The next morning we looked for tracks in the mud, convinced
we'd find some stray dogs, footprints, or maybe raccoon
tracks, something normal. But the ground was smooth,
disturbed only by random patches of weeds.
That was when the question lodged itself in my brain.
If there was nothing back there, what made the noise?
Time wore on and the weird occurrences became part of our
routine, like how you eventually stop reacting to a house
settling in the middle of the night.
We kept living our lives, shrugging it off as coincidence,
but each time I headed home through that empty field, the
air felt heavy, as if the dusty ground was concealing a secret
just out of sight. When the wind blew across those
low bushes, it sounded more like hushed whispers than just leaves
rustling. My friend was getting ready to
move soon. His parents were taking him to
another part of the state. We spent our last few weeks of
freedom soaking up every bit of fun we could.
A nagging voice in my head told me something was looming, like
the field itself was waiting for the perfect moment to prove us
right about our fears. The final days felt electric, as
if the nights had gotten darker and the quiet had grown a little
too thick. We were both on edge, though we
hardly admitted it. One evening, I stepped out onto
his back porch to grab something from the truck, and the sight of
the empty cul-de-sac struck me in a way it never had before.
The street lamp at the end of the road was broken, leaving
that corner in pitch black darkness.
There was a feeling almost like the darkness was crawling
closer, pressing on the edges of our property.
I hurried back inside, acting like I was just cold, but
really, I couldn't stand being out there any longer than I had
to. Little did I know, that creeping
sense of dread was only the beginning.
There were still more odd happenings to come, nights of
uneasy sleep and half imagined shapes at the window.
I tried to laugh it off, but that place had a hold on me.
It was like an ancient desert creature bidding its time,
letting the moonless nights build an atmosphere of tension
that no amount of logical thinking could dismantle.
And if I'd known what was waiting for us on the other side
of that pitch black field, I might have never left that
basement at all. I had no idea how quickly things
could escalate until the night my friend and I decided to go
for one last drive through that dusty cul-de-sac.
He was days away from moving, and we were both restless.
The thought of staying in that basement had started making my
stomach churn, so we figured a bit of fresh air might calm our
nerves, or at least distract us. We climbed into his old truck
around midnight, cranking the engine in the kind of silence
only broken by our jittery breathing.
When we pulled out of the driveway, we flicked on the high
beams and I spotted a rabbit darting off into the field.
That tiny movement reminded me how alive the darkness could be.
We turned the wheel toward the empty roundabout, thinking we'd
make a quick loop back onto the Main Street.
That stretch of pavement was practically abandoned.
No lights, no houses, just a half circle of asphalt leading
into a wall of brush and sage. As soon as the headlights cut
across the dirt, we both locked onto something hunched low in
the beam. At first, my eyes struggled to
make sense of the shape. It looked vaguely human, but not
quite. Pale limbs jutted out at angles
that didn't seem right, each joint too long, too gaunt, and
the skin, thin and almost translucent, clung to its frame
like it had been plastered on. Neither of us spoke.
The truck idled headlights illuminating this figure in a
stark white glow. Every cell in my body begged me
to blink, to look away, but I couldn't.
The thing's head swiveled toward us, revealing an open mouth
stretched far beyond normal. It reminded me of a snake
dislocating its jaw. Except there was no visible
tongue, no teeth. I could make out just a dark
hollow. Then there were the eyes, black
and almost reflective, as if they soaked up the truck's
headlights. A bolt of panic shot through me.
The thing jerked backward, contorting itself in a way that
defied simple physics. It zipped into the brush, almost
as if someone had hit rewind. We stayed put, gripping the
wheel in the passenger seat, trying to piece together what
we'd just seen. That half second felt like it
lasted an hour. And yet the moment was gone.
Before we could react, my friend slammed the truck into reverse.
There was no debate, no words exchanged.
He just gunned it. We tore out of that cul-de-sac,
gravel spraying against the undercarriage.
The whole time I had this urge to twist around and check the
rear window. I was too afraid of seeing
another glimpse of that pale form lunging after us.
When we made it back to his place, we jumped out of the
truck and sprinted inside. Neither of us wasted time
fumbling with the lights. We flipped on every switch we
could reach, checking windows, peering through the blinds.
The house felt too quiet, like the air had been drained out of
the rooms. We double locked the back door
and huddled in the basement, the place that had once been our
cozy refuge, now feeling like a bunker.
For hours we just sat there, occasionally whispering
possibilities. Was it a person starving and
sick? Some kind of animal with mange,
But none of that explained the unnatural angles of its limbs or
the gaping jaw that looked like a black pit.
At one point I thought I heard a shuffling noise above us, but I
couldn't be certain. If it was just the house
settling or my imagination running wild, we kept the TV on
low, more for noise than anything else.
But every so often we'd mute it, convinced something outside had
moved. We never could bring ourselves
to open the basement window, even though part of me wanted to
check that empty field and see if it was still lurking.
Caution one out, I wasn't in a hurry to come face to face with
that creature again. Eventually, the sun started to
rise, leaking weak orange light into the basement.
The moment we. Saw the first glow, we exhaled
relief we hadn't known we were holding in.
The new day offered a layer of safety, making the events of the
night feel strangely dreamlike. My friend packed a few more
things, and as he loaded them into his truck, he paused in the
yard. I caught him staring at the
cul-de-sac, probably thinking the same thing I was.
Would we ever figure out what had been skulking out there?
He drove away two days later, leaving me to face a weird mix
of emptiness and lingering dread whenever I glanced out toward
those fields. For a while I tried to dismiss
the memory of that night as a trick of fear and headlights,
but whenever I passed that spot where the asphalt ended and the
desert began, the memory resurfaced, sharp and vivid.
The possibility that the thing might still be waiting behind
the brush never felt far fetched anymore.
A few months after he left, I left too, heading off to chase
my own future. But whenever I come back to
visit, those fields remain exactly the same.
I'll drive by slowly, resisting the urge to scan the shadows,
convinced that if I look too long I might see a flash of pale
skin, Bony limbs, and that hollow grin.
And no matter how much time passes, that possibility keeps
me from feeling truly safe in the place I once called.
Home. I remember paddling onto the
shore of Little Triscuit as dusk settled in, feeling more worn
out than usual. The day had been relentless.
Miles of open water, the sun beating down without mercy.
Still, guiding trips at Lake of the Woods always brought a
strange mix of excitement and wariness.
Maybe it was the way the endless trees crowded the shoreline, or
how legends around this place never stopped swirling among
those. Who'd been here long enough?
Whatever it was, I carried an edge of nervous energy with me
as I helped unload the canoes. My Co guide, Jordan and I had 7
campers with us, ranging from 12 to 17.
One of them, let's call him Mark, rarely spoke in full
sentences. When he did, the words sometimes
tumbled out like he'd been bottling them up for days.
