Mount Hood National Forest had always been a refuge for me, far
enough from Portland to feel remote, yet familiar enough to
navigate without stress. John and I had explored these
woods dozens of times before each trip and exercise and
pushing deeper into the unknown. But this weekend was supposed to
be different. We decided to venture off grid,
away from busy trails and crowded campgrounds, into
territory untouched since the logging boom died out in the
early 80s. Early October.
Sunlight filtered through a thin mist as we left Portland, the
old Tacoma packed with enough gear for several days of
mushroom foraging and wilderness photography.
We skirted around the shores of Timothy Lake, aiming northeast.
John had marked a vague location on our topo map, a spot neither
of us had explored, The deeper into the forest we drove, the
narrower the road became, until pavement turned to gravel and
gravel faded into soft dirt. It was John who noticed the gate
first, partially obscured by dense Alder branches and rusted
almost beyond recognition. It stood slightly ajar, left
that way years ago, judging by the saplings growing between the
bars. The logging Rd. behind it was
barely visible beneath the growth, nature aggressively
reclaiming the path humans had abandoned.
Let's check it out, John said. I bet no one's camped back here
in decades. The road was rough.
Branches clawed at our windows, screeching faintly against the
paint. We crawled along the truck,
jolting over potholes and fallen branches.
After nearly an hour, the road widened slightly into a clearing
ringed with towering Douglas furs.
It was eerily silent, devoid even of birdsong.
John cut the engine, and the sudden absence of noise was
almost unsettling. We set up our tent quickly, keen
to use the daylight left for mushroom hunting.
But as I unpacked gear, I felt oddly watched.
It wasn't anything tangible. No sounds, no clear movements,
just an uneasy sensation at the back of my neck.
I shook it off as wilderness paranoia and joined John hiking
downhill toward a dry Creek bed, eyes scanning for chanterelles
and morels. The afternoon passed
uneventfully until John suddenly stopped ahead of me, staring at
something in confusion. I stepped up beside him and
immediately understood why. There, wedged against a massive
tree trunk 10 feet off the ground, where two large limbs
arranged in an inverted V. Each limb was thick, at least 5
inches in diameter, and meticulously placed.
They formed a shape too precise to be random.
Hunter's blind, maybe? I suggested, though neither of
us was convinced. John shrugged, snapping a photo
with his phone. Weird place to put one.
We picked our way back to camp. As dust crept into the woods,
the silence had grown more pronounced.
Usually, evenings in the forest were filled with distant bird
calls and insect hums. Tonight, it felt as if the world
around us had been muted. Around midnight, as we sat
beside the small campfire, nursing whiskey from a flask,
the quiet shattered. A single deep thud echoed
through the trees, distant but heavy enough to vibrate gently
in my chest. John froze mid sentence, eyes
wide. I strained to hear more, but the
forest had fallen silent again. Tree falling?
John whispered hopefully. Maybe.
I murmured, unconvinced. A tree falling was messy,
branches snapping, the crash prolonged.
This had sounded deliberate, singular.
Sleep was difficult. After that, I lay awake, ears
alert, my heartbeat exaggerated by the thick silence.
Eventually, exhaustion took hold.
It was some time later, drifting between consciousness and
dreams, that I first heard the howls.
At first they were distant, low, almost mournful.
But soon they rose, deepening into guttural calls, resonating
through the forest like a chorus of unknown creatures.
They sounded nothing like wolves or coyotes.
Each howl seemed to linger, echoing endlessly through the
dense trees around us. John's voice came from across
the tent, barely audible over the howls.
What the hell is that? I don't know.
I whispered back, not trusting my voice.
My heart hammered, pulse quickening as adrenaline seeped
into my veins. Neither of us slept again that
night. We stayed awake, listening until
dawn painted the nylon walls of our tent a dim orange.
When we finally emerged, bleary eyed and exhausted, nothing
around us appeared disturbed. But deep down, I knew something
had changed. This wasn't the comforting Mount
Hood wilderness we'd known for years.
Something else claimed this forgotten Rd., Something that
wasn't welcoming our presence. My heart sank as I stepped out
into the crisp morning air, bleary eyed and anxious.
The campsite felt unfamiliar now, as if we'd overstayed our
welcome. John followed silently behind
me, his movements stiff and wary.
Both of us carried the shadow of last night's strange, unnerving
howls. I tried shaking off the anxiety,
convincing myself it was nothing more than overactive
imagination. Then I noticed it.
My backpack wasn't where I'd left it, propped carefully
beside the tent. Instead, a shadow shifted across
the ground near my feet. Slowly, my eyes traced upward,
and a sickening realization settled in.
My pack dangled at least 20 feet above us, suspended from a high
branch of a towering Douglas fir.
What the? John's voice trailed off, thick
with disbelief. Did you move that?
I asked, already knowing the answer.
No. He breathed quietly, staring
upward. Why would I?
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The pack hung motionless, swaying gently.
From here, I could see a tear along the strap, as though
something had ripped at it, but the food sealed tightly inside
was untouched. No bear would have left our food
intact, and no prankster could reach that height without
climbing gear. The thought of someone or
something lingering near our tent while we've been asleep was
chilling. John finally broke the silence,
determined to keep calm. Maybe it was a raccoon or
something. You know they're smarter than
they look. Sure.
I replied, unconvinced, my voice barely above a whisper.
We retrieved my pack after some effort, using a rope and a long
stick. John had found its contents were
exactly as I'd left them. We tried to busy ourselves,
breaking camp slowly, as though routine tasks could erase the
discomfort Ling beneath our skin.
John seemed determined to push through, proposing we stay
another night. I wanted desperately to refuse,
but the thought of navigating the logging Rd. in fading
daylight wasn't appealing either.
Eventually we set off toward the Creek again, hoping the mundane
task of gathering water might ease our nerves.
The forest felt oppressive now, the silence deafening rather
than peaceful. Shadows twisted strangely.
Branches seemed poised to reach out, snagging clothing and
scratching bare skin. We reached the Creek bed after a
tense, silent hike. As John knelt to fill our
bottles, my eyes wandered upward, scanning the Ridge
across the dry Creek bed. That's when I saw it.
A black figure, massive and upright, standing motionless
among the trees. My breath caught sharply,
adrenaline flooding my veins. John.
I hissed urgently. He looked up, eyes following
mine. For a second, neither of us
moved. Then the figure slowly crouched,
disappearing behind thick foliage with unsettling
fluidity. It had been tall, too tall to
mistake for an animal or a hiker.
Its shape had been strangely human, yet grotesquely
oversized. Did you see that?
My voice was shaking now. Yeah, John replied quietly.
His face was pale, eyes locked on the spot where the figure had
vanished. We need to get out of here now.
We practically sprinted back to the campsite, panic driving
every step as daylight faded. John built the fire higher than
usual, piling dry logs until the flames crackled fiercely,
casting an orange glow that pushed weakly against the
encroaching darkness. Neither of us spoke much.
Our voices felt intrusive in the unnatural stillness.
Hours passed slowly, just as exhaustion threatened to
overtake me. A sound snapped me awake.
A rhythmic, deliberate pacing around the perimeter of the
clearing. Something large moved beyond the
fires glow. Footsteps heavy yet disturbingly
precise. My muscles locked, every nerve
alert. John's knuckles whitened around
the handle of his hatchet. Another sound followed, the dull
thud of a stone landing just inside our firelight, tumbling
across the earth and stopping a few feet from my boots.
I stared down at it, my blood running cold.
Whatever was out there was strong and deliberate enough to
hurl a rock silently. Precisely.
Should we fire a flare? John asked, his voice strained.
I shook my head slowly. We'll need them for tomorrow.
The pacing eventually stopped, leaving behind an unsettling
stillness. Minutes stretched endlessly into
hours, and I couldn't shake the sensation that whatever it was
hadn't left. I pictured it out there,
watching, waiting with unnatural patience.
Just before dawn, as the first pale hints of sunlight spilled
through the trees, I clicked on my flashlight.
Its beam sliced through the darkness, landing on something
in the mud just beyond our truck.
A footprint, massive, distinctly shaped, with long toes pressed
deeply into soft earth. It was fresh.
I stared at John, seeing my own fear mirrored in his wide eyes.
Whatever was stalking us had been here moments ago, and it
was far larger than either of us had imagined.
Sunrise had barely breached the horizon when we began breaking
down camp. Neither John nor I spoke much.
Words felt meaningless after the night we'd endured.
The massive footprint by the truck had shattered any illusion
of safety. We'd clung to something
enormous, something beyond explanation was lurking out
here. Every shadow, every rustle now
carried the thread of the unknown.
We packed hastily, throwing gear haphazardly into the back of
John's Tacoma. I kept glancing toward the tree
line, expecting to see that black shape from yesterday
again, massive and still, just watching John fumble with his
keys, his hands trembling slightly as he started the
engine. It coughed to life, and for a
fleeting second I allowed relief to creep into my bones.
But as we rolled onto the overgrown logging Rd. unease
surged again. The path felt narrower, more
twisted than it had on the way in.
The dense forest pressed in from either side, scraping against
the trucks paint. The Tacoma rocked unsteadily
over potholes and fallen branches.
I could feel the tension radiating off John.
It mirrored my own. After 15 tense minutes, John's
voice broke the silence, sharp with alarm.
It's following us. I spun around in my seat,
staring into the mirror. For a terrifying instant, I saw
it. A shadowy figure, massive and
upright, moving steadily among the trees, effortlessly matching
our speed. It wasn't charging, wasn't
running, just moving forward with a steady, relentless pace.
Drive faster, I whispered hoarsely.
The Tacoma lurched forward, suspension groaning as John
navigated increasingly rough terrain.
The narrow trail forced us to slow repeatedly, each delay
ratcheting my anxiety higher. I felt trapped, utterly exposed
on this isolated track. Then John slammed on the brakes.
My body jerked forward painfully against the seat belt.
Ahead, a washed out section of Rd. stretched ominously across
our path, a slick, muddy trench that looked almost impassable.
John hesitated only a second before hitting the accelerator.
The Tacoma surged forward, tires spinning wildly, fighting for
traction in the muck. We slid sideways, mud spraying
up against the windows, the engine roaring defiantly.
Come on, John shouted desperately, steering
frantically to regain control. We made it through, barely.
As we cleared the washout, John glanced over his shoulder again
and froze. I turned, following his gaze, my
blood turning to ice. The creature stood motionless in
the center of the road behind us, clearly visible in the
daylight. Easily 8 feet tall, it loomed
massive and powerful, its body covered in dark, leathery skin
that rippled across thick muscle.
Its stance was hunched slightly, arms long, fingers curled at its
sides. The face.
It was nearly human yet wrong, distorted by a brutish
heaviness, mouth partly open, revealing sharp teeth, eyes deep
set, black, expressionless. Suddenly it lunged forward,
closing the distance between us with terrifying speed.
John screamed something unintelligible, hammering his
foot to the floor. The Tacoma roared in protest as
we accelerated recklessly down the logging Rd. branches
snapping violently against our windshield.
I braced myself, heart pounding wildly as adrenaline surged
through me. Behind us, the figure
disappeared again into the dense foliage, but I felt no relief,
only dread. Every second until we broke from
this oppressive forest felt agonizingly slow.
Finally, ahead, the gate came into view, rusted, crooked and
open exactly as we'd left it. We burst through it, skidding
onto the wider gravel Rd., sunlight spilling brightly
around us. John didn't slow, tearing down
the gravel at reckless speed until the road widened further,
eventually bringing us onto smooth pavement.
Only then did he ease off the gas, knuckles white against the
wheel. Neither of us spoke until we
reached the zigzag Ranger station.
The world seemed unreal now, the mundane bustle of hikers and
campers A surreal contrast to the nightmare we'd escaped.
As we entered the Ranger station, the Forest Service
officer behind the desk glanced up, immediately sensing our
distress. John spilled everything in a
rush. Our remote camp, the bizarre
structures, the footprints, the stalking presence.
I expected skepticism, disbelief, dismissal.
But the Ranger listened carefully, quietly nodding
along. When John finished, he leaned
forward slightly, his expression serious.
You're not the first to come back rattled from that Ridge, he
said slowly, voice low and calm. He stood, opening a drawer and
pulling out a folder, sliding it across the desk toward us.
Inside were blurry photographs, trail Cam stills of something
huge moving among trees, indistinct but unmistakable.
Beneath those were incident reports, encounters dating back
decades. None publicly disclosed that
logging roads been closed since 83.
We stopped going up there, he explained, voice steady yet
wary. The forest has its own ways up
there, things we don't talk about.
As John and I exchanged silent, haunted glances, the Ranger
cleared his throat, eyes and tense.
When you tell people about this, and I know you will, don't say
it's Bigfoot, he said quietly, glancing toward the file.
Just remind them there are still parts of the forest that don't
belong to US, places that never did.
We walked out into the sunlight, leaving the Ranger station
behind, knowing we'd never venture down a forgotten road
again. They call this place the Big
Thicket. It's a name that feels both
grand and understated. For outsiders, it's a spot on a
map of Southeast Texas, a green smudge known for its swampy
reputation and a few local legends about a Wildman of the
woods. They have names for him, of
course. Mossy back, the Saratoga Wildman
campfire stories meant to spook kids and sell T-shirts in the
dusty gas stations on the edge of the preserve.
For the handful of us who work it, who walk its trails and wait
its sloughs every day, those stories are just background
noise, like the wine of the mosquitoes.