I admired his determination to keep pace with everyone, but
there was a look on his face that evening, almost like he
wanted to tell me something and couldn't quite get it out.
While the others set up the tents and tried to scrape mud
off their boots, I walked the perimeter of the campsite,
taking note of the thick undergrowth beyond the fire pit.
My gut told me to keep an eye on that shadowy border.
Sunlight was fading fast and the forest seemed to fold in around.
Us. The moment I turned back to the
main site, I spotted Mark standing at the edge of the
trees, squinting into the dimness.
Who is that man? He asked, voice flat.
I stopped in my tracks and looked where he was pointing.
No one was there except Jordan. Busy tying down a canoe.
I called out Mark. It's just us, buddy.
And glanced around for any shape or movement.
Nothing. We counted everyone, still 7
campers present. Mark just kept staring though,
like he expected something to step out from behind a trunk at
any second. Jordan caught sight of our
uneasy conversation and ambled over.
I filled him in quickly. And we both assured Mark that
maybe he was seeing a trick of the light.
Mark didn't argue, but he didn't look convinced either.
With everyone's stomachs growling, we decided to shift
focus to dinner. We gathered around the campfire,
the warmth of the flames cutting through the cool air.
A few of the boys tried to lighten the mood by laughing at
their own unfunny jokes, while our lone girl, Becca, stayed
quietly by her tent. I felt a slight tension whenever
someone glanced toward the tree line, especially Mark.
It wasn't as if we'd actually seen anything, but the
atmosphere felt heavy, like the forest was listening to every
word. By the time we finished eating,
darkness had swallowed the last traces of twilight.
The lake glimmered under the moonlight, but the woods behind
us looked like a solid wall. The group was spent.
One by one, the kids peeled off to their tents.
Jordan and I settled into hours, mentally ticking off safety
measures before trying to rest. Hours later, or maybe it was
just a long half hour, my eyes snapped open at the sound of
Becca's voice. Stop.
She called sounding annoyed. It came from a few yards away
where her tent was pitched. My pulse hammered as I scrambled
for a flashlight. Jordan fumble with the zipper
and yelled back. Becca, everything OK?
She didn't answer for what felt like an eternity, then muttered
something we couldn't catch. We unzipped our tent and poked
our heads out. Every other tent was zipped
tight, no one wandering around. The breeze had vanished, leaving
the campsite unnervingly silent. Finally, Becca's voice came
again, low and shaky. I thought you two were shaking
my tent. Jordan and I looked at each
other in confusion. We hadn't so much as budged
since turning in. No one else had crawled out of
their tents. I would have heard or seen a
flashlight. Trying not to sound too freaked,
I said. We've been here the whole time.
After that, Becca went quiet. The rest of the night passed
without further commotion, but I doubt anyone slept well next
morning. I expected everyone to be
relieved in the broad daylight. Instead, nervous chatter
replaced the usual morning groans about aches and pains
from sleeping on the ground. Becca emerged from her tent,
flushed with frustration. Look, she said, brandishing a
bent tent stake in my face. I took it from her, puzzling
over how it ended up twisted at a neat right angle.
She had another one just like it.
They were sturdy metal stakes, the kind that usually survive
years of windstorms without bending.
Jordan and I tried forcing one back into shape, but it may as
well have been made of reinforced steel.
It wouldn't budget, Becca insisted.
Something had yanked on her tent, forcing the steaks to
bend. She joked nervously that maybe
she'd pitched her tent on top of an angry chipmunk den.
Nobody really laughed. Breakfast tasted bland, even
though I used the last of our precious cinnamon to spice up
oatmeal. Everyone was eager to hit the
canoes. Whatever happened here in the
night, nobody wanted to stick around and find out if it would
happen again. We double checked our gear, then
shoved off into the calm water. I glanced back over my shoulder
at little Triscuit hard in my throat, half expecting to see a
figure watching from the tree line.
But there was just the dim shape of our campfire's ashes and a
few drifting wisps of smoke. Jordan paddled alongside me,
expression tense. We didn't say much.
Even the kids who usually bickered over who was the
fastest kept their voices low. Part of me tried to shrug it all
off. Maybe it was just bizarre luck,
maybe we were all spooked by some trick of the light, but
part of me couldn't shake the sense that little Triscuit
wasn't a place you leave entirely behind.
I kept that thought to myself for the moment, silently hoping
that the next campsite would bring only ordinary wilderness
troubles inside, though I was already bracing for whatever
else Lake of the Woods might have up its sleeve.
By the time we finally shoved off from Little Triscuit, the
sky felt lighter, like we were leaving something behind in
those tangled trees. Of course, none of us actually
said that out loud. We just paddled, letting the
kids chatter fill the stillness. Every so often, Jordan and I
exchanged glances that said, Are we really done with all that?
Neither of us wanted to be the first to admit our nerves were
still jangling. For the next couple of days, our
group followed the usual canoe trail through smaller islands
and calm coves. The mornings rolled by
uneventfully. The kids sang rowing songs,
teased each other about who needed more sunscreen, and
occasionally complained about sore muscles.
At night, though, my mind drifted back to those bent
stakes, the trembling tent things that.
Didn't add up, no matter how I tried to rationalize them.
I caught Jordan scanning the tree lines more than once, as if
half expecting some pale figure to glide into view.
On the third day after leaving Little Triscuit, we found a
scenic campsite on the opposite side of the lake.
It had a more open clearing, so at least we weren't surrounded
by walls of undergrowth. This time, the kids seemed
relieved. They even built a small rock
circle for the fire, humming pop tunes like they were back in
civilization. At first, I tried to match their
mood, but each flicker of the flames made me remember the hush
that fell over our group that first night when Mark claimed he
saw a man in the woods. That evening, the silence came
down heavier than before. The wind died off, leaving the
water still as glass. Once dinner ended, a couple of
the kids tried to break the tension by telling jokes, but
even those fizzled out. Jordan finally decided to spin
one of the local legends, something about sightings of a
gaunt shape roaming these shores, rumored to appear if you
doubted its existence. The kids listened wide eyed,
glancing at the forest and the quiet water.
I considered cutting him off, but he was already in full
storyteller mode, describing how people sometimes woke to find
their gear torn or footprints circling their tents.
By the time he finished, every crackle of burning wood made the
group jump. Mark, usually so quiet, spoke up
then, murmuring about how the white shape only comes when
people disrespect it. His voice was so subdued that
everyone had to lean in. It felt like an echo from Little
Triscuit, and the memory left a knot in my chest.
The rest of the night passed uneasily.
I found myself jolting awake at every rustle beyond my tent,
listening for footsteps that never came.
A couple more days later, we finally made our way back to
base camp. Seeing the row of cabins and
hearing the bustle of other campers relaxed me a little,
like stepping back into a world that obeyed normal rules.
The kids scattered to retrieve their duffel bags, grinning at
the promise of clean showers and phone signals.
Jordan and I began our usual routine of hauling canoes onto
racks and logging any equipment damage, but my mind was still
replaying everything. Mark's warnings, the bent metal,
Becca's shaken tent. Not long after we returned, I
ran into a friend, another guide who'd stayed at Little Triscuit
the night after us. I asked her how the trip had
gone, and she blurted out a strange story about seeing a
tall, pale figure in the woods while she was off finding a
private spot to use the bathroom.
She assumed it was some camper wandering too close, but when
she got back, everyone insisted they'd been by the fire the
whole time. I felt my stomach lurch.
It was more or less the same thing we'd experienced, someone
or something lurking where it had no business being.
That afternoon, word spread around camp about my
conversation with her. Other guides tossed in their
stories, each one more unnerving than the last.
Footprints leading right to a tent door.
Bizarre tapping on canvas in the dead of night.
Muffled sounds echoing through the trees.
One guy even swore he saw a faint shape slip into the water
near an island rumored to be haunted.
The common thread in all these tales was that once people
returned to base camp, the weirdness stopped.
It was almost like the forest itself refused to let outsiders
scoff at its presence. I can't say I felt relief or
terror as I listened to everyone's accounts, more a grim
sense of acceptance. I realized that what happened to
us wasn't just a fluke. Nobody used the word Wendigo
openly, not in any serious way, but the older guides hinted at
it in hushed tones. They'd shake their heads and say
it's best to respect what you don't understand.
Over the next few days my thoughts kept drifting back to
that night with the shaking tent and the twisted stakes, or to
how Mark pointed straight into the darkness, convinced he saw a
person out there. Sleep was erratic, even casual
noises, doors slamming or equipment rattling made me think
about snapping branches and hush blanketed forests.
Jordan and I tried to joke it off, but I could tell he was
just as unsettled. At some point I stood alone by
the base camp canoe racks and let my eyes wander across the
horizon where the lake merged with endless evergreens.
Part of me wondered if I should take another trip out there just
to prove I wasn't spooked beyond reason, but another part of me
answered, Maybe give it. Time and make sure you tread
lightly if you ever go back. Right before heading in for the
night, I glimpsed something along the tree line.
Could have been just a shadow. Another guide waved me over to
help with gear, and when I glanced back, nothing was there.
I told myself it was a trick of the fading light.
Still, an uneasy knot remained in my gut.
The sense that something in those woods keeps its own watch,
follows its own rules and isn't keen on giving up its secrets.
And I couldn't decide if I was more afraid of running into it
again or never knowing what was truly there in the first place.
I swear I could feel the tension in the air the moment we hauled
that gear onto the boat. The sun was just barely waking
up, painting the sky in soft streaks of orange and pink as my
dad and my brother wordlessly slid the boat into the water.
Normally, I would have been brimming with excitement for a
trip like this, deep in northern Canada, searching for moose in a
place that barely knew a human footprint.
But something about that morning put me on edge.
It was too quiet. Too Still, we spent hours
gliding through winding rivers that twisted around thick walls
of forest. Every so often we'd have to stop
at a cluster of Rapids, lug our boat and supplies over slick
rocks, then push forward again. My brother would occasionally
crack 1/2 joke about my scrawny arms not being up to the task,
but there was an uneasy note to his voice.
I just forced a laugh, pretending everything was fine.
By late afternoon, it felt like the wind itself had abandoned
us. We found a patch of muddy
riverbank to set up camp. I remember letting out a
relieved sigh as we anchored the boat and offloaded our gear.
The forest around us loomed with silhouettes that almost looked
like watchful figures, like the trees themselves were sizing us
up. My dad shrugged it off when I
tried to mention it. He just muttered about how we
had to finish pitching the tent before we lost the last bit of
daylight. When we finally settled by our
modest campfire, my brother's usual chatter fell oddly flat.
I tried asking him if he'd noticed anything strange while
we were on the water, but he just shook his head and poked at
the embers with a stick. Maybe he wanted to ignore it.
Maybe I was being dramatic. But every now and then I caught
him glancing over his shoulder, checking the dark edges of the
camp as if expecting something to be there.
Eventually, both my dad and brother decided to turn in for
the night. I felt too restless, too uneasy
to sleep. I told myself I'd collect more
firewood, maybe shake off the day's weird energy.
The campfires glow only stretched so far, and as I move
beyond it, the air seemed to thicken.
There was an odor, faint but nauseating, like expired food.
My head felt light, like I couldn't quite keep my balance
on the uneven ground. I crouched to pick up a stray
branch, and that's when I caught a flicker of movement along the
tree line. Something rustled.
My heart hammered in my ears, a deep thrumming that drowned out
every other sound around me. The moon was faint, just enough
to tease shapes out of the darkness.
I squinted, trying to see past a cluster of branches.
It looked like they were bending, almost shifting in a
way that resembled a face. My mind churned with
explanations. Maybe a trick of shadows, maybe
a deer turning its head. But as I watched, that shape
began to look disturbingly human.
A voice drifted out from the dimness, startling me.
It was warm, too warm. Calling my name like it belonged
to someone I loved. A voice I recognized
immediately. But the relative it belonged to
had been dead for months. My stomach lurched.
Logic said this was impossible, yet my feet inched forward.
There was a gentle, pleading tone in that voice, asking me to
come closer, that it missed me. My chest tightened with a flood
of conflicting emotions. This was comforting and
terrifying. All at once.
Everything changed in a single beat.
The shape that had formed that too familiar face shifted.
The skin, or whatever was imitating skin, started to peel,
revealing a grotesque smear of muscle and bone.
The mouth, once smiling, went slack.
An overwhelming sense of alarm burned through me.
I realized I had wandered far from the fire's protective glow.
Whatever this thing was, it abandoned its facade and
snarled, commanding me to move deeper into the dark.
I stumbled backward, nearly losing my grip on the branches
in my hand. I forced my body around and
sprinted toward camp, but I heard it crashing behind me.
The wild beating in my chest roared in my ears.
The embankment leading up to the camp felt like a Mile High wall.
I scrambled on all fours, trying to climb.
That's when it seized my ankle with a force that felt inhuman.
A choked sound escaped my mouth, at first useless, then driven by
pure desperation, I found my voice and managed a ragged
scream for help, praying my dad or brother would hear.
Suddenly my brother appeared at the top of the slope, his eyes
wide as he grabbed my arms and. Yanked me with everything he
had. I could sense the creature's
grip slipping, could practically feel the anger radiating from it
in that final moment before it let go.
We tumbled onto the dirt, gasping for.
Air. My dad came racing out of the
tent, rifle in hand, barking questions Through shattered
breaths. I tried describing what I saw,
what I thought I saw. My brother cut me off with a
quick nod, muttering that he caught a glimpse of it too.
That confirmation he saw, it froze my blood.
I wanted to believe I was just hallucinating, but now there was
no denying something nightmarish was out there.