The real dangers are the ones you can see, the cottonmouths
coiled on a low hanging branch, a flash flood turning a dry
Creek bed into a torrent, or a tourist who thinks a bottle of
water is enough for a six hour hike in August.
I'm Alistair Boone. For 25 years my office has been
this labyrinth of pine, Cypress and Blackwater.
At 58, I can read the land like most people read the morning
paper. I know the sour smell of a storm
rolling in off the Gulf, the specific Russell in the
undergrowth that means feral hog instead of white tailed deer,
and the precise look in a young ranger's eyes when they're about
to ask me a question I've answered 100 times before.
Hey, Al. I stopped, turning to look at
Ben Carter. He was a good kid, barely 25,
full of an earnest energy that hadn't yet been baked out of him
by the Texas sun. He gestured with his chin toward
a dark patch of woods off the trail.
You ever listen to that podcast, American Wild?
He asked. They did an episode last week.
The Thicket Wildman said a couple claimed they saw him
cross the road just north of here, over by the Saratoga
Lights. I took a long swallow from my
canteen before answering Ben. The Saratoga lights are swamp
gas and the distant headlights from Hwy. 105, and every
sighting of that thing has two common ingredients, cheap beer
and a story that gets better with every telling.
The real monsters out here are the two legged kind, the ones
cooking meth in a clearing or poaching Gators.
Don't waste your energy on fairy tales.
He nodded, though a little of the eager light went out of his
eyes. I didn't mean to be hard on him.
But the thicket demanded a certain pragmatism.
Daydreaming could get you bit, or worse, lost.
The call came an hour later, crackling over the radio as we
were heading back to the station.
A missing hiker, AUT Austin kid named Leo Jimenez, his rental
sedan, had been sitting at the Turkey Creek trailhead for two
days. Turkey Creek is one of the
bigger units, a sprawling, boggy wilderness that can swallow a
person hole if they're not careful.
We found the car easily enough locked.
I peered through the window, my breath fogging the glass.
On the passenger seat, plain as day, was a leather wallet and a
smartphone. A cold knot tightened in my gut.
No hiker, no matter how experienced, leaves their wallet
and phone behind. It felt wrong.
We pushed into the woods. His tent was a quarter mile in,
a small Dome of blue nylon tucked neatly under a stand of
loblolly Pines. But his gear was scattered in a
way that made the hair on my arms stand up.
A pair of expensive binoculars sat on a stump, Dewey in the
morning air. Next to them, a camera with a
telephoto lens that probably cost more than my truck.
Leo was listed as an avid birder.
A birder would sooner leave his own leg behind than his optics.
We followed the main trail deeper, the air growing thick
and humid. About a mile in, we stopped
dead. The trail was gone.
In its place were two enormous water oak trees, one laid over
the other in a near perfect X. They were fresh falls, the
splintered ends of the trunks still pale and wet.
Microburst must have hit here. Ben said, his voice a little
shaky from the effort it was going to take to clear it.
I walked the length of the trunks, my boots sinking into
the soft earth. I ran my hand over the brakes.
No burn marks from a lightning strike, no clean cuts from a
saw. Just raw, splintered wood.
It was strange, the symmetry of it, but I nodded.
Yeah, microburst. Let's get the saw.
It was the only explanation that made sense.
It took us most of the afternoon to clear the path, our sweat
drawing clouds of biting flies. We found nothing else, just a
single hiking sock caught on the Cypress knee of a nearby Slough.
It's bright orange, a jarring slash of color in the endless
green and brown. We called it a day as the sun
began to cast long shadows through the trees.
But I couldn't sleep that night. The image of those binoculars
sitting on the stump, the wallet on the car seat, the perfect
cross of the trees. It was a puzzle with pieces that
didn't fit. Before the sun was even up, I'd
filled a thermos with black coffee, loaded my ATV onto the
trailer, and driven back to Turkey Creek alone.
A nagging instinct I'd learned long ago not to ignore was
pulling me back. I left the truck and rode the
ATV down the now cleared trail, the cool morning air a welcome
relief. As I pushed deeper, a change in
the atmosphere became apparent. It was a creeping stillness, the
usual morning chorus, the chirps of the warblers, the incessant
drone of cicadas warming up for the day.
The croak of bullfrogs from the Bayou was gone.
There was only silence, a thick, heavy blanket of quiet that felt
profound, absolute, and deeply, fundamentally wrong.
I've been in the thicket during freezes and floods, but I had
never experienced a silence this complete.
It was the sound of a world holding its breath.
I strained my ears, hearing nothing but the low hum of my AT
VS engine and the rushing of blood in my own ears.
I rounded a bend in the trail, the same bend where we had spent
hours with the chainsaw yesterday, and I slammed on the
brakes. My heart hammered against my
ribs. The thermos slipped from my numb
fingers and clattered to the floorboard.
The path was blocked. 2 massive trees, freshly fallen, lay
across the trail. They were laid, one over the
other, in a perfect, deliberate, impossible X.
For a long moment I just sat there on the ATV, its engine
silent, the only sound the frantic thumping of my own
heart. The second X formation was a
declaration. My rational mind, the one honed
by 25 years of explaining away shadows, was scrambling for
purchase and finding none. This wasn't a freak weather
event. This was a barrier, a warning.
Anger, hot and sharp, cut through the initial shock.
This was my preserve. I wouldn't be chased out by some
elaborate malicious prank. I jammed the ATV into gear and
wrenched the handlebars, veering off the trail and into the dense
tangle of Yapon and Sweetgum. If someone wanted to play games,
I'd play. I pushed deeper, following a
barely there game trail, the engine whining in protest as it
churned through the damp soil. I was heading into a section of
the Turkey Creek unit that was more swamped than solid ground,
a place where the water, stained black by tannins, never fully
receded. Then the engine sputtered.
It coughed once, a puff of acrid black smoke, and died.
No, no, no, I muttered, turning the key.
The ignition just clicked, a feeble, hopeless sound in the
immense quiet. I was a decent field mechanic,
it was a requirement of the job. I swung my leg off the seat and
unlatched the engine cover. The smell hit me first, the rank
odor of stagnant bog water and decay.
The entire engine block was caked in it.
Thick, black, viscous mud had been packed into every crevice,
shoved around the spark plug wires and smeared over the air
intake. And there, pressed into the
grime on the engine housing, was a handprint.
I stared, my mind refusing to process what my eyes were
seeing. The print was massive, the palm
wider than a dinner plate. The five fingers were long and
thick, and the thumb was set low and wide, almost like a second
opposable digit. It was not the print of a man.
It was not the print of any known animal.
It was a clear, deliberate act of sabotage performed by
something with impossible strength and biology.
I was stranded. As that realization settled, I
noticed the light was failing. The sun had dipped below the
tops of the Cypress trees, and the forest was sinking into a
deep, gloomy twilight. The silence I'd felt earlier
returned, but now it had a weight to it.
Then came a sound from the tree line to my right, a sharp crack,
like a Louisville Slugger striking an oak tree.
I spun around, my hand instinctively going to the
service. Pistol holstered at my hip, I
unclip the strap. My flashlight beam cut a
nervous, trembling path through the dense undergrowth,
illuminating nothing but dripping leaves and twisted
vines. Crack.
This one was behind me, louder, closer.
I was being circled. Then a new sensation began, a
low frequency hum that seemed to generate not in the air, but in
the ground beneath my feet. It vibrated up through the soles
of my boots, a deep resonant thrum that made my teeth ache
and the fluid in my inner ears feel like it was buzzing.
It was disorienting, nauseating. The hum grew in intensity, a
constant oppressive pressure punctuated by the steady
circling reports of snapping wood.
I abandoned the ATV. There was no thought, only a
primal command from the oldest part of my brain.
Run. I plunged into the woods, away
from the sounds, my flashlight beam bouncing wildly ahead of
me. I ran with the desperate, clumsy
energy of prey, my decades of experience dissolving into sheer
panic. My plan was to make it to a Deer
Trail I knew was 1/2 mile north, a path that would lead back
toward the main Park Rd. The hum followed a constant
vibration in my bones. I could hear movement in the
brush, paralleling my own heavy bipedal footfalls squelching in
the mud. It wasn't rushing, it was
keeping pace, staying just at the edge of my vision.
I crashed through a thicket of palmettos and saw the Deer Trail
ahead. Relief surged through me, so
powerful it almost brought me to my knees.
And then I saw the log. A massive water logged Cypress
trunk lay directly across the path.
It hadn't been there a week ago. The ground around it was freshly
disturbed. The mud churned.
It was too large to climb, too long to go around quickly.
My escape route had been cut off.
It was hurting me. I ducked behind a massive
Cypress knee, trying to control my breathing, which was coming
in ragged, painful gasps. I switched off my flashlight.
The darkness was absolute. The hum continued, a constant
madding thrum. Then I heard a sound that
chilled me more than any roar could have.
It was the call of a barred owl, a familiar three note hoot I'd
known my whole life. But it was wrong.
It was too deep, too guttural, and it carried an odd resonant
quality, as if it were being produced in a chest cavity far
too large for any bird. It was a mimicry.
It was telling me it knew the sounds of this place and that it
owned them. I had to move.
I slid down the muddy bank into the black chest deep water of a
Bayou, the cold a violent shock to my system.
The hum vibrated through the water surrounding me.
I pushed off, swimming through the clutching weeds toward the
far bank. Halfway across, I risked a
glance back. For a single horrifying second.
I saw it. On the bank I had just left.
A silhouette stood against the slightly less black background
of the sky. It was colossal, its shoulders
immensely broad. It was standing on 2 legs,
perfectly still, watching me. It wasn't charging, it wasn't
threatening. It was just observing.
Its sheer size was an offense to the natural order.
It was a column of blackness, a hole in the shape of a man
carved out of the night. I scrambled up the opposite
bank, my clothes heavy with water and mud, and ran.
I didn't know where I was going anymore.
I was just running, pushed by a terror so profound it was a
physical force. I burst through a final curtain
of hanging Spanish Moss and stumbled into a small, secluded
clearing. My momentum died.
I stood panting, in the center of a nightmare.
The ground was littered with objects arranged in a way that
suggested a collection. At the center of the clearing
was a sort of den, a semi enclosed structure woven from
massive interlocking branches and river cane.
I swept my failing flashlight beam across the ground.
I saw Leo Jimenez's aluminum hiking pole.
Next to it, half buried in the mud, was a plastic brick that I
recognized as a 1980s era Game Boy.
It's plastic, Gray and corroded. A few feet away lay a single
child's cowboy boot. It's leather cracked and faded.
It was a lair, a midden heap, a trophy room.
A heavy branch snapped at the edge of the clearing.
I raised my light. It emerged from the trees.
It was 8 feet tall, maybe more, and covered in thick matted hair
that dripped with water and was laced with what looked like
green Moss. Its arms were long, its hands
immense, but it was the face that locked the air in my lungs.
The features were not ape like, they were primitive, like a
sketch of an early hominid from a textbook, and its deep set
eyes did not glow with animalistic rage.
They were dark, intelligent, and they fixed on me with a look of
calm, appraising authority. It was not a beast.
It was a Sentinel. This was its place.
My arm came up, seemingly of its own volition.
The pistol felt like a toy. I pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening, a flat, ugly bang that ripped through
the clearing. The creature took a half step
back, it's head tilting with what seemed more like curiosity
than fear. That was all the time I had.
I turned and ran, leaving the light of my flashlight and the
last vestiges of my ordered, rational world behind in the mud
of that terrible clearing. I don't know how long I ran.
There was no thought, no direction, just the rhythmic
pounding of my feet on the wet ground and the searing burn in
my lungs. The forest was a black clawing
maze. Thorns tore at my clothes and
skin, Cypress knees tripped me, but I never stopped.
The hum was gone, the snapping branches had ceased, but the
image of those dark, intelligent eyes was burned onto the back of
my eyelids. The black of the sky eventually
softened to a bruised purple, then a sick grey light filtered
through the canopy, revealing the dripping, indifferent green
of the world I had just survived.
I stumbled through a final wall of vegetation and my feet hit
something hard and flat, an old logging Rd. overgrown with
weeds. I took two more steps and
collapsed, the world dissolving into a vortex of pain and
exhaustion. I woke to the drumming of rain
on a metal roof and the antiseptic smell of a hospital.
Ben was sitting in a chair by the bed.
He looked pale. He told me a search team had
found me on the road, incoherent and suffering from severe
exposure. He also told me a massive
thunderstorm had rolled through right before dawn.
My mind latched onto that. The rain.
It would wash away my tracks, but it wouldn't wash away the
ATV. It wouldn't wash away the lair.
As soon as they released me, I LED A-Team back in.
Garrett, my supervisor, came along, his face a mask of
professional concern. The air was cool and clean after
the storm. The thicket looked freshly
scrubbed. We found the ATV, its wheels
sunk in fresh mud. I strode to it, my heart
hammering, and threw open the engine cover.
It was clean. The mud, the grime, the
handprint, all gone. A few stray leaves were
plastered to the metal, but otherwise it looked as if it had
simply stalled. Garrett glanced at me, one
eyebrow slightly raised. The rain must have washed it
out, Al, he said, his voice gentle.
Too gentle. No, I said, my own voice
sounding thin and reedy. No, it was packed in there.
It couldn't. I pushed on, leading them
through the swamp to the place I was certain was the clearing.