We stayed close to the fire, rifles drawn, scanning the edge
of the woods for any sign of movement.
The rest of the night stretched on like it would never end,
every second charged with the fear of another attack.
In the smouldering embers glow, I couldn't get that rotting face
out of my mind, an echo of a loved one's voice twisting into
something monstrous. I had no idea if we'd truly
escaped, or if the worst was yet to come.
I'd never felt so alive and so afraid at the same time.
My chest was still hammering from the encounter by the
riverbank, and as I stumbled back toward the fire with my
brother's help, every shadow seemed ready to lash out again.
My dad rushed over, rifle in hand, eyes darting from me to
the dark tree line. I tried to explain, but my
thoughts came out in jagged fragments.
Something about a rotting face, torn skin, a voice that never
should have spoken again. When I finally blurted that it
sounded like our dead relative, the words tasted foul.
Yet the worst part was that my brother nodded, confirming he'd
caught a glimpse of the same horror.
That small gesture meant there was no more pretending I'd
imagined it. We crowded around the fire,
almost huddling in a circle with our guns laid out within reach.
The crackling flames were our only comfort, but they felt so
fragile in that vast darkness. The silence was so heavy that
every pop of burning wood made me jolt.
My dad kept his gaze fixed on the tree line, scanning left and
right as if daring that thing to make a move.
And the smell, the rancid, putrid stench that clung to the
air, never faded. It drifted in and out, as though
something unholy was circling just beyond what the firelight
revealed. Time dragged in that suffocating
vigil. My brother and I didn't dare
speak above a whisper, if at all.
Every so often, I swore I saw a tall silhouette flicker beyond
the reach of the flames. It would stand there, looming,
but when I'd blink or shift my angle, it vanished.
I started to question my own eyes, my own sanity.
Maybe it was just the aftershock of terror.
But then my brother gripped his gun tighter, confirming he saw
it too. We never did get a clear look.
Part of me was thankful for that.
I don't think I could handle seeing its face a second time.
By the time the sky began to lighten, I felt half crazed with
exhaustion. My eyes burned from keeping them
open all night, but none of us had dared to sleep, not even for
a moment. The embers of the fire were low,
and the cold morning air made my breath rise in tense little
clouds. I couldn't wait to pack up and
tear away from that cursed spot. It felt like the forest itself
was holding its breath, waiting for us to slip up.
We broke camp with a kind of frantic efficiency I'd never
seen before. My dad barked orders about
rolling up sleeping bags and tossing them onto the boat.
My brother didn't even crack a joke, his usual way of coping.
He had this grim, distant look, as if he was already rehearsing
a story he didn't want to share. I kept glancing over my
shoulder, convinced that if I let my guard down for a second,
that thing would lunge at me again.
The stench still lingered in my nostrils and I felt like my
lungs couldn't draw in a full breath.
When we finally shoved off, I could barely feel my hands.
They trembled around the paddle, my palms slippery with sweat.
The river seemed calmer than the day before, but I caught
glimpses of motion along the banks, Bony limbs darting
between trees, or maybe just my imagination.
Every time the boat scraped a shallow rock or driftwood, I
panicked, thinking it was the creature grabbing hold again.
My dad pressed us onward with a fierce urgency.
We had to cover the distance back to civilization.
As fast as possible or risk another night out here.
Hours later, the scent of wood smoke and distant traffic lured
us in, signs we were close to a small outpost.
My entire body shook from the come down from that raw, gnawing
terror. Yet the closer we got to actual
homes and roads, the more my dread twisted into something
else. A haunting certainty that I
wouldn't truly leave this behind.
I had no idea if that entity or some piece of it had followed
us. There was no sense of safety in
me, just a growing paranoia. Even back home, the nightmares
took hold immediately. That very night, I jolted awake,
convinced I heard shuffling footsteps on the porch or
scratching at my window. Sometimes I dream of 1/2 decayed
face calling me closer, rasping my name in a distorted version
of my relative's voice. Morning would bring a flicker of
relief, but it never lasted. Every knock on the door or
rustle of wind made me jump. My brother wasn't any better
off. He'd had the same kind of
nightmares, though we didn't dare talk about it much.
My dad, on the other hand, grew solemn, saying only that we
mustn't breathe a word to anyone beyond a trusted few.
He claimed nobody would believe us, and if they did, they'd call
us reckless for wandering into places best left alone.
Desperate for answers, we met with medicine men recommended by
distant family friends. They performed rituals and
offered small protective charms, sachets filled with herbs.
For a few nights afterward, I managed to sleep a little longer
before the nightmares got me, but that creeping feeling never
went away. It clung to me like a damp
chill, as though the entity had latched onto my spirit the
moment it seized my leg. Finally, I chose to spill what I
could to a couple of close friends.
They gave me crystals, whispered about supernatural predators,
and suggested I carry salt in my pockets whenever I headed out.
I appreciated their concern, but I couldn't shake the sense that
the only one who truly understood was my brother,
because he saw that thing too, if only for a split second.
We all agreed to keep our story in a tight little circle.
Part of it was shame, not wanting the label of crazy
pinned on us. Part of it was guilt, like we'd
trespass somewhere we shouldn't have, and the forest spat back
an unholy warning. Mostly though, it was fear.
Fear that in telling the story, we'd summon that decaying
phantom all over again. Now, whenever I'm anywhere near
the woods, I'm hyper aware of every twig snap or drifting
shadow. I never stand with my back to
the trees anymore because in the deepest part of my mind I still
smell that rancid stench and see a horrid grin under peeling
skin. And I know it's out there in one
form or another, waiting for a moment of weakness.
I made it out once. But something tells me this
nightmare is far from over. I started out late, just a
little after 10, and the sky was pouring rain like it was
determined to drench every inch of Bucks County.
Not the best conditions, but I'd driven these roads 100 times.
I guess that's why I barely thought twice as I pulled onto
the highway, just the usual annoyance of wet tires and too
few St. lights to really see more than a patch of asphalt
ahead. The wipers were working
overtime, swiping at the windshield so fast it was almost
hypnotic. Part of me wanted to pull over
and wait it out, but another part insisted I'd be fine.
Besides, I was only about 45 minutes from home, and the idea
of relaxing in my own bed kept me forging ahead.
I shrugged off the creeping sense of dread, blaming it on
the weather. 1/4 hour into the drive, I found myself scanning
the darkness on either side. Maybe because I've seen deer
dart out at the worst moments before.
This time though, I noticed something looming in my lane,
way off in the distance. The shape seemed too big to be a
normal deer, way too tall, almost giraffe like in the way
it stretched upward. My pulse hammered at the base of
my throat as I lifted my foot off the gas.
I wondered if my eyes were just playing tricks, but it was
definitely there, a shadow that swallowed any light from my high
beams, refusing to reflect a single shimmer.