The ground squelched under our boots.
We arrived at a small, unremarkable opening in the
trees. It was empty.
The ground was a mess of mud and flattened vegetation from the
downpour. There was no woven den, no
hiking pole, no child's boot, nothing.
It was just another patch of empty woods.
I walked in frantic circles, my hands shaking.
It was here. The den was right here, His
hiking pole. There were other things.
Garrett put a heavy hand on my shoulder.
Al, you went through a major ordeal.
You were severely dehydrated. Your body temperature was
dangerously low. It can make you see things.
The debriefing was a quiet, humiliating affair in Garrett's
sterile office. I laid it all out, my voice
cracking with the effort of trying to make them believe the
ex formations, the silence, the sabotage, the handprint, the
chase, the lair I showed them, the deep scratches on my arms,
the wild look in my eyes. My official report was typed up.
Garrett read it, his expression unreadable.
The official conclusion was that Senior Ranger Alistair Boone,
under extreme physical and psychological distress during a
high stakes search, had experienced A prolonged and
vivid hallucinatory episode. The missing hiker, Leo Jimenez,
was presumed to have gotten lost and succumbed to the elements.
The search for his body would continue, but with no new leads.
I was reprimanded for losing my service weapon, which was never
found, for deviating from established search protocols,
for filing a fantastical report that risked creating public
panic. They put me on mandatory
administrative leave pending a full psychological evaluation.
I never went back for the evaluation.
I just filled out the paperwork for early retirement. 25 years
of service erased in a single night.
That was six months ago. I don't go outside much anymore.
My little house in Kunce has become a different kind of
station. The living room walls are
covered in maps, topographical maps, satellite images, old
survey charts from the county clerk's office.
Red yarn connects a series of thumbtacks forming a jagged
unofficial boundary deep inside the Turkey Creek unit.
My days are spent in archives and online databases.
I have compiled every missing persons report filed in or near
the Big Thicket for the last 70 years.
There are 12 of them, including Leo Jimenez, a family of three
whose car was found abandoned in 75, a lone duck hunter in 88, a
young couple in 96, all of them officially listed as victims of
accident or misadventure. All of their last known
positions fall within the boundary I have drawn on my
wall. I stare at the map, at the web
of red yarn. The horror is not in the memory
of the creature. The true cold horror is in the
conclusion my broken mind has finally reached the washed out
footprints, the wiped clean engine, the dismantled layer.
It wasn't a panicked beast covering its tracks, it was a
methodical erasure. It's not just one creature, it's
a group, A clan operating with a chilling generational
intelligence. The tree formations weren't a
threat, they were a filter, a way to test for persistence.
The people weren't just killed, they were removed.
They were witnesses who pushed too far, who saw something they
shouldn't have, and who were efficiently and permanently
silenced to protect a secret. The thicket isn't its territory,
it is its fortress, and it is a fortress that has never been
breached. I am a guardian of a truth that
can never be told, a Sentinel for a secret I can only watch
from the outside, trapped in the crushing certainty that no one
will ever, ever believe me. Cades Cove was always our go to
hunting ground, especially in November when muzzle loader
season brought crisp mornings, fewer tourists, and plenty of
whitetail. Shawn, Marcus and I had grown up
around Maryville, TN, hunting and camping together since our
teenage years. We knew the Smokies like our own
backyards, or at least we thought we did.
Whenever we ventured deep, we always left a detailed trail
plan behind, usually with my wife Hannah.
It gave us Peace of Mind, a ritual we never skipped.
But on that cold morning in early November, even a perfect
plan wouldn't be enough. We parked my truck near the
trailhead off Rich Mountain Loop, grabbing our gear quickly.
The forest was thick, the trees stripped bare, their skeletal
branches clawing at a slate Gray sky.
Marcus adjusted his hunting pack, flashing his familiar grin
as we stepped off the pavement and into the leaf littered
silence of the woods. Feel that?
Sean said, breathing deeply, frost forming around his lips.
That's freedom. Marcus laughed, slapping Sean on
the shoulder. Two nights away from
civilization. Finally, we plan to set camp a
few miles beyond the usual hunting trails, following an old
service Rd. Marcus vaguely remembered from
years past. The path quickly turned narrow,
overgrown with briars and deadfall, but our confidence
didn't waver. We pushed deeper until we found
a small clearing near a dried out Creek bed.
It was secluded enough, far off any marked trails, and perfect
for our needs. By late afternoon, we had tents
pitched and a fire crackling. We ate venison jerky and joked
around as the daylight faded, our voices echoing off the
trees. After sunset, the cold grew
fierce, driving us into our sleeping bags earlier than
usual. Lying awake, I listened to the
forest settling, branches cracking and leaves rustling
under nocturnal feet. But it felt familiar, comforting
even. The next morning dawned clear
but frigid. We split up to scout different
ridges, planning to regroup around noon.
Marcus took the northern Ridge alone, following an animal path
he'd spotted earlier. Sean and I moved S,
communicating quietly over radios, spotting signs of deer
but nothing worth chasing yet. When noon came and Marcus didn't
check in, a tinge of worry crept into my mind.
I called him over the radio static.
Sean shrugged it off at first, Probably just stalking something
big. You know how Marcus gets.
But after another hour without contact, worry became dread.
We circled back toward Marcus's intended route, shouting his
name periodically, hoping to catch a response.
Each silence stretched painfully between our calls.
It was Sean who first pointed out the strange tracks.
They were deep depressions in the earth, spaced impossibly far
apart. He knelt down, examining 1
closely, his breath clouding visibly in the chill.
No claws, no paw pads. Sean muttered.
Doesn't look like bear. We continued along Marcus's
path, my stomach tightening as we found more tracks, each print
larger than a human foot but narrower, elongated, pressed
deep into the forest floor. No blood, no torn clothing, no
evidence of struggle. Just those unsettling prints
marking a clear direction. By dusk, fear had replaced our
confusion. We agreed not to split up again,
building our fire high and bright, periodically firing our
muzzle loaders into the night sky as distress signals for
Marcus. Each report cracked sharply
through the frozen air before being swallowed by the dark
woods. Late into the night.
Sean finally drifted into uneasy sleep, but I couldn't close my
eyes. The silence outside the fires
glow felt different now, heavier, sharper, charged with
menace. I strained my eyes toward the
dark line of trees, imagining shapes forming between trunks.
The shadows shifted unnaturally, pulling my focus again and
again, until at last I saw something solid, unmoving.
Directly opposite our campsite. A silhouette stood motionless,
framed by pale moonlight seeping through barren branches.
It was tall, upright, clearly outlined as a figure.
A figure staring right toward our camp.
My throat went dry. Without blinking, I reached
across the fire to shake Sean awake.
By the time he jolted upright and grabbed his flashlight, the
figure had disappeared, swallowed back into the
darkness. Sean scanned the trees but found
nothing. I saw something.
I whispered, heart hammering in my chest.
It was right there. Sean glanced around, cautious
but skeptical. You sure?
I nodded slowly, adrenaline still pulsing.
I knew what I'd seen, but I couldn't name it.
Not human, not animal. Neither of us slept again that
night. We huddled close to the flames,
staring warily into the darkness, listening to the
silence of the forest, now a stranger to us.
Marcus was still missing, and something was out there.
Morning came slowly, as if the cold and tension had thickened
the air itself. My fingers were stiff as I
reloaded the muzzleloader and slipped extra rounds into my
pocket, feeling the weight reassuringly settle.
Sean was quiet, avoiding eye contact, busying himself packing
supplies. Neither of us spoke about the
figure I'd seen. The silence was enough.
It said what neither of us could voice aloud.
We retraced Marcus's route from the previous day, moving slowly
through the brittle underbrush. Sean took the lead, scanning the
ground carefully, checking for any missed signs.
My breath hung in the air, a pale cloud swirling around my
face. As we pushed onward, our radios
crackled periodically with static bursts, taunting us with
useless noise. We found nothing.
No blood, no torn clothing, no struggle.
Marcus had vanished cleanly, as if simply erased.
A strange hopelessness began to settle over me, the kind that
saps strength and dulls focus. I glanced at Sean, noticing his
shoulders slumped in a way I'd never seen before.
He was tired. I was too late in the afternoon.
We reached a spot where a large oak stood alone near a narrow
ravine. Something about it drew my
attention, something off in its outline.
I stepped closer and stared upward.
There, embedded deep into the trunk, was a musket ball.
It gleamed darkly, half buried at least nine feet from the
ground. Sean.
I said, pointing upward, my voice wavering.
Look. He stared silently, his eyes
widening slowly. Marcus wouldn't shoot upward
like that. No, I agreed, feeling nausea
twist my stomach. Not unless he saw something.
We stood beneath that tree, imagining Marcus aiming
desperately upward, firing into something towering above him.
I shivered, though not from cold.
Sean broke our silence first, shaking his head abruptly.
A bear climbing? He offered weekly, but his voice
betrayed doubt. We moved onward, unwilling to
dwell on impossible scenarios. As evening approached, the
shadows grew darker, lengthening until they swallowed the ground
entirely. Sean was jumpy, snapping his
head around at every small rustle.
I couldn't blame him. My pulse quickened at every
snapping twig, every unexpected movement of leaves.
We returned to camp in silence. A small meal of dried jerky and
nuts was eaten hastily, each of us watching the darkness beyond
the fire light. Afterwards, Sean hesitated, his
voice strained. We leave at first light.
He finally said, avoiding my gaze.
Whatever's happening here, Marcus, the tracks, I don't like
it. We're getting out.
I nodded quickly, eager to agree.
Sleep felt impossible, yet exhaustion pulled heavily at my
limbs. Eventually I lay down, fully
dressed, the loaded muzzle loader propped by my side, eyes
fixated on the tent entrance. Hours passed, each one more
oppressive than the last. At some point, my eyes closed
unwillingly, dragged down by fatigue.
Dreams came and went, tangled and formless, until a sudden
sharp noise jolted me awake. I bolted upright, heart racing,
listening intently. Something was moving around the
tent, heavy, deliberate footsteps crunching through the
dead leaves. Sean.
I hissed, reaching out instinctively toward his
sleeping bag, but my hand touched only empty fabric.
Sean was gone. Panic surged through me.
His boots lay beside mine, neatly placed.
His rifle leaned untouched against the tent fabric.
I grabbed my muzzleloader, my hands shaking, adrenaline
clearing my mind instantly unzipping the tent flap with
trembling fingers, I shone my flashlight into the night, it's
narrow beam sweeping erratically through the trees.
Sean. I called louder, my voice
cracking. Silence replied, mocking me.
I stepped outside, my bare feet immediately numb against the
frozen ground. The fire had dwindled to embers,
faintly glowing red. Beyond the circle of dim light
was nothing but darkness, deep and impenetrable.
I felt impossibly exposed, utterly vulnerable, standing
there alone. A low rustle drew my attention
sharply leftward. I raised the muzzle loader, the
flashlight beam quivering as it searched the trees.
My breath came in shallow bursts, each exhale misting
thickly in the air. Another rustle, louder now,
shifting just beyond visibility. Sean.
I shouted again, desperation giving way to terror.
Nothing replied. The woods were empty, mocking my
panic. Then movement, quick, decisive,
barely within the flashlights reach.
Tall and hunched, the figure slipped effortlessly between the
trees. My heart nearly stopped.
Whatever I was looking at was impossibly large, its stride
exaggerated, silent. It moved away, deeper into the
forest, swallowed swiftly by darkness.
Fear took control. I staggered back into the tent,
fingers numb, limbs weak, mind racing.
I zipped it shut, pressing myself into the corner, gripping
the gun until my knuckles ached. I barely breathed, listening
intently for any noise. Steps, breathing, movement,
anything. But the night stayed quiet.
Sean was gone. Just like Marcus.
I was utterly alone, trapped in a place I had once known, now
terrifyingly unfamiliar. And somewhere in the blackness
beyond the tent, I knew something waited patiently.
The faintest hint of dawn seeped through the tent walls, a pale
grey glow that offered no comfort.
I hadn't moved since retreating inside hours earlier, muscles
cramped and aching fingers wrapped tightly around the cold
steel of my rifle. Sean was gone, Marcus was gone,
and whatever had taken them was close, waiting somewhere in the
trees Outside, the silence that followed sunrise felt wrong, too
heavy, unnatural. Slowly, painfully, I forced
myself upright, pulling on boots without bothering to lace them
properly. Grabbing only my weapon and
flashlight, I stepped outside. The campsite was deserted, the
remnants of our fire cold and lifeless.
Sean's rifle leaned untouched against his pack, the silent
evidence chilling me to my bones.
My mind raced with frantic desperation.
I was miles from the main trail, deep in territory that suddenly
seemed foreign and hostile. Without any better plan, I
quickly stuffed a canteen into my jacket pocket and began to
move, leaving everything else behind.
I retraced the path we'd first taken, keeping my pace quick,
eyes darting nervously between the trees.
Within an hour, my panic grew unbearable.
The landmarks that should have guided me were wrong.
The fallen oak was missing the bend in the Creek, Misplaced
trails I knew twisted into unfamiliar roots, looping me
back toward the clearing. Again and again my breaths grew
shallow, each exhale ragged clouds of vapor trailing behind
me in the cold air. Then, slowly at first but
unmistakable, I heard footsteps. Heavy, deliberate shadowing
mine. Each step echoed from the trees
around me, perfectly matching my pace.