I kept easing on the brakes, worried that a sudden stop might
make me spin out. The car wobbled a bit, tires
skidding on the slick surface a few 100 feet away from this
thing. I glanced down at my speedometer
and realized I was going faster than I thought.
Letting out a shaky breath, I gripped the wheel tighter,
gearing up for an impact I half expected.
I blinked rainwater from my lashes, forcing myself to keep
my attention on the road getting closer.
The figure started flickering at the edges, like it couldn't
decide whether to be there or not.
Water pelted the windshield, and the wipers made a groaning noise
as they whipped back and forth, but somehow that shape stayed
outside the range of my headlights.
My vision blurred for a split second.
I fiddled with the lever, turning the wipers to Max, and
still I couldn't get a Clearview.
Before I could comprehend it, the silhouette vanished. 1
moment I was about to face down some huge creature, the next I
saw only empty asphalt, glistening in the wet glare of
my high beams. My shoes pressed harder on the
brakes and the car shuddered to a stop in the middle of the
highway. I let out a ragged exhale,
scanning the road ahead, the ditches on either side.
Nothing. A car behind me honked far off,
probably still a good distance away, so I tapped the gas and
forced myself forward. Rain hammered against the roof
and I muttered a few curses under my breath, half convinced
I'd imagined everything. That's when something smaller
dashed right in front of my grill.
There was no time to brace for impact.
It popped into view and shot across the road in the blink of
an eye. My chest tightened, ready for a
thud, a lurch, anything. But I felt nothing.
The road stayed clear and the only sound was the whoosh of
water under my tires. For a few seconds I thought I
might be losing my mind. I eased the car down to a crawl,
glancing in my rear view mirror, fully expecting to see a
writhing body on the pavement. Still no sign of anything.
No carcass, no shape scurrying off into the trees, nothing.
It was like the road had swallowed it.
The remaining half hour home was a blur.
Every flicker of movement, branches swaying, puddles
splashing, made me jump. By the time I parked, my hands
ached from gripping the steering wheel.
I rushed inside and told the story to my boyfriend on the
phone, practically tripping over my own words.
He tried to calm me down, said maybe it was just the bad
weather and my eyes playing tricks, but I could tell he was
spooked by how shaken I sounded. That night I barely slept.
I kept thinking about that towering silhouette and the
smaller phantom that zipped past my car.
Normal dear sightings don't make me feel this unsteady.
I had no idea what I'd run into out there, and the not knowing
was the worst part. All I wanted was an explanation
that made sense, but I also dreaded the thought that this
was only the beginning of something bigger and far more.
Frightening. I woke up way too early, eyes
gritty from a night of tossing and turning.
Even in the bright morning light, I couldn't get rid of the
images swirling in my head, those silhouettes that appeared
and vanished during my drive. It had me on edge in a way I've
never felt before. Normally I'd grab breakfast and
scroll social media for a while, but that morning I found myself
hunched over my phone, searching every corner of the Internet for
some logical explanation. Dear collisions.
Weird reflection issues. Illusions caused by rain.
They all popped up, yet none matched what I'd experienced.
Some people online talked about cryptids, discussing wendigos or
shape shifters. Honestly, I wasn't sure if I
believed in any of that. Still, the descriptions,
creatures that didn't reflect light properly, animals that
stood unnaturally tall, left me more uneasy.
It felt like one of those rabbit holes you fall down when you're
desperate for answers. But every new sentence I read
made the memory worse. Rather than comfort, I got a
deeper sense that the roads I'd always considered home turf
might be hiding something I couldn't begin to understand.
By the time I shut off my phone, the sun was well above the
rooftops, and I realized I was going to be late for work if I
didn't hurry. I forced myself into a quick
shower, hoping hot water would jolt me awake enough to
function. My reflection in the bathroom
mirror was more pallid than usual, eyes ringed with
exhaustion. I couldn't bring myself to dwell
on it too long, because I knew if I stared too hard I might
talk myself into calling out sick.
Stepping outside, I noticed how normal everything seemed.
The sky was a bright blue, last night's puddles evaporating in
small wisps off the asphalt. Neighbors were driving off on
daily routines, no one looking even remotely disturbed.
Part of me wished I could blend into that normalcy, just push
last night into some forgotten corner of my mind.
It was tough to do that, though, when every time I blinked I
imagined that warped creature was waiting behind my eyelids.
I hopped into my car, feeling my chest tighten when I reached for
the ignition. The memory of gripping the
steering wheel in the dark, bracing for a collision that
never happened, came rushing back.
But it was broad daylight now, so it had to be safer, right?
I tried to convince myself of that as I pulled out of the
driveway. Work was only 10 minutes away, a
drive filled with school zones and traffic lights, no lonely
highways where horrifying shapes might materialize.
As I cruised through town, I caught myself glancing at every
patch of grass along the sidewalk, almost expecting to
see a deer like silhouette behind every tree.
Nothing out of the ordinary showed up, yet my nerves
remained on alert. When I finally arrived at work,
I breathed a small sigh of relief.
Being around coworkers and busy tasks offered a distraction.
I was able to shove those thoughts aside for a handful of
hours, losing myself in the mundane swirl of emails and
phone calls. But every so often, while
staring at my computer screen, I'd remember the flickering
edges of that shadow. It would replay in my mind, an
uninvited loop. After clocking out, I knew I
couldn't hide indoors forever. Groceries were running low and I
needed gas, so I decided to swing by a store on the
outskirts of town. The drive there felt normal
enough. Bright sun, mild traffic, folks
moving along. But as soon as I left the more
congested roads and turned onto a quieter stretch that skirted a
patch of woods, my heartbeat started hammering.
The trees weren't thick enough to truly block out the sun, but
the overhang of branches dappled the road in shadows.
I noticed how they seemed to shift with each gust of wind,
and it was impossible not to recall that ephemeral silhouette
from last night. Just as I crested a small hill,
a deer stepped out from the brush.
This was definitely a real 1. Normal height, regular fur,
ordinary antlers. Yet something about its posture
made me slow down. It locked eyes with me through
the windshield. For a split second, I swore it
recognized me. Rationally, I knew that was
absurd. How would a deer recognize me
specifically? But it's stare was unwavering,
and I felt pinned there, as if an invisible string tugged
between us. My hand shook on the wheel, and
I barely remembered to tap the brakes as it casually ambled
across the pavement. Once it reached the other side,
it paused, head slightly turned, still watching.
Without making a sound, I pressed the gas, rolling forward
at a crawl, not daring to take my eyes off it until it was out
of sight. Nothing about that brief
exchange should have been remarkable, but it left me
rattled. Eventually, I finished shopping
and headed home, groceries rattling in the back seat.
I tried to laugh it off, getting spooked by a typical deer in
broad daylight. It still made my chest tighten,
though, because I felt a certain awareness in that encounter,
like it was reminding me of the shapes I'd seen just hours
before. When I finally got back, I felt
strangely drained. Like I'd run a marathon even
though I'd only run errands that evening.