I froze, turning sharply, raising the rifle, finger
trembling on the trigger. My voice barely escaped my dry
throat. Who's there?
Nothing moved. Silence surrounded me again, but
I knew I wasn't alone. Something watched, patient and
still, hidden among the thick branches and shadowy trunks.
I pressed onward, breaking into a half run, stumbling over
roots, leaves crunching under foot.
The forest felt alive with movement, each step louder, my
heartbeat pounding deafeningly in my ears.
Ahead, the trees thinned slightly, revealing A faint
glimmer of daylight. Desperate hope surged in my
chest, breaking through the brush.
I burst into a Meadow, breathing hard, tears burning my eyes.
Ahead lay the paved loop Rd. of Cade's Cove, miraculously
familiar, untouched by whatever twisted nightmare I'd left
behind. A distant rumble caught my
attention. A park ranger's truck rounded
the bend, slowly heading away. I sprinted forward, waving my
arms wildly, shouting hoarsely for help.
The brake lights flashed bright red.
The truck slowed and reversed, gravel crunching reassuringly
beneath its tires. The Ranger, a young woman whose
face was blurred through my tears, jumped out immediately.
Are you OK? Her eyes widened as she saw me
clearly. What happened?
Help. I gasped.
Friends missing back there? Something took them.
She ushered me inside the warm cab, handing me a radio.
I gave details nummly. Our campsite, Marcus and Sean's
disappearance, the tracks. But I didn't mention the figure
directly, afraid of sounding insane.
She nodded grimly and called it in, her tone careful and
official. But I noticed the hesitation in
her voice. Hours later, a search began.
Dozens of Rangers and volunteers combed the area for days, but no
trace of Marcus or Sean was ever found.
Eventually, a grim faced Ranger delivered the official news.
The search was suspended due to incoming storms and dropping
temperatures. No clues, no explanations.
My friends were simply gone. Returning home felt hollow.
I avoided mirrors, avoided sleep, avoided darkness.
Weeks passed, but the nightmares remained vivid.
Driven by lingering dread, I eventually returned to Cades
Cove, hoping the familiarity might ease my memories.
Instead, I found myself drawn toward Townsend, to a small,
rundown cabin on the outskirts of town.
An elderly man named Elias, his face weathered and lined,
listened quietly as I recounted my experience.
When I finished, he nodded slowly, eyes shadowed.
You ain't the 1st to see it, he murmured.
Them Woods is old. Something's been there longer
than us, longer even than the Cherokee folks.
Call it. The Stone Man walks upright,
moves silent, hates fire and loud noises.
But once it knows you're there, you ain't safe no more.
He refused to elaborate further, waving me away as though afraid
I'd brought the curse back with me.
I left with more questions than answers, haunted by the truth of
his words. Three years passed.
I quit hunting, moved away from Maryville, tried to forget.
Then, one restless night, scrolling aimlessly online, my
blood ran cold. A hiker had posted a trail Cam
image, grainy and poorly lit, taken near Rich Mountain, our
exact campsite area. My throat tightened painfully as
I stared. There it was unmistakable.
The figure stood tall, emaciated, limbs elongated and
twisted, skin pale beneath coarse patches of dark hair.
It's gaunt features were blurred, distorted by shadow.
But what froze me in place was the object it gripped in one
Bony hand, the rusted, unmistakable barrel of a muzzle
loader. The post disappeared by morning.
The hikers account was deleted, erased as quickly as it
appeared, but the image remained burned into my memory, proof of
something ancient and terrible that still stalked those woods.
I never spoke of it again, knowing now that some places
were never meant to be disturbed.
They call it the Grizzly Lake Loop, a name that's both a
promise and a warning. 53 miles of raw Northern California
wilderness that chews up the unprepared and spits them back
out if they're lucky. The Trinity Alps aren't like the
Sierras, with their granite superhighways and well beaten
paths. The Trinities are a different
beast, a chaotic jumble of crumbling peaks, dense forests
and trails that seem to vanish into thin air.
People get lost here. Sometimes they're never found.
I'm an ER nurse. I thrive on chaos, on bringing
order to the brink of disaster. Maybe that's why I run out here.
The chaos is different. It's pure elemental, and for the
past year I've been preparing to tame it.
To set a new fastest known time on the loop.
Meticulous planning, Grueling training runs, every piece of
gear weighed and tested. This run isn't just about speed,
it's about control. It's my answer to the
relentless, messy reality of my job.
I'm not just here to run the trail.
I'm here to own it. The air at the Long Canyon
trailhead had the cold, clean bite of four.
AMI pulled on my gloves, the fabric stiff in the chill, and
clicked my head lamp on. Its beam cut a perfect,
unwavering circle on the dusty ground.
My pack felt like a part of me. It's 2 liters of electrolyte mix
sloshing softly, the four gels tucked into the front pocket, a
precise calculation of calories and caffeine.
I hit the start button on my GPS watch.
The screen glowed. 0 miles. Time to go.
The first few miles were pure rhythm, the familiar, satisfying
crunch of my shoes on the packed earth, the steady cadence of my
own breathing. The trail climbed relentlessly,
but my legs felt like Pistons, strong and tireless.
I focused on the numbers, the data points that define success.
Heart rate steady at 155 pace a solid minute ahead of my target.
The forest was a black and white film reel in the cone of my
headlamp, the trunks of ponderosa Pines and Douglas firs
flashing past. The only sound was the rush of
the North Fork Trinity River, a constant roar from the Canyon
floor below. This was my element.
This was control. As the sky began to bleed from
inky black to a bruised purple, I switched off the headlamp.
The world resolved itself into color and shape.
The granite peaks to the east caught the first rays of sun,
their jagged edges glowing a fierce, fiery orange.
My confidence surged. I was flying around Mile 10,
cresting a Ridge that dropped towards the dark Stillwater of
Papoose Lake. It happened.
It wasn't a sound, but the absence of it.
One moment the forest was alive with the morning chorus of
Stellar's Jays and the buzz of insects.
The next, it was gone. Total, absolute silence.
Not peaceful, not serene. This was a heavy, suffocating
silence, like the air being sucked out of a room.
The hair on my arms stood up. I stopped, my hands on my knees,
straining my ears. Nothing.
Just the thudding of my own heart.
Then, as slowly as it had vanished, the sound returned.
A single chickadee called out, then another.
The world exhaled. I shook my head, my breath
misting in the air. A strange pocket of cold air, an
inversion, something I had a schedule to keep.
I pushed on. The feeling started as I pushed
deeper into the basin that cradled the feet of Thompson
Peak. This was the remote section, the
part of the trail where seeing another human was a statistical
improbability. It began as a prickle on the
back of my neck, a flicker of movement in my peripheral
vision. I told myself it was a deer, a
bear foraging for manzanita berries, but the feeling was
different. It was the distinct, unnerving
sensation of being paced. I ran, and it was there, a large
presence moving parallel to my position, keeping my exact speed
just inside the dense, shadowy wall of the tree line.
I stopped and the feeling subsided.
The forest was just a forest. I started running again.
Faster this time, and it was back instantly.
The perfect synchronicity was what made it impossible.
A bear would crash through the undergrowth.
A deer would be long gone. This was silent.
It made no sound, snapped. No twigs, displaced, no leaves.
It was a ghost in the shape of something heavy.
I fought down the surge of adrenaline, the primal instinct
to bolt. Panic was inefficient.
Panic. Wasted energy.
I was an athlete. I was in control.
I tried to reason it away, an auditory hallucination brought
on by exertion, my mind playing tricks on me, but it felt too
real. I decided to run a test.
My map showed a steep, faint shortcut, a scree field that
would cut a mile off, a long switch back.
It was a risk, but it would change the geometry of the
situation. It, wood, forest, whatever was
out there to react. I veered off the trail, my shoes
sliding on the loose rock. I scrambled upward, my fingers
digging into the gritty slope. I was halfway up when a shadow
fell over me. I looked up.
A dark shape the size of a microwave oven detached itself
from the stable slope above. It didn't roll or tumble in a
spray of debris. It seemed to slide, a deliberate
silent release. It landed on the path I had been
climbing towards with a flat, final crack that echoed off the
granite walls. Dust plumed up.
I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I looked up at the slope where it had come from.
The surrounding rocks were motionless.
There was no trail of disturbed earth.
It wasn't a natural rock slide. It was a warning.
The shortcut was blocked. My test had been answered, and
in that moment all my confidence, all my meticulous
planning, all my delusions of control unraveled into a single
ice cold certainty. I was being herded, and the hunt
had just begun. The sun dipped below the western
peaks and the world lost its hard edges.
The granite walls of the basin turned from Gray to a deep,
bruised purple. Shadows bled out from the tree
line, swallowing the details of the forest and leaving only
dark, impenetrable shapes. The FKT was a ghost, a foolish
ambition from another lifetime. My new goal was measured in
heartbeats. Get to the next bend, cross the
next Creek. Survive.
I had scrambled back down from the scree field, my hands
shaking, and rejoined the trail. My pace was no longer efficient.
It was frantic. I ran with my head on a swivel,
my eyes darting into the darkening woods.
The silence had returned, but it was different now.
It was a held breath, a pause. Then came the sound.
A sharp, violent crack split the air, echoing from a Cliff face
high above me to my left. It wasn't a rock fall.
It was a single percussive impact, like a high velocity
rifle shot. I flinched, stumbling to a halt.
I scanned the cliffs, but saw nothing.
Seconds later, another crack, this time from the opposite side
of the basin, farther away. My medical mind, trained to find
patterns in chaos, made a connection that turned my blood
to ice. The sounds were too clean, too
deliberate. One point of impact, then
another. A blind patient using a cane to
navigate a hallway, A bat emitting clicks to map a cave.
It was triangulation, echolocation, a way to pinpoint
my exact location in the vast, darkening landscape.
A SOB of pure terror escaped my lips.
This wasn't a mindless beast. It was a hunter, and it was
using the mountains themselves as a weapon.
The chase was on. I abandoned all thought of
energy conservation and ran. My lungs burned a raw, searing
fire in my chest. Lactic acid flooded my quads and
calves, a pain so intense it felt like the muscle was tearing
from the bone, but the fear was a more potent fuel.
It was a cold, clean fire, pushing me onward.
The rhythmic cracking followed me, a terrifying metronome for
my flight. Crack from the Ridge above,
crack from the valley floor below.
It was always there, mapping my progress, a constant reminder
that I was not escaping. I was only running.
As twilight deepened, the trail led me onto a narrow, exposed
Ridge. The ground fell away steeply on
both sides into black, bottomless space.
I slowed my balance. Precarious.
It was here, with nowhere to go but forward or back, that I
risked it. I glanced over my shoulder
against the last faint glow of the western sky.
A shape detached itself from the solid black of the tree line on
the Ridge I had just crossed. It was for less than a second,
but the image was burned onto my retina.
It was tall. It stood on 2 legs.
The shoulders were a solid, impossibly broad block of
darkness. It was not a bear.
It was not a man. It was something other,
something for which my mind had no category.
I snapped my head forward. A strangled gasp caught in my
throat. A trick of the light.
Exhaustion. It had to be.
But I couldn't erase the image. The cracking had stopped.
I realized this with a new jolt of fear.
Why had it lost me? Or was it close enough that it
no longer needed to map my position from a distance ahead?
The main trail switched back down the Ridge, but I saw
another option. A steep drainage filled with
Pines. A dark slash in the side of the
mountain that, according to my mental map, would be a faster,
more direct route out of this high basin.
It was a gamble, but it was my only one.
I broke from the trail, heading for the cover of the trees.
I had taken no more than five steps when a sound from above
made me freeze. It was a soft sliding noise,
followed by a clatter. A shower of small rocks and
pebbles rained down the slope directly in front of me,
peppering the ground at the entrance to the drainage.
It wasn't a landslide. It was a gentle cascade, a
curtain of falling stone just large enough to block my path.
Just enough to be a message. I backed away slowly, my legs
trembling. The path was not my choice.
My direction was not my own. It was not trying to kill me,
not yet. It was hurting me, keeping me on
the trail it had selected. I was a creature in a maze, and
the walls were moving around me. The control I'd felt at dawn was
a bitter joke. I was prey, and my hunter was
patient, intelligent, and utterly, terrifyingly in charge.
Darkness was no longer falling. It had fallen.
The world was gone, replaced by the tight, bouncing tunnel of my
headlamp beam. It was a pathetic spear of light
against an ocean of black. My body was a machine shutting
down, my quad seized with cramps that felt like knots of hot wire
being twisted in my flesh. I stumbled, my ankle turning on
a loose rock, and pitched forward, catching myself on my
hands. The skin on my palms tore.
I didn't feel it. I was beyond simple pain.
Dehydration was a claw in my throat.
My vision blurred at the edges and strange, fleeting shapes
danced in the periphery of my headlamps glow.
I knew they were hallucinations, my brain short circuiting from
exertion and fear, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen
their terror. The cracking sounds had stopped
hours ago. The silence that took their
place was worse. It was an absolute void, a
vacuum that pressed in on me. I kept waiting for the sound
that would end it all, the whisper of movement behind me,
the snap of a twig under a heavy foot.
I was certain it was there, just beyond the light pacing me in
the final stage of its game, waiting for my system to fail
completely. I don't know where the last
surge of energy came from. It wasn't a conscious decision.