I settled onto the couch with my phone, determined to find
something, anything, that would help me handle this situation.
My boyfriend texted me asking how I was holding up, and I
spilled my thoughts in a long, rambling reply.
He brought up the idea of a dash Cam, and I quickly realized he
was right. If there was something strange
out there, maybe I could capture it.
That possibility sent a shiver of dread through my whole body.
Did I really want proof that these shadows existed?
But ignoring them didn't feel like an option anymore.
I ended up reading through product reviews and ordering one
that promised high quality night footage.
The second I hit the confirm button, it felt like I'd crossed
a line. I was inviting a confrontation
with the unknown after. That I walked around my living
room, clicking off lamps, flipping them back on, anything
to keep myself occupied. It was just about sunset, and I
noticed how the clouds were shifting into thick masses of
Gray. Another storm was brewing.
I glanced out the window, staring down the darkening St.
Houses glowed with porch lights and cars passed lazily, but the
storm clouds made me think of last night's downpour.
In the pit of my stomach, I sensed that something waited for
nightfall. My phone buzzed with a text, my
friend wanting me to hang out, but the thought of driving after
sundown made me hesitate. Eventually, I replied that I
wasn't feeling up to it. I tried to ignore the wave of
anxiety that simple decision caused, but I knew I was
changing my routine out of fear. Before bed, I kept checking the
shipping status of my dash Cam like it was some lifeline.
I stared at the clock, measuring each passing minute against the
deepening gloom outside. Rain started tapping at the
windows again, not nearly as fierce as last time, but enough
that it brought back flashes of how it felt to be caught in that
downpour on the highway. My stomach twisted in knots and
I gripped the edge of the table, half expecting to see a tall
silhouette cross the yard or another smaller creature zip by
the corner of my vision. Nothing moved except for the
occasional flicker of headlights from a passing car.
By the time midnight rolled around, I was wide awake, senses
so sharp that the ticking clock in the kitchen sounded like a
drum beat. The forecast promised heavier
rain later in the week. The idea of driving in those
conditions again made my heart pound.
I wished I could just bury myself under blankets and never
leave the house until I had that dash Cam rolling.
But life would go on, and I couldn't avoid the roads
forever. From my window, I watched as the
sky finally split open in a drizzle.
Droplets bounced off the pavement, reflecting the
streetlights dull glow. Somewhere beyond that thin
curtain of water, I felt a presence.
Was it just paranoia? A leftover fear from a single
terrifying Dr. I didn't have an answer.
What I did know was that everything in my life seemed
different now. Like I'd stepped into a reality
where the rules had shifted slightly off center.
Tomorrow I'd have to face another day, possibly another
drive, and sooner or later I'd be out there at night again.
As the rain fell, I wondered if those silhouettes were out in
the darkness, waiting for the next chance to appear.
And I couldn't decide which possibility scared me more, the
idea that it was all in my head, or that every bit of it was
real. I've been in this farmhouse my
whole life, so nights out here usually feel familiar, almost
comforting. You learn to tune out the usual
creeks in the old wood, the distant lowing of cattle and the
soft chirping that drifts. In through the windows.
But that evening something put me on edge.
It started as I was going through my usual end of day
routine. I was alone, so I felt a bit
jumpier than usual. The living room lamp clicked
off, leaving the space A lot darker than I remembered.
The silence pressed in, and I headed to the front windows for
my final pass. Just to be.
Sure, everything was locked up. I nearly convinced myself I was
being paranoid when a faint glow caught my eye outside.
At first I thought I was imagining it. 2 spots of light
hovered near the tree line, too high off the ground to be a
stray cat or a fox. I took off my glasses, rubbed my
eyes, and looked again, but they were gone.
My brain scrambled to come up with a rational explanation,
maybe fireflies caught in a gust of wind, or a reflection of the
moon on broken glass. Still, I made certain to lock
every door and window before heading upstairs, heart
thrumming a little harder than I'd care to admit.
I didn't sleep well. Dawn arrived too fast, and I was
already dragging myself out of bed to tend the animals.
I hopped into my boots, stepped outside, and got hit with a
stale, humid smell floating on the morning breeze.
It felt wrong somehow, but I shoved that aside and focused on
chores. My first stop was the barn.
The horses were fine, just a bit restless.
The real shock came when I checked on the cows.
There were fewer than yesterday. I counted at least twice, but it
didn't add up. Maybe I miscounted before, or
maybe some had wandered off. That's when I noticed the fence.
What used to be a sturdy section was torn and sagging, like
something big and strong had barreled right through it.
Splintered wood jutted at weird angles.
I leaned in for a closer look and saw footprints in the dirt.
They were strange, almost a hybrid shape, part hoof, part
something else entirely. My family's taught me all about
local wildlife, yet these tracks didn't match anything I'd seen
or heard about. The uneasy feeling I'd had the
night before started creeping back.
I checked the rest of the property, finding no other
clues. So I tried to move on, patching
the fence as best I could until I had help.
As the day dragged on, I found it tough to focus.
My phone lit up with a text from my girlfriend and the
conversation blew up into a full on fight.
It left me tense and itching to clear my head.
So after dusk, I grabbed my phone and headphones, heading
off toward the forest. I've hiked it 1000 times, but
this was different. Something about the night air
felt oppressive, like it was charged.
I cranked up my music to overpower my thoughts and
wandered deeper than I intended. Before I knew it, darkness was
everywhere. I flipped on my phone's
flashlight, sweeping it around. I caught the reflection of
something that looked like eyes in the beam high behind a tree.
As soon as I angled my phone that way, the reflection
vanished, leaving me reeling from A rush of panic.
Maybe it was a trick of the light again, or maybe not.
A growl rippled through the trees, low and ragged, unlike
anything I'd heard in these woods.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I realized I had
no clue where the path went. I started to backtrack,
stumbling over roots and tangling my boots in
undergrowth. My flashlight shook with each
step, then a sharp snap, like a branch being crushed under foot
sounded close. Too close.
Fear surged in my chest. I had to get out.
My jog turned into a full on Sprint, branches slapping my
face and arms. When I finally saw the farmhouse
lights in the distance, I breathed a silent prayer of
relief. I hopped the broken fence,
nearly face planting on the other side.
Something moved at the tree line.
Tall, menacing, with eyes that gleamed faintly in the dark.
A vile odor hit me, intense enough to make me gag.
It never advanced. It just stood there, watching
with a stillness that felt deliberate, like it was studying
me. I forced myself inside, slammed
the door, and locked it. My heart hammered as I peeked
out a window, only to glimpse that pair of eyes still trained
on me. Enough was enough.