It was a primal, animal command from the deepest part of my
brain. Move.
My legs obeyed, wooden and clumsy.
I ran, my gait a broken, lurching thing.
I pushed through a final thicket of furs, branches whipping at my
face, and then I fell out of the trees and onto a flat, wide
surface of packed dirt and gravel.
A fire Rd. The sight of it, a clear
straight line carved by humans, broke something inside me.
The last wire holding my body together snapped.
My legs gave out and I collapsed onto the ground.
A violent full body spasm seized me and I retched, vomiting the
acidic remains of water and electrolyte mix onto the dirt.
I lay there gasping, my cheek pressed against the cold ground,
fully expecting a shadow to fall over me.
This was it, the end of the chase.
Instead, I heard an engine. A low rumble grew steadily
louder. 2 Points of Light appeared down the road, cutting
through the darkness. They resolved into the
headlights of an old pickup truck.
It slowed and stopped a few yards away, its engine idling. 2
doors opened and closed. Two men walked into the beams of
their own headlights. They were older, their faces
deeply lined, wearing faded flannel and jeans.
They didn't rush over. They moved with a slow,
deliberate calm. Easy there, one of them said.
His voice was a low, gravelly rumble.
He wasn't speaking to me, but to the darkness behind me.
They helped me to my feet. My legs wouldn't hold me.
They half carried me to the truck and eased me into the
passenger's seat. One of them pulled a coarse wool
blanket from behind the seat and wrapped it around my shoulders.
He didn't ask what happened. He didn't ask if I was hurt.
He looked at my eyes and he knew the driver got in.
But before he closed the door, he picked up a powerful, heavy
flashlight from the dashboard. He clicked it on and aimed its
bright white beam directly at the tree line where I had
emerged. The light swept back and forth
across the impenetrable wall of black.
You're lucky, he said, his gaze still fixed on the trees.
Something's been clearing the game out of this basin for a
month. We haven't seen a deer or a bear
in weeks. He shut the door and the truck
lurched forward, its tires crunching on the gravel.
As we drove away. I turned in my seat and looked
back For a single heart stopping second, I saw it.
A shape detached itself from the absolute black of the forest
edge. It was massive, its shoulders a
solid, broad silhouette against the lesser dark of the night
sky. It stood motionless, watching us
go. There was no sense of pursuit,
no hint of frustrated anger. It was simply observing our
departure. And in that moment, the final,
most terrible truth settled into my bones.
I hadn't escaped. I hadn't won.
The chase was over because the hunter had ended it.
For reasons I would never understand, I had been tested,
examined, and then discarded. I was a quarry deemed unworthy,
a thing no longer interesting. My survival wasn't my own
victory. It was a whim, and that
knowledge, the chilling realization that my life had
been in the hands of something so powerful and had been spared
out of simple indifference, was a horror that would follow me
long after I left the silence of the Trinity Alps behind.
I used to think my parents place was the epitome of ordinary
cookie cutter neighborhood at the base of some foothills,
complete with a neat little fence and a paved driveway.
But everything shifted once I found that obscure path just off
the Canyon Rd. It's hidden behind a thin screen
of trees, and the sign is either so faded or small that most
people wouldn't notice it even if they were looking.
I stumbled across it thanks to a hunch and a friend's random tip,
and on the day I decided to explore it with a buddy from the
Lost Creek Expeditions. Well, that was the afternoon
everything changed. We parked near the bend in the
road and got out. The chill in the air smelled
like wet earth and leaf rot, which made sense because the
entire slope was drenched in melting snow.
The moment we stepped onto the gravel, 2 sharp cracks echoed
through the trunks. My friend froze, glancing at me
with a did you do that expression.
I shook my head. It was definitely coming from
deeper in the trees, although the idea of random branches
snapping on their own crossed my mind.
I tried to laugh it off, but it felt forced.
It was the first spark of suspicion that something or
someone was aware we had arrived.
The trail itself was a sloppy mess, coated with slush and
fresh mud. Each step made an ugly
squelching noise that shattered any semblance of silence.
The canopy overhead was so thick most of the day's light got
swallowed before it touched the ground.
It was like entering a tunnel of shadows.
We picked our way along carefully, occasionally
slipping. We only made it a few 100 feet
when another pair of cracks rang out, sharper than the ones by
the car. My friend threw me a nervous
smile, and I tried to shrug like it was normal.
On the inside. I was rattled.
The knocks felt deliberate, spaced just right, almost like
signals or warnings. We kept moving, telling each
other we were just being paranoid.
Sure, it's a remote trail. Sure, it looks spooky.
Could be normal forest sounds right?
Except the deeper we went, the heavier the atmosphere became,
like someone had draped a wet blanket over everything.
My friend pointed out how odd it was that we hadn't seen a single
squirrel, bird, or even a random chipmunk.
By this point, I was seriously wondering if we'd wandered into
a section of woods that didn't appreciate visitors.
Eventually, we reached a point where the path leveled off and
we found a small clearing. It was probably the only spot
along that stretch of trail where daylight actually made it
through the branches. My friend wanted to stop for a
snack, so we hunkered down on an old fallen log, only half
focused on the granola bars in our hands.
My ears kept straining to catch even the faintest noise.
That's when a third set of knocks rattled the air from
somewhere up the slope. I remember locking eyes with my
friend. At that moment, there was no
more kidding around. We knew we weren't imagining it.
Despite the growing tension, we decided to wrap up the snack
break and head back. Neither of us openly admitted
being uneasy, but the walk down felt much faster than the hike
up. When we finally made it to the
car, the weird sense of relief washed over me so hard I
actually paused to catch my breath.
My friend and I swapped a few hushed theories, maybe a
woodpecker, maybe trees shifting in the wind, but neither of us
believed it. A knot of dread seemed lodged in
my gut, insisting something else was going on.
I ended up returning to that trail on my own not long after.
It nagged at me constantly. I'd be sitting in the living
room at my folks place, looking out at the ridges and I'd feel
this pole to go back. Every trip was the same slick
ground, murky light, and uncanny hush.
The knocks were still there too, echoing sporadically as if they
were following my progress. My mom eventually tagged along
on one of these outings during a cold, overcast morning.
We didn't talk much until we reached the top third of the
path, where a chain of knocks surrounded us from every
direction. She just raised her eyebrows,
unsettled but pretending she was fine.
Neither of us dared speak above a whisper at first.
We told ourselves it was just the forest after all, nature can
get weird. But as we headed home, the
silence in the car was suffocating.
We both sensed that something far stranger than random tree
sounds lived up there. Even recounting it now, the
memory of those cracks in the distance makes my stomach twist.
Yet I couldn't stay away. Something about that trail
demanded my return, like I'd stumbled onto a secret that
refused to stay hidden even though the experience unsettled
me. I needed to know more.
I needed to find out what was knocking back.
I didn't realize just how deep I'd gotten into this obsession
until the day I ventured up there alone again.
No casual friend in tow, no group.
Just me and the looming wall of silent trees.
I wasn't stupid, I was nervous as hell, but the urge to see if
the knocks would happen again or if something even weirder might
had me lacing up my boots anyway.
So I parked my car at the usual spot and started up the trail
like I had a dozen times before. Barely 10 minutes in, I heard
rustles in the brush, the kind you catch at the corner of your
ear when something big is moving around.
I kept telling myself it could be a deer, but a few minutes
later that notion collapsed when a resounding whoo boomed from
somewhere off to my right. I froze like I'd just been
caught stealing. My heart stuttered, but after a
couple of breathless seconds, I did something probably insane.
I answered back with my own woo. It was more out of adrenaline
than courage, like my brain hadn't gotten the memo that this
was a terrible idea. The response came so fast it
nearly knocked me backward. A vicious, high pitched screech
that shot through the trees. My spine prickled.
The sound wasn't human, yet something about it felt eerily
intentional, like an angry command.
I've been out in the woods enough to know the usual
suspects. Owls, foxes, Hawks.
This wasn't any of those. It was deeper, more layered.
My whole body was shaking, but I forced myself to keep calm,
crouching to make a smaller silhouette in case, God forbid,
whatever was out there saw me as a threat.
I guess I must have sat for a while, but I couldn't tell if it
was one minute or 10 because the whole world got so quiet I could
hear my pulse in my ears. Then this new noise drifted
toward me, something soft at first, like a faint panting, but
it grew louder, heavier, until it felt like the breathing of an
animal with a chest the size of a refrigerator.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Each exhale sounded closer than
the last, though I couldn't pinpoint from which direction.
It was as though the forest itself was breathing, massive
lungs expanding in the shadows around me.
Terror lit up my nerves. My brain reeled with
possibilities. Bear, Mountain Lion, or
something else entirely, But something about the pattern felt
calculated, like it was announcing its presence rather
than creeping up for a kill. Maybe it was trying to scare me
away. If so, it worked.
I stood carefully, heart hammering against my rib cage,
and started moving back downhill, slow enough that I
wouldn't trip on the muddy slope.
The moment I decided to leave, that heavy breathing cut off
like a switch had been flipped. Dead silence again.
There's a twisted kind of relief in being left alone, but it sure
didn't feel like a blessing. More like a threat that could
fire up again anytime. Another time.
Not long after that, I spotted an odd structure near the top of
the trail, under a thick old tree that had been bent and
broken, yet was somehow still clinging to life.
Leaning against its trunk were several sticks, long, sturdy
branches arranged in a triangular shape like a teepee.
I'd read about weird stick structures in online stories,
but always figured they were bushcraft shelters or kids
playing around. This one, though, looked too
deliberate. The sticks had been placed at
angles that locked them together.
No random pile of Deadwood could pull that off.
Against my better judgement, I whipped out my phone and snapped
a few photos. My breath caught in my throat.
There was an unmistakable pressure in the air, like I was
being watched from just outside my field of vision.
You know that feeling when the hairs on your neck stand up?
Multiply that by ten. I hurried back down the trail
faster than I should have, half slipping in the mud, convinced I
might catch a glimpse of something darting through the
trees. The next day I must have been
half out of my mind, because I went up again to see if any
fresh clues were waiting. At first it seemed normal, or as
normal as that place can feel, but once I was near the base of
the trail, I nearly puked when I saw it.
A deer carcass, or what was left of it.
The skull was mostly intact, still attached to part of the
spine, but the legs looked snapped, twisted.
No scattering of fur or signs of a typical animal kill either.
It was like it had been dropped there, right where I couldn't
miss it. A jolt of horror flooded my
system so fast my knees almost buckled.
I remember standing there trying to wrap my head around it when a
single notion took hold. This was left for me because of
the pictures. That was the instant I decided
never to bring a camera up there again.
It felt like crossing a line, as if I disrespected something that
didn't appreciate prying eyes. Word of my experiences must have
gotten around because a friend who was skeptical about the
whole thing pestered me to let him tag along.
We went at dusk, and the knocks started up almost on cue.
By the time we got halfway, a series of sharp clacks echoed so
loudly you'd swear someone was whacking a tree trunk right
beside us. My friends, confidence
evaporated. We walked out of there in a
hurry, each step mirrored by faint crunches in the
undergrowth. Neither of us dared look back.
I made it a personal rule. No more cameras.
No more inviting people to witness it unless they're truly
prepared. The idea that I was treading on
sacred ground, someone else's territory, gnawed at me
constantly. Every time I ventured back, I
felt a swirl of excitement and dread.
Something out there was watching, maybe testing me.
And after that dear skeleton incident, I wasn't eager to push
any further than I had to. I wish I could say I stayed
away, but that would be a lie. It's like this place has a pulse
of its own, and it synced with my curiosity, dragging me back
whenever I try to ignore it. At this point, I know it's only
a matter of time before something big happens, something
impossible to dismiss or rationalize.
Yet part of me keeps coming back for more, in spite of the
warning signs piling up like stacked bones.
And that, I guess, is where caution ends and obsession
begins. I don't know why I kept testing
my luck on that trail, but I guess part of me needed closure.
Something told me the story wasn't finished, so when I heard
about the second structure, it was like an invisible force
tugging me back. The first one, a teepee of
sticks under that warped tree, was shocking enough, but my
friend claimed to have spotted another, bigger construction
further up, near a Grove of aspens that had been bent almost
into an arch. He was nervous about returning,
so I decided to check it out alone.
I still wonder if that was a huge mistake.
Reaching the arch took longer than usual because the trail
felt wetter than ever. Mud sucked at my boots with each
step, like the land was trying to hold me back.
When I finally got there, I noticed the arch wasn't just a
random shape. Long branches had been wedged
crosswise, forming a kind of lattice.
Slabs of fresh Aspen bark draped across the top like roofing
tiles, channelling the rainwater so it ran off in neat rivulets.
It definitely wasn't natural. My chest tightened at the idea
of something with clever hands building that.
The silence felt like it might smother me on the spot.
Even though it scared me, I crouched down to look inside.
It looked barely tall enough for a person on all fours.
Maybe an adult could sit comfortably but not stand.
Either way, it was sturdy. As I stood to leave, I caught a
whiff of something unfamiliar. Earthy, kind of damp and
animalistic, It was enough to make me back away, uneasy that
whatever stayed in there might come home at any moment.
On the return trip, I heard frantic wood knocks from above,
almost like a warning, or maybe a scolding for trespassing.
That's when I glanced up the slope and spotted a silhouette.
At first I assumed it was just a broken trunk.
The shape blended perfectly with the surrounding trees.