I yanked the blinds down, shut off every light, and made my way
to my room, grabbing the old shotgun from my closet just to
steady my nerves. That night, sleep was a distant
thing. My thoughts were in a whirl,
Cows disappearing, fences, torn footprints with no reasonable
explanation, and a hulking silhouette crouched at the edge
of my land. I tried to convince myself I'd
wake up and find a neat explanation, but I knew deep
down that something big and unknown was stalking these
woods. I woke the next morning with the
shotgun still clutched in my arms, feeling like I'd only
dozed off in brief intervals. The sun was out, but it did
nothing to chase off the dread tightening my chest.
I dragged myself outside to survey the damage.
Sure enough, another cow was gone.
The fencing I'd patched was shredded again.
Splinters littered the ground, and I spotted Crimson smears on
the wire that looked too fresh to be old stains.
There were footprints too, the kind I had no name for, long
deformed impressions that seemed part hoof, part something far
more disturbing. I forced myself deeper into the
pasture, shotgun ready. It felt ridiculous, but every
rustle in the grass, every flutter of a bird made me jump.
The forest stood ominously just beyond the fields, an unspoken
invitation for this thing to come and go at will.
Despite the daylight, I sensed I wasn't alone.
Frustration and anger flared inside me.
I'd lived here all my life, and no unknown creature was going to
claim this land as a feeding ground.
I mustered enough nerve to stand at the tree line hollering into
the undergrowth that I wasn't afraid.
My voice shook, and the echo that returned from the stillness
was unnerving. For a split second I thought I
saw a black shape slip between the trunks, but whether it was
the thing itself or just my imagination, I had no intention
of finding out. I half jogged back to the
farmhouse, all the while feeling that same prickling sense of
being watched. That afternoon, I did everything
I could think of to prepare. I scavenged the barn for nails,
boards, and tools, then rigged makeshift barricades on the
windows. It felt a little excessive, but
the memory of those eyes peering at me the night before kept me
hammering away. I stacked furniture against
certain doors I never used, bracing them from the inside.
The place looked more like a fortress with each passing hour,
and I hated that I needed this level of security in my own
home. As dusk crept closer, I
patrolled the house again, triple checking every lock.
The air outside turned heavy, and the wind rustled the dead
leaves near the fence. It carried a faint, sickly smell
that made my stomach churn. I couldn't shake the sense that
it was out there, sizing me up, waiting for darkness to hide its
advance. Night finally fell, and with it,
the usual forest noises vanished.
No crickets, no frogs, just an unsettling quiet that set me on
edge. My muscles tensed with every
step across the old floorboards. I turned off most of the lights,
leaving a few dim lamps so I could see if anything moved
outside. My shotgun was within arm's
reach, and I had a pistol holstered at my hip just in
case. A few hours crawled by and
suffocating silence. I thought maybe, just maybe, I'd
overdone it. That's when a sudden crash
rattled the front door. The force behind the blow echoed
through the house. My mouth went dry and my heart
thundered in my ears. Another crash.
The door frame quaked and I heard glass pop and skitter
across the floor somewhere downstairs.
A low roar. Rose from behind the walls, so
feral and strange that I felt the vibrations in my chest.
Something was forcing its way in, and my body reacted before
my brain caught up. I snatched the shotgun and
scrambled upstairs, nearly tripping on the last step in the
hallway. Each footstep of the intruder
felt heavier than any humans. The boards creaked as if under
the weight of something colossal.
An overpowering stench drifted toward me, thick enough to
taste. I covered my nose with my
sleeve, trying not to Wretch. Then came the banging on the
door to my room, Loud, rhythmic hits that shattered my nerve.
Splinters of wood flew as I shouldered the door, shoving a
dresser into place to buy a few seconds.
The door buckled, and I finally caught sight of it.
The crack between the door and frame gave me a horrible
glimpse. Matted fur, something like a
deer's skull, topped with twisted antlers, but with
patches of rotting skin clinging to it.
My hands shook as I racked the shotgun's first shell.
I aimed. The door burst open, sending
shards of wood everywhere I fired.
The muzzle flash lit up the creature's hideous features.
Empty eyes set in decaying sockets, an open maw with a jaw
that seemed off kilter. It let out a horrible screech
that made me recoil, then lunged.
I fired again, the recoil slamming back into my shoulder,
but I refused to let go. The thing staggered, leaking a
dark, foul substance that smelled like death.
It howled, flailing those long limbs in fury.
I kept my finger on the trigger, racking another shell, firing
and doing it again until I was spent.
Each shot was deafening, and the house trembled with every roar
from that abomination. Finally, it staggered backward,
Wheeling around in confusion. It tore down part of the hallway
as it fled, smashing through walls and overturning furniture
and its escape. I grabbed my pistol, sprinting
after it down the stairs. My heart hammered, but
adrenaline pushed me forward. The front door, the very one it
had battered in, now stood ripped off its hinges Outside,
the shape Lombard across the yard.
Its outline was monstrous, lit by a flickering porch light.
With a trembling grip, I squeezed off a few rounds.
The bullet seemed to do little more than anger it further.
It whipped its head back, unleashing a final roar that
reverberated off the barn, then bounded into the forest shadows.
I wanted to chase it, but the rational side of me knew that
was suicide. I called out a string of curses,
equal parts terrified and furious, watching it vanish
between the looming trees. Then there was sudden silence,
broken only by my ragged breathing.
Even the wind had died, leaving the yard unnaturally still.
My front door was on the ground, the hinges twisted.
Inside. I discovered the windows where I
swore I'd heard glass explode were strangely intact, as if
reality had split for a moment and then stitched itself back
together, leaving evidence only in the wrecked wood and bullet
casings scattered at my feet. I leaned against the splintered
frame, shotgun and pistol hanging limply in my hands,
trying to piece everything together.
I stayed that way for what felt like hours.
Until I realized I had to come up with a believable story for
my parents. There was no way to explain
giant claw marks or bullet holes that made any sense.
I finally decided to say I'd lost my temper during a personal
crisis, blowing holes in the door myself.
A story that wouldn't earn me any points, but at least it
wouldn't brand me a lunatic. By the time morning came, I was
exhausted, but the house and yard were eerily calm.
Stains on the floor had vanished.
The only real reminder of the battle was my ruined door and
the crippling weight in my chest.
The phone rang soon after, my folks checking up on me.
I lied as smoothly as I could about the door, promising to fix
it before they got home. They threatened to ground me for
the rest of my life, but that was a relief compared to
explaining the truth. Time marched on, and I
eventually left for college, but every so often I'd check in with
my family, ask if the cows were all accounted for, if the fences
were intact, if they'd heard any strange howls in the night.
They'd brush it off as me worrying too much.
But they didn't know the whole story.
Part of me stayed convinced that whatever I fought off that night
is still out there, licking its wounds, waiting.
And the thought of going back to that farm alone still manages to
send a sharp bolt of dread through my gut every time.
I knew this trip was going to be different the moment we rolled
up to that campsite. The place was massive, so big
that before we arrived, nobody had fully mapped it out.
Normally we do a thorough sweep to mark any hazards and figure
out where mischievous kids might wander.