Then it glided sideways behind a thicker trunk with such
effortless motion that my head spun.
For several seconds I stood there, trying not to lose it.
The presence of that shape, tall, quiet, and cunning,
twisted my nerves into knots I still haven't worked out.
I might have tried to rationalize it away, except
there were other details I couldn't ignore.
Foot shaped impressions in the muck that vanished like someone
had deliberately erased them. Shredded bark on wide trunks at
heights no average animal would reach.
One of the worst discoveries was 1/2 eaten rabbit's carcass
propped near the path where I couldn't miss it.
I'd walked that spot earlier, and it definitely hadn't been
there before. The notion that someone might be
placing these gruesome finds on purpose made my skin crawl.
Word about my experiences spread among friends, and soon I was
getting messages from people who wanted proof.
Pictures, hair samples, footprints, anything.
I refuse to bring a camera anymore.
Remembering the deer bones from my last attempt, I had zero
desire to push this phenomenon any further than I already had.
That trail still calls to me every time I pass by those
mountain ridges. It's not peaceful, it's far from
it. It feels like stepping onto
ground that belongs to something else, something you sense just
outside your vision. I keep telling folks that no
matter how curious they are, they should think twice before
hunting for cryptic answers. There, curiosity might lead you
straight to a truth you're not ready to handle.
And once you've glimpsed that shape shifting behind the trees
or found those bones laid out for you, you can't pretend it
was just your imagination. You carry it with you forever.
I hopped off the train in Olympia feeling pretty confident
that I could handle whatever lay ahead.
Figured if I could manage the Moody weather and notoriously
fickle schedules of public transit, a few crashing waves in
Westport would be no big deal. Truth be told, I'd been itching
for something new, something unexpected.
Surfing in the cold waters of coastal Washington sounded like
the perfect fix. After a quick cup of cheap
coffee, I stuck out my thumb along the highway and an old
truck eventually pulled over. The driver, a lean man in a
flannel jacket, wasted no time telling me there wasn't much
going on at the shore this time of year.
I laughed it off, but he just shrugged and said some folks
like their solitude a little too much.
The comment hung in the air, weirdly unsettling.
Maybe he was just making conversation, but his words
rattled around my head the rest of the ride.
When we reached Westport, I thanked him and climbed out.
The wind greeted me like a slap, sharp and relentless, carrying
the Tang of salt from the water. After I found a shop willing to
rent me a surfboard for the day, I sprinted straight for the
shore with more excitement than caution.
That was my first mistake. The Pacific in May was nothing
short of frigid, and the wave slammed me like I'd insulted
them personally. Still, I stuck with it, if only
out of stubbornness. By late afternoon, every inch of
me was exhausted. My face stung from the wind, and
my arms felt like heavy weights from paddling.
The thought of a warm bed seemed like wishful thinking at that
point. A local suggested heading South
to Grayland State Park. If I wanted an out of the way
place to crash, pay for a campground or skip the fee by
stealth camping. If I was feeling bold, naturally
bold. One out.
I hitched another short ride down Hwy. 105, noticing how the
trees along the road grew thick and twisted, their branches
leaning over the asphalt as though trying to keep secrets
locked under their canopy. Not that they were towering
giants, far from it, but they formed a continuous tangle that
blocked out a good portion of the sky.
Something about those woods made my mouth feel dry, even though I
couldn't pin down why. Greylin turned out to be nearly
deserted. 1 bulky RV stood near the entrance with its blinds
closed, as if whoever was inside didn't want to see or be seen.
A tent further down looked zipped up for the night, no sign
of movement. The air there felt different,
less briny, more earthy, like damp soil and leaves with a
sharp undertone of marine chill. I decided to scope out the trail
leading to the beach. By then the sun was dipping low,
casting long shadows that danced along the edges of the trees.
The wind pushed me forward, almost urging me to get on with
it. I found a decent spot a short
distance away from the surf, marked by a weirdly shaped rock
and a flimsy post fluttering with a bit of pink ribbon.
I dropped my gear, a battered sleeping bag, ground tarp, and
the wet suit. I hadn't bothered returning yet,
thinking it would be easy enough to find them later.
Before dark truly set in. I headed to the bathroom, hoping
I could charge my phone. No dice.
The overhead light flickered, but the outlets were dead.
No caretaker or Ranger insight. I took a moment to rest against
the concrete wall, listening to the wind wind through the empty
campground. A tiny voice in my mind asked
why nobody else was around. Sure, it was offseason, but it
felt downright abandoned. I lit up a cheap cigar, watching
the last rays of sunlight fade. My nerves buzzed with
anticipation, maybe from the lack of real food, maybe from
that edgy stillness that only comes when a place feels
untouched by casual human presence.
Occasionally I heard the muffled sound of the waves crashing, and
I pretended it was lulling me into a sense of calm, a weak
illusion. Once darkness settled in, I
realized I couldn't stall forever.
I'd have to brave the narrow trail again, guided only by what
little moonlight seeped through the canopy.
My stomach twisted at the prospect of stumbling around
blindly, but I tried to laugh it off.
It's just a half tame strip of coastal forest, I told myself.
What's the worst thing that can happen?
With that, I pushed off the bathrooms damp concrete wall and
started walking, the wind picking up as though it wanted
me to hurry. Everything around me felt on
edge, like the environment itself was waiting for me to
make a wrong move. I had a flash of the driver's
words from earlier. Some folks like their solitude a
bit too much. The phrase made me glance over
my shoulder, scanning the dimly lit campsite.
I didn't spot a soul, but I still couldn't shake the nagging
sense that something beyond my knowledge thrived in that
emptiness. Determined to camp as planned, I
took my first steps into the dark.
Little did I know just how quickly my confidence would
unravel once the trees swallowed me whole.
The second I stepped beyond the tree line, the campground lights
and that tiny thread of comfort they offered vanished behind me.
It was as though I'd walked into a different reality, one where
the wind seemed louder and the darkness felt tangible, like it
had weight. I kept my hands stretched out in
front of me, trying to avoid slamming into a trunk, but my
breath still caught at every near miss.
Each shuffle forward was a calculated gamble.
The path under foot was uneven, and I had zero sense of how far
I'd come. Despite knowing I just had to
continue, WI soon lost all sense of direction.
In theory, if I kept moving, I'd stumble onto the shore
eventually. Instead, I found myself trudging
in circles, spooked by the sensation that the trees were
closing in. My arms brushed rough bark,
tangles of branches snagged my clothing, and the roar of the
wind overhead drowned out any hints that might have helped me
navigate. When I finally emerged from that
labyrinth of twisted foliage, relief flooded me until I
realized the landmarks I'd counted on spotting my weird
rock and that little post with the streamer weren't there.
My eyes darted across the moonlit sand, looking for
anything familiar, but the beach stretched on emptily.
Salt scented gusts lashed against me, making it impossible
to see much of anything. Frustrated, I inched back into
the woods, flipping on my phone screen for a feeble glow.
That light barely reached a few steps ahead, revealing only a
tangle of wet ferns and shadows. At one point, something off in
the distance made a noise, a low, resonant call that rose
above the wind, oddly stretched and loud.
It could have been my mind twisting normal forest sounds
into something ominous, but it sent a surge of alarm through my
body anyway. I told myself it was an owl, or
maybe a coyote, but even I didn't believe it.
It didn't have the trademark Yip or screech.
This was different, a drawn out tone that felt impossible to
ignore. I crept forward, trying to keep
calm, my feet rooted in place whenever I heard a rustle or
detected a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision.
As the seconds dragged on, I noticed a pungent odor, damp and
somehow animalistic. The wind couldn't carry it away
fast enough. It gnawed at the edges of my
thinking, fueling the idea that something far larger than an owl
was lurking beyond my flashlights pitiful radius.
Then I heard the same unnerving sound again, but this time it
reverberated from behind me, closer than before.
It was a low, wavering moan that crescendoed in a way I couldn't
have imagined an ordinary creature producing.
My chest felt tight. With a surge of adrenaline, I
stumbled forward in a desperate attempt to get out of there,
tangling my foot on an exposed route.
My shoulder smacked against a trunk and pain jolted down my
arm, but I refused to stop. My only plan was to keep moving
until I reached the beach or open ground, somewhere I could
see whatever was out there. A short time later, I burst onto
the sand again, breathless and shaking.
My phone's light flickered off, so I was left with only the
faint glow of the moon. The ocean lay in front of me, a
slab of shifting darkness. For a moment, I stood still,
scanning the shoreline. The waves roared, but they
couldn't drown out that faint call echoing in the wind.
Somehow, I knew it was trailing me.
I forced myself to walk along the beach, eyes straining for
that stupid rock, anything to anchor my bearings.
My entire body felt raw, like every nerve ending was ready to
snap. At one point I noticed what
looked like a large shape dart between the trunks at the edge
of the woods, but the swirl of sand and gusts made it
impossible to confirm. If it had been my imagination,
it was doing a damn good job of tormenting me.
After what felt like hours of staggering along the sand, the
rock finally came into view. That stone never looked so
beautiful. My makeshift camp was right
where I'd left it, which meant shelter for the night.
Not much, but better than wandering out in the open.
I sank onto my ground tarp, pressing a hand to my shoulder,
trying to massage away the pain. My lungs still felt like they
were on fire. For a long time I sat there,
straining to catch any hint of the unknown noise.
All I heard was the restless tide and the occasional gust
slicing through the trees. At some point, I dragged my
sleeping bag over me and huddled inside.
Normally I might have drifted off to the hiss of waves, but
fear kept me rigid. Every brush of wind through the
nearby grass made me jump. I couldn't guarantee I was safe,
but at least the open sky gave me a fighting chance to spot
trouble before it reached me. Eventually, the brutal
exhaustion one out my eyes grew heavy, even though my pulse was
still racing. Before I slipped into a restless
doze, I grabbed my pocket knife and laid it beside me, just in
case. The reality of what lurked in
those woods was far from settled, and I had a feeling the
night wasn't ready to let me off easy.
My eyes snapped open at first light, though I couldn't say I
truly slept. The wind had died to a low
whistle, and the morning sky was a dull Gray, casting just enough
light for me to see I was still in one piece.
My shoulder throbbed from last night's collision with that
tree, and my legs ached in a way that told me I'd gone too hard
trying to outrun something I couldn't even see.
Shaking off the lingering fog in my head, I sat up and scanned
the beach. It was eerily quiet.
Normally, sunrise over the Pacific is breathtaking.
Pinkish clouds, golden water. But that morning it felt
subdued, like even the day was hesitant about showing up.
Part of me hoped I'd find solid proof that the terror I'd felt
in those woods was just my own overactive imagination.
Then I noticed something odd near the water's edge.
Impressions in the wet sand. Bigger than I'd expect from any
person walking around. They were spaced too far apart
to be from a casual stroll. My pulse jumped.
They could have been smoothed or warped by the tide, sure, but as
I got closer, I realized they had a vague foot like shape to
them. Elongated, broad.
I crouched down, suddenly aware of how alone I was on that
stretch of beach. My heart pounded harder when I
noticed a line of these prints leading toward the tree line,
exactly where I'd fled last night.
I wanted to dismiss them, blame them on shifting sand or an odd
trick of the current. But the winds howling in my
memory and that unexplainable call I'd heard still weighed on
me. Standing there, cold water
lapping around my ankles, I felt more shaken than ever.
Whatever had prowled those woods might have been right there on
the beach, watching me as I bolted around in the dark.
I hurried back to my makeshift camp and stuffed everything into
my pack. There was no chance I'd linger
another minute in that spot. Every snap of a twig, every gust
of wind behind me made my skin prickle.
Turning my back on that gnarled coastal forest felt both
necessary and dangerous, like something might leap out at me
before I was out of reach. The walk through the trees in
daylight was nowhere near as terrifying as at night, but my
nerves were still on high alert. The occasional shaft of morning
sun revealed just how twisted and close those branches were.
Conifer needles and salt laden air formed a pungent mix that
sat heavy in my lungs. Even then, even with the
sunlight, I couldn't shake the sense that I was being watched.
When I finally reemerged into Grayland's campground, I almost
didn't recognize the place. The single RV was gone.
The site where the couple had been sleeping looked deserted as
well. No people.
No sign they'd ever been there. Maybe they packed up at dawn, or
maybe they were gone long before I even woke.
That chill at the back of my neck prickled again, making me
wonder if I'd imagined the RV in the tent entirely.
I didn't waste time. I hoofed it out to the highway
and flagged down a passing truck, the driver throwing me a
curious look when I practically jumped into the cab.
I mumbled something about needing to get out of Grayland
fast. He didn't press for details and
I didn't offer any. We ended up stopping in a small
coastal town not too far away. There was a diner there,
fluorescent lights buzzing, the scent of bacon and coffee in the
air. I sank into a booth, hands still
shaking as I wrapped them around a steaming mug.
When the waitress asked if I was OK, I managed to half smile and
said something like long night. She nodded like she'd heard it
all before. A couple old timers at the
counter kept glancing over, probably picking up on my
rattled vibe. Eventually I summoned the nerve
to ask them if they'd ever heard weird noises in the grayland
area. Their eyes flickered with a hint
of recognition. One said he'd heard all sorts of
stories, sightings of large ape like figures near the dunes,
strange howls at odd hours. The other shrugged, calling them
tall tales, but his mouth set in a way that said he wasn't
entirely convinced of that. Later, after I'd changed into
dry clothes and recharged my phone, I typed in every search
term I could think of. Greylin screech, Bigfoot calls,
Westport forest noises. The audio clips I found, those
alleged Bigfoot whoops or howls sent a jolt straight through me.
Some had the same weird resonant pitch I'd heard piercing the
wind the night before. My throat went tight just
listening to them. I can't say with 100% certainty
what chased me through those tangled trees, or if anything
literally followed me at all. But when I think back on that
searing cry, on those footprints in the damp sand and on the
acrid smell that clung to the air, I can't deny something was
out there. Something bigger and stranger
than a mere owl or deer. By the time I finally found a
bus back toward Olympia, the morning sun had grown strong,
casting long rays over the highway.
I should have felt more at ease, but I realized I was still
shaking. I kept replaying the night in my
head. If I'd made one wrong move,
taken 1 bad tumble, I might have still been out there, huddled in
the dark with whatever that thing was.
Even now, safe at home and scrolling through Internet
forums, I can't shake the feeling that I glimpsed another
side of that rugged Washington coastline, a side that rarely
meets human eyes. Sure, I walked away rattled, but
I walked away all the same, which is more than I can say for
some folks who've vanished in thick forests and never shown up
again. I didn't get the grand surf
adventure I'd hoped for, and I doubt I'll be heading back to
those dunes anytime soon. Still, that memory of hearing
that unearthly cry slicing through the howling wind, the
trackway in the sand, and the sense of a presence lurking in
the gloom has carved itself into my story forever.
It's a reminder that sometimes, out on the edges of the map,
you're a guest in someone else's realm, and you don't always see
your host until it's far too late.
I remember the heat pressing down like a wait that afternoon,
making every breath feel thick. My friend and I had set out for
a casual hike a few miles from downtown Salt Lake City,
figuring we'd escape the traffic, noise and chaos for a
while. The trail was narrow, weaving
through dense undergrowth that tugged at our clothes, and we
hadn't been walking long before sweat started trickling into our
eyes. We finally stopped in a small
clearing, where clusters of tall furs stood close enough to form
a canopy overhead. I squinted at them, noticing how
some trunks seemed angled against each other, almost like
a teepee. My friend and I tossed around
theories. Maybe campers had dragged them
into that shape, or some weird storm had left them like that.
None of our guesses felt convincing, and something about
the arrangement set my nerves on edge.
We just leaned against fallen logs to rest when a tremendous
crash shattered the stillness. Branches rattled, needles
spiraled down, and I felt a jolt of alarm.
My head snapped toward the noise, eyes searching for the
source. Deep in the undergrowth, I
spotted movement in the gloom of overlapping branches.
A form about 6 feet tall darted through the brush.
It had dark brown hair, patches of lighter fur around its
midsection, then darker again along its legs.
My mind immediately tried to twist it into something
familiar, but the temperature alone made it impossible that
anyone would be trekking around in a heavy outfit.
I called out, my voice tight. Hello, anybody there?
My friend was already on his feet, pushing aside low hanging
branches to get a better look. No response.
It was eerie how fast everything returned to total silence.
We inched forward, scanning the area for footprints or broken
limbs. The only clue we found was a
wide depression in the thick layer of needles.
A single mark, deeper and larger than the shape of my size 11
sandals. We strained our ears, hoping for
a second crash, or at least the sound of something stomping
away. Nothing.
The forest around us seemed emptied of life.
With the hairs on my arms prickling, I tried to
rationalize it, maybe a stray hiker in an odd costume or a
shadow playing tricks on me, but my gut told me we'd crossed
paths with something else. Despite the unease creeping
through my body, we decided to keep moving.
The trail ahead felt safer than lingering in that strange,
silent pocket. I remember glancing back every
few steps, half expecting that hairy figure to appear again.
It never did. But from that moment on, the
simple day hike I'd planned turned into a slow walk with my
senses on high alert, always waiting for another crash in the
undergrowth. Over the next few days, I found
it almost impossible to focus on everyday life.
My mind kept drifting back to that strange figure slipping
through the furs, the odd print in the needles, and the question
of what or who was lurking out there.
Every time I tried to dismiss it, I'd remember how intense
that moment felt and get that uneasy twist in my stomach all
over again. It wasn't something I could
write off as a trick of the light or a fleeting shadow.
Finally, my friend and I agreed we had to head back.
I wasn't about to do it alone, so we brought along two more
people who were up for the challenge.
They were both skeptics at first, rolling their eyes when
we mentioned fur and footprints. But once we described how
massive that impression was and how quickly the figure had
vanished, they got quiet. We stocked up on extra supplies,
strong flashlights, fully charged phones for video, and a
firm resolution that this time we'd be prepared for whatever we
might find. We started early in the morning,
hoping to reach the tree formation before the midday sun
turned the trail into an oven. The four of us hiked in a line,
maneuvering through dense brush like it was some uncharted
terrain. Conversation was minimal.
We'd crack small jokes here and there, but there was this
underlying nervous energy, like we all suspected something was
off and didn't want to jinx it by talking too much.
Eventually we reached the spot where we'd rested on the
previous trip, the clearing with the bizarre teepee
configuration. It looked different somehow,
like the branches had shifted or more had been added.
I couldn't help but wonder if something had returned to
rearrange them. They were large, twisted limbs,
not something you'd expect to be thrown together on a whim.
The silence around us felt thick, like the atmosphere
itself was warning us that this place wasn't ours to linger in.
One of our new companions, Sarah, noticed a cluster of
cracked branches piled in a weird pattern on the ground.
It looked intentional, almost like the start of another
structure. A few steps away, I saw old bark
stripped off a trunk in a way that didn't look natural.
We started taking photos and poking around, trying to see if
there were any signs of footprints in the dirt or new
scuffs on the bark. That's when we caught the faint
sound of movement from up the slope, a shuffle or a shift in
the leaves, low and heavy. We froze as a group, exchanging
glances that held the same anxious thought.
We weren't alone. We aimed our flashlights toward
the dense undergrowth, their beams cutting through shadows.
Nothing, Not even a startled bird fluttering away.
Still, none of us relaxed. We found ourselves whispering,
like we were worried that raising our voices might provoke
something. With that uneasy weight hanging
over us, we headed into a small ravine, the same direction I was
pretty sure our mystery creature had darted before.
My pulse throbbed as the shadows deepened.
The place reeked of damp soil and old foliage, A scent that
somehow felt claustrophobic. It wasn't long before the
daylight started fading. The Canyon walls blocked out a
lot of the afternoon sun, and I realized we'd spent more time in
that area than we'd planned. The thought of getting caught in
near dark conditions while searching for a massive unknown
creature sent a bolt of anxiety through me.
Another half hour of picking our way through thick vegetation and
we collectively decided we tested our luck enough.
We turned around to head back, taking measured steps, all of us
glancing over our shoulders every few seconds.
The undergrowth seemed thicker now, or maybe it was just our
nerves. Every snapped twig felt like an
alarm, each rustle a potential threat waiting just beyond our
sight. But despite the near constant
tension, we never saw a distinct shape or heard anything more
than a stray crack of wood. When we finally reached the
clearer part of the trail, the sun had dipped lower, casting
long shadows that stretched across the ground.
We hurried out, not exactly running but not taking a
leisurely pace either. By the time we got to the
trailhead parking area, nobody was in the mood to talk about
what we'd seen or hadn't seen. We just stood by our cars,
exchanging uneasy glances like we'd all silently agreed there
was definitely something out there, and we weren't sure how
close we'd come to it this time. Driving home, I kept reliving
the moments we'd spent next to that tangle of broken branches,
the silence pressing down on us, and that single, distant noise
that carried just enough heft to remind us we were intruders,
even if we hadn't caught more than a glimpse.
It felt like a step further into a mystery that might be bigger
than anything we were prepared for.
And yet a part of me knew we'd be back.
Because once you sense something that's strange, it's impossible
to just walk away and forget. I couldn't shake the feeling
that we were dancing around the edge of something huge.
After we got home from that second hike, the tension in my
chest wouldn't let up. Every time I tried to sleep, I
pictured the twisted branches, the strange footprints, the
hushed rustle on the slope. Part of me was flat out
terrified, but another part was hooked.
I needed to know what we were dealing with, needed to see it
with my own eyes once and for all.
It took some convincing, OK, borderline begging, but my
friends agreed to go back one last time.
This time, we planned it differently.
No more flirting with sunset. We'd go in early in broad
daylight, do a thorough sweep, and be out before darkness had a
chance to swallow us. We told ourselves that if we
still couldn't find solid answers, we'd accept the mystery
and move on. At least, that was the plan.
We set out at dawn, the rising sun casting warm light on the
dusty trailhead. Even the walk leading up to the
fir forest felt loaded with suspense, like the trees
themselves knew our intentions. The forest canopy was still
thick, though patches of light trickled in, illuminating
swirling dust moats in the early morning air.
It should have felt peaceful, but I was coiled tight with
anticipation. By the time we reached the
teepee like structure, the sun was fully up.
The weird arrangement of logs and branches looked even more
deliberate in daylight. My friend Sarah, who had been so
skeptical before, just stood there shaking her head.
She murmured something about how there was no way this was
natural. It felt more like a constructed
boundary marker than anything random.
We combed the area systematically, marking any
impressions, picking up bits of fur caught on broken branches.
Yeah, fur. Not just a stray tuft here or
there, but enough to notice a pattern.
It was coarse, dark, with lighter tips.
We collected it carefully in small plastic bags, our minds
spinning with possibilities. There was a smell, too, musky,
pungent, like wet dog mixed with rotting leaves.
It made my stomach churn, but it also felt like proof that we
weren't chasing ghosts. Eventually, we descended into
that narrow ravine where we'd heard something moving on the
second trip. It was cooler there, the
sunlight hitting the ground only in scattered patches.
The deeper we went, the more unsettling the atmosphere
became. Giant boulders jutted out at odd
angles, and fallen trees formed natural barricades, like
something had been shaping the path to discourage visitors.
That's when I saw it. Just a flicker of motion from
the corner of my eye. My throat went bone dry.
I raised my hand to signal everyone else to stop.
We stood dead still, every nerve on high alert.
Between two tall furs, partially hidden by a thick screen of
leaves, was a silhouette. Tall, stocky, covered in that
same 2 toned hair. It wasn't running this time, it
was watching us. My heart pounded so hard I could
feel my pulse in my temples. The creature shifted, stepping
forward just enough for me to make out a thick, powerful
frame. I couldn't see its eyes clearly,
but I sensed the tension in its stance.
My friend whispered Oh my God and started fumbling for her
phone, but I gently put my hand on her arm to still her.
Something in the creature's posture told me it wasn't
thrilled to see us yet It wasn't charging either.
It felt like a standoff. Then it made this deep resonant
sound, an almost guttural warning.
The trees around us seem to vibrate with the force of it.
I swear I felt the noise more than heard it, like a low tremor
through the ground. My legs wobbled, a primal
instinct screaming that I was in the presence of something that
could hurt me if it wanted to, but it didn't move closer.
It stared for a long moment, as if weighing whether we posed a
real threat. I raised my arms in a slow, open
gesture, trying to look as non threatening as possible.
My entire body was on the verge of bolting, but I forced myself
to hold my ground. The creature gave a strange
huff, then slid back into the brush, ascending the slope with
a speed and grace that left us standing there, breathless. 1
moment it was there, the next the forest swallowed it whole.
We didn't chase it. I think a few of us realized at
the same time that chasing would be a monumentally bad idea.
Instead, we just stood, gripping one another's arms, marveling
that the standoff had ended without violence.
My brain buzzed with a mix of relief, awe, and lingering fear.
Part of me wished we had some perfect, crystal clear footage
to show the world. Another part knew it was enough
just to have seen it and walked away in one piece.
After a few shaky breaths, we gathered what composure we could
and decided to head back. None of us wanted to press our
luck. On the way down, we found the
courage to talk quietly about what we'd seen.
The footprints, the smell, the fur, and finally that face
almost hidden behind the leaves. It felt like we'd intruded on
another intelligence, something that had staked out its home
here, way too close to civilization for comfort, but
hidden by the thick undergrowth. It was near midday when we
emerged onto the main trail. The sun shone brighter than I'd
expected. The warmth on my shoulder is a
stark reminder that we hadn't been gone long in terms of
hours, yet it felt like we'd lived an entire lifetime in that
ravine. The rest of the hike was silent
except for the rhythmic crunch of our boots and the occasional
shaky laugh whenever someone muttered what just happened at
the parking lot. We regrouped around our cars,
unsaid questions hanging in the air.
We had hair samples and faint phone videos of leaves moving,
but nothing that could truly capture what we experienced.
Honestly, it hardly mattered. We knew we'd touched something
beyond our day-to-day lives, and there was a powerful, almost
sacred finality. And leaving it behind,
undisturbed. By that afternoon, we promised
we'd keep our eyes and ears open for other stories, other signs,
but we all agreed we wouldn't intrude again.
It was like we'd signed an unspoken pact with that forest.
Respect its boundaries, let the creature live as it was meant
to. And maybe, just maybe, it would
keep granting us safe passage. I haven't been back since, but I
can't say I won't ever go. The memory still lingers in the
back of my mind, especially when I'm alone at night.
Every now and then I relive that moment of eye contact, if you
can call it that, and wonder if it might happen again.