This time, the size alone made that impossible and it put me on
edge. The kids, of course, found it
all thrilling. They asked a million questions,
buzzing with that bright eyed energy that only comes from
fresh air and the promise of running around unsupervised.
Well, mostly unsupervised. We pitched our tents in a
clearing that looked reasonably safe, at least by daylight.
The biggest worry I had at the time was a random root or hole
someone might trip over. Still, something gnawed at me.
I'd catch glimpses of movement at the edge of my vision,
shadows dancing just beyond the tree line.
Once or twice I turned too quickly, expecting to see an
animal darting away, but nothing.
I told myself I was just tired, or maybe feeling jumpy about the
unknown. That evening we gathered the
kids to explain our big tradition, the night game.
Typical camp scare fest. Each adult leader Don some
haphazard monster costume, positions themselves along a
designated path and leaps out at unsuspecting 8 to 10 year olds.
You know, the kind of thing that always gets them shrieking, then
giggling like crazy. But as I handed out flashlights
and set the ground rules, like absolutely don't leave the trail
unless you want to end up lost for hours, I felt my nerves
cranking up another notch. I tried to hide it behind a
grin. I chose this open patch of
forest to do my part. It was ideal for breaking into a
Sprint whenever I spotted a group approaching.
Barely any underbrush or brambles, but with no bushes or
rocks to hide behind, I had to switch off my flashlight or risk
blowing my cover. The darkness there felt thicker
somehow, almost suffocating. Several times I swore I saw a
figure my size slip between the trees.
Each time, I flicked on my light, expecting to catch one of
the other leaders pulling a fast one on me.
Not once did I see a single soul.
Right when I was about ready to call it a night, I glimpsed
someone near a large trunk. At first, relief rushed through
me. Finally, I'd caught my prankster
in the act. I flipped on the beam to let
them know they were busted, But what the light showed was all
wrong. Whoever stood there wore a
tattered burlap sack stained dark in patches, and had a bunch
of plastic bags wrapped around their head like a makeshift
hood. The person's arms and legs were
caked in dried mud and there was this repeated sound like a
gentle knocking. It took me a second to realize
he was tapping his forehead into the tree trunk over and over.
I tried calling out, maybe it was a messed up costume or
somebody fooling around, but he didn't answer.
He just paused that head tapping and turned in my direction,
taking a slow, deliberate step toward me.
Something told me this was no friend.
My whole body launched into action before my mind fully
processed what was happening. I tore away from that clearing,
branches snapping under my shoes, leaves rustling as I
barreled through like a runaway train.
Any time I thought I was safe, I heard footfalls behind me, quick
and heavy. I refused to look back.
I was convinced if I did, I'd run straight into a tree or fall
face first into the dirt. The only thought rattling around
in my head was get back to camp, get to the others, get to the
light. When I burst into the campfire
glow, the other leaders stared at me like I was out of my mind.
They were all accounted for, masks off, sipping water,
looking as calm as ever. I could barely catch my breath.
No one else seemed winded, let alone coated in filth or wearing
anything like that hideous burlap.
Get up. They tried reassuring me, saying
maybe I'd just spotted a trick of moonlight or a wandering
camper from another group. As much as I wanted to believe
that I knew I'd seen something. It was enough to keep me up half
the night, ears straining for any sound that hinted we weren't
alone in that massive stretch of forest.
The morning came way too early. I dragged myself out of my
sleeping bag, half expecting to see the rest of the group
gossiping about my late night meltdown, but most of them were
already busy corralling the kids for breakfast.
Nobody was pointing fingers or making jokes, yet still I knew I
couldn't just brush off what happened.
Maybe there was a dangerous stranger out there, a lost hiker
who needed help, or something worse.
I cornered one of the other leaders, a friend who'd known me
long enough to trust. I wasn't making up tall tales.
I laid it all out, the ragged burlap, the plastic around the
head, the frantic chaise through the trees.
Her eyes got bigger with every detail and I could see a flicker
of worry replace her usual calm. We decided to sneak off after
the kids were occupied with arts and crafts.
No sense in alerting them or risking a full blown panic.
Walking back into the woods felt like stepping into a different
world. In daylight the place looked
calmer, but I still couldn't shake the tension winding itself
around my nerves. Every snapped twig made me jerk
my head around. Every brush of a branch against
my sleeve had me bracing to run again.
My friend tried to keep conversation light, talking
about mundane stuff just to fill the silence, but my focus was on
that, clearing the exact spot where I'd seen him.
When we finally found the tree, I recognized it by a jagged
chunk of bark near the base, a detail I'd noticed only because
I'd briefly shown my flashlight there the night before.
There weren't obvious footprints or signs of a struggle, which
was odd considering all the thrashing around I'd done.
For a second, I worried. I dragged my friend out here for
nothing, letting my own nerves spin.
A wild story. But then we spotted it.
A rabbit nailed to the trunk, skinned and rotting in the heat.
The stench was indescribable, some foul mix of decay and dried
blood. My friend recoiled, swearing
softly under her breath. I felt like my insides twisted
into a knot. Anyone who'd do something like
that wasn't just a prankster with a sick sense of humor.
They were straight up disturbing.
We called the police using the camp's ancient radio phone,
which crackled so badly I had to repeat myself three times.
Eventually two officers rolled up, neither looking thrilled
about trudging into the woods. We showed them the gruesome
scene, half expecting them to share our alarm.
Instead, they shrugged and suggested it might be some
teenagers from a nearby town or rival scouting group playing a
gross joke. They took a couple of photos,
wrote a few notes and promised to look into it.
For the rest of the day, I couldn't focus on anything else.
I helped the kids make nature colleges and watch them run
relay races, always keeping an ear out for odd sounds.
Beyond the tree line, every rustle of branches had me on
edge, imagining burlap and plastic lurking just out of
sight. The other leaders noticed my
jumpiness but didn't press. Maybe they sensed how seriously
rattled I was. No more sightings came, No
screeching from a stranger in the woods, no footprints leading
into our camp. Part of me felt relief, but
another part grew more uneasy, wondering where that person went
and if they'd resurface when we least expected it.
That final night, none of us slept well, though we did our
best to pretend we were just excited to go home.
As we packed the vans the next morning, the kids were all
smiles, talking about their favorite memories, S'mores,
night games bunking together under a star-studded sky.
I plastered on a grin, offering encouraging nods every time they
asked if we'd be back soon. But in the back of my mind, the
image of that skinned rabbit and the person wrapped in plastic
lingered. It was like a warning etched
into my thoughts. Some places hide things in their
deepest corners that no one should ever stumble upon.
Even when we finally drove away, I couldn't relax.
Every bump in the road echoed with the possibility of
something sinister. We left the forest behind, but I
had this gnawing certainty that whatever lurked there wasn't
done roaming its territory. And I promised myself that if I
ever found out what or who it was, I'd be a whole lot more
prepared next time.