Strange as it sounds, there's a small part of me that hopes it
does. Because for one brief moment,
fear and fascination collided, and I realized there are still
corners of our world that remain wild, vast, and deeply
mysterious. I grew up on a stretch of land
tucked behind Rattlesnake Ridge, an expanse of farmland and
forest that stretched farther than my young eyes could
measure. For most of my childhood, it
felt like my personal playground.
My older brother and I spent countless afternoons chasing
each other across the fields, and if we wanted a change of
pace, we'd wander down to this cluster of thin Alder trees off
the lower pasture. The trunks were so flexible that
you could climb halfway up, then lean forward and ride them back
down like a giant springboard. It was a thrill, branches
snapping beneath us, the ground rushing up, both of us whooping
with excitement. That was our world.
Wide open, full of life and possibility. 1 Autumn day,
everything changed. I remember the bite of the crisp
air, the hint of damp Moss as we hiked the gentle slope toward
our favorite bendy alders. The two of us were already knee
deep in mud by the time we reached them, eager for the
adrenaline we got from swaying to the ground.
Snap, crash. Just normal everyday noises that
went along with our games. We knew what breaking branches
sounded like. Small twigs made a quick pop.
Thicker ones created this deeper crack.
It never scared us, not until we heard something that shouldn't
have been there. We just finished a round of our
makeshift tree surfing when a different kind of snapping
started echoing through the Grove.
Louder, heavier, It cut through the air.
With a foresight never experienced, my brother glanced
at me, his smile twisting into alarm, and I realized he heard
it too. We both froze.
The cracking sounds kept rolling in, growing louder with each
second, as if logs two or three times thicker than the ones we
were playing on were being torn apart.
I tried to make sense of it. We knew the rumble of bulldozers
and tractors. Our dad worked those machines
all the time. But this was different, like
some massive presence was crushing trunks under foot.
It felt too random, too wild for any piece of equipment.
The worst part was, we couldn't see the source of the noise.
The trees formed a wall of leafy shadows around us, and beyond
that everything felt eerily dim. Suddenly, it all stopped.
Not gradually. One second it was there, the
next it was dead quiet. We were left standing with our
breath ragged, our heads craned, scanning the altars for a
glimpse of whatever was out there.
A cold prickle of dread coiled in my gut.
The land we knew so well felt strange and unwelcoming, like
something dangerous was lurking just beyond our sight.
My brother started to whisper something, maybe to tell me to
head back, when a roar or a howl I don't even know how to label
it ripped through the silence. It was so powerful I could
practically feel it in my chest. Every hair on my neck prickled
and my legs seem to move on their own, stumbling backward
away from the tree line. My brother was right beside me,
muttering words under his breath that I couldn't make out.
We didn't linger to see if the creature, if that's what it was,
would step into view. We tore up that slope, sliding
on loose gravel, nearly colliding with each other in our
haste. I remember the metallic taste of
adrenaline in my mouth. When we reached the house, we
barged in through the back door, panting so hard it took a minute
to speak. Our mom stood there alarmed, but
as soon as we tried to explain, babbling about snapping trees
and an impossible roar, her face softened into a look I
recognized all too well. Disbelief.
Probably a bear, she said. Or you 2 just got yourselves
worked up. No matter how hard we insisted,
it was bigger, louder, more frightening than any bear she
wouldn't budget. She told us to clean off our
muddy shoes and go about our day.
That night, though, I could barely settle into my bed.
Every time I closed my eyes, my thoughts wandered back to the
moment that relentless crashing fell silent and how an unearthly
roar seemed to RIP through the air.
The lower pasture, the place that had once felt like our
personal amusement park, now felt like a different realm all
together. I wanted to forget it, chalk it
up to an overactive imagination, but I couldn't push it from my
mind. Later, I'd have to start waking
up before dawn to feed our cattle down near those same
alders. It was a chore I used to do with
ease, no flashlight needed, comfortable in my own backyard
after what happened, I found myself standing at the door each
morning, heart pounding as I peered outside at the black
silhouettes of the trees. The thought of crossing that
stretch of land made me shiver. I'd force myself to go, but
every crunch of a leaf would raise the hairs on my arms.
That roar played on a loop in my head.
I should have known it was only the beginning.
There was more to that roar than just a single terrifying
afternoon. Deep down, a part of me sense
that whatever lurked in the Alder Grove wasn't finished
leaving its mark on our property or on me.
It had been a few weeks since that day in the Alder Grove, and
I was still on edge. During daylight, I managed to
keep most of the worry tucked away, but once the sun dipped
below the ridgeline, all bets were off.
Sleeping became a nightly struggle.
Every snapping twig outside turned my thoughts back to
whatever had roared at us. My parents stuck to their theory
that it was just a confused bear, though I think they
noticed how tense I was each time I had to walk down to the
barn. They offered no real comfort
beyond that life on a farm meant chores didn't stop, fear or not,
One evening, exhaustion finally got the better of me.
I'd spent hours chasing down a stray calf and was yawning by
dusk. I remember collapsing onto my
bed, half dressed, drifting in and out of sleep while a slice
of moonlight cut across the bedroom floor.
It must have been nearly two in the morning when I stirred,
aware of my flip clocks faint glow.
The display read 145, those bright illuminated numbers
casting a hazy light around the room.
My eyes were gritty with fatigue, but nature was calling,
so I swung my feet over the edge of the mattress.
That was when I happened to glance at the window.
At first, I saw just the road. We'd cleared a few trees near
the house the previous summer, so I had an unobstructed view of
the dirt path heading downhill. The moon was full and high,
bathing everything in a faint silver tone.
I blinked, trying to decide if my mind was playing tricks,
because off to the right, near the tree line, there was
something moving. It stepped into clearer view,
Tall, broad, and unlike any person I'd ever seen.
Even at night I could make out the dark shape of towering
shoulders. Its head looked proportionately
big, though I couldn't see details.
The fence down there was about 5 feet tall, yet the figures torso
hovered well above it. I froze, watching as it took two
strides across the road. That's how I knew it wasn't
human. No one could cross that span so
quickly, let alone look so massive in the process.
There was an unsettling grace to its movements, like it could
glide without effort. My thoughts drifted back to that
explosive roar in the Alder Grove, and a jolt of dread
coursed through me. I realized it might be the same
thing, Some unknown creature roaming our land, crossing the
pasture under the moon's gaze. Any hope that I'd imagined
everything before evaporated in that moment.
Panicking, I reached over to flip my clock face down, afraid
that even that mild glow might give away my presence.
Then I inched myself lower on the mattress, doing my best to
slip out of view. Every breath felt like it echoed
through the entire room. 1000 questions tore through my mind.
Would it come closer? Could it peer into my window if
it wanted to? I had never felt so vulnerable,
pressed into the creaking springs of my own bed.
Outside, the figure vanished behind the angled slope of the
hill. I lay there in the darkness,
unmoving, praying it would keep going.
My heart pounded against my rib cage and each passing 2nd
crawled by. I considered jumping up to close
the curtains, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.
Too risky. After a while, silence settled
back in, broken only by the croak of a frog somewhere near
the stream. Still, I stayed pinned in place.
The urge to flee or scream battled with the instinct to
remain absolutely still. Dawn eventually sneaked in
through the window, orange light stretching across the floor.
Only then did I dare to move. My body ached from being tensed
all night, and my eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep.
No matter how hard I tried to rationalize it, I couldn't
dismiss what I'd witnessed. Whatever I'd seen was real, and
it was big. I had no doubt it was connected
to the ruckus in the Aldergrove. Part of me wanted to warn
everyone, shout that we needed to barricade the house, but I
also knew my parents would just shake their heads.
My brother might believe me, he'd heard that roar too, but I
wasn't sure how much more I could say before sounding
hysterical. That morning, the chore list was
waiting for me, as usual. Pinned to the fridge, I had no
choice but to head outside again, the memory of that giant
silhouette still etched in my mind.
The world felt just a little less secure, and I realized with
growing unease that I might never view our farm the same way
again. The morning after I spotted that
silhouette outside my window, I tried one last time to convince
my parents. Something far bigger than any
bear roamed our property. My mother cut me off with a
patient smile, telling me to worry less about monsters and
more about my chores. My dad, equally skeptical,
suggested I pack some pepper spray if I was so nervous it was
madding. Only my older brother believed
me, and that was mostly because he'd been there in the
Aldergrove when the forest erupted with that terrifying
roar. Even then, I sensed a flicker of
doubt in his eyes, like he wondered if maybe I was over
hyping the night time sighting. Still, I couldn't let it go.
Every trip to the barn, every trek to the far pasture, I found
myself scanning the tree line for anything out of place.
At night I'd lie awake listening for heavy footsteps or another
earth shaking roar. Sleep became rare.
Each day I was more convinced our land wasn't ours alone.
When my brother finally admitted he was tired of tossing and
turning himself, we made a pact to figure it out, or at least
confront whatever was lurking. We waited until the moon rose
high again, just shy of full under the cover of darkness.
We snuck out of the house with a flashlight and a hand me down
camera. We agreed to stake out the edge
of the property line near the dirt Rd. where I'd last seen
that colossal figure. The night was cold enough to
sting our lungs when we breathed, and the air felt heavy
with apprehension. Beyond the faint ring of our
flashlights beam, the world was a black canvas.
Even the barn, usually a comforting sight, looked like a
looming shape of wooden slats and rusted metal.
At first we heard only the hum of crickets and an occasional
distant shuffle from the cattle. Then a low, resonant thump
reached our ears. It sounded like something
incredibly large was maneuvering through the undergrowth,
branches scratching together in the dark.
We tensed, gripping each other's arms for support.
The cattle started to move restlessly in their pen, letting
out anxious moves as though sensing a nearby threat.
Suddenly, a roar shattered the silence, very much like the one
we'd heard weeks ago. It reverberated through my rib
cage, urgent and furious. My brother fumble with the
flashlight, nearly dropping it in that half second of wild,
swinging light. I spotted a hulking outline at
the far end of the pasture, partially masked by shadow.
Before we could get a better look, the roar came again.
It wasn't closing in. It felt more like a warning.
My brother yanked me backward and we sprinted for the house.
My feet barely registered the ground.
I expected to feel hot breath at my back or sense the pounding of
massive footsteps behind us, but that didn't happen.
Once we reached the porch, we dared to glance over our
shoulders. The pasture lay still and dark,
the cattle jittery but not in full panic.
The creature, if it had followed it all, had melted back into the
night. The next day, our parents noted
how rattled we looked, but no miraculous conversion happened.
Still, the two of us had our proof.
At least in our own minds, we knew something had chosen our
property as part of its domain. I asked myself if we should call
the police, or maybe some wildlife official, but all I had
was a murky outline and a roar that defied any normal
explanation. In the end, we settled into an
unspoken deal. We'd be more careful, move
quietly around the lower fields and leave it to its own
territory. Over time, the nights became
calmer for us. I never forgot the heft of that
roar or the powerful shape that left me trembling, but it seemed
content to keep its distance if we kept ours.
I like to think our land holds more than meets the eye, a slice
of raw wilderness where man doesn't fully reign.
Sometimes I still wonder if I should have fought harder for
the world to believe my story. Then again, maybe this strange
truce was exactly what let life go on, and that was enough for
me. I took a deep breath, feeling
the cool fresh air of the forest fill my lungs.
There was nothing like it. The Pacific Northwest was my
favorite place to get away from everything.
No people, no noise, just the green forest all around me.
The tall trees, thick Moss, and sunlight shining through the
branches made me feel like I was stepping into another world.
I've done a lot of solo trips, but this one felt different
somehow. I couldn't quite figure out why.
Getting ready for these trips is always a careful process.
I had my camera lenses, extra batteries, camping gear, and
enough food for a week. I double checked everything
before heading into the deep woods.
There was no room for mistakes out here.
Once I was sure everything was ready, I lifted my heavy pack
over my shoulder, feeling the familiar weight.
It made me smile, a reminder that I was ready for whatever
adventure lay ahead. The forest was amazing.
The air was so fresh it almost made me dizzy, and the earthy
smell of Moss and fallen leaves wrapped around me like a
blanket. I walked for hours, soaking in
the beauty of the place. The light shifted as the sun
moved higher, casting golden beams between the trees.
Eventually I found the perfect spot to set up camp, near a
gentle stream that bubbled over smooth rocks.
I could already tell it was going to be peaceful.
I pitched my tent and set up a small fire pit, ready to spend
the evening listening to the sounds of the forest as the sun
began to sink below the horizon. I sat by the fire, eating a
simple dinner. The woods around me seemed to
darken quickly, the shadows stretching out like fingers.
I've always loved the quiet of the wilderness at night, but
tonight something was different. The usual rustling of small
animals and the chirping of insects.
All of it faded until there was nothing but silence.
It wasn't the kind of silence that made you feel calm.
No, this silence was heavy, almost like the forest was
holding its breath. I shook it off, telling myself
it was just my imagination. I'd been out in the woods many
times, and I'd felt uneasy before.
It was probably just the darkness playing tricks on me.
I crawled into my tent, zipped up the flap, and tried to get
comfortable in my sleeping bag. But even as I closed my eyes,
the strange stillness kept me on edge.
I don't know how long I'd been lying there, half awake, when I
heard it. A howl, low, deep, and so far
off it almost didn't sound real. My eyes snapped open and I held
my breath, listening. The sound echoed through the
trees, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
It wasn't like any animal I'd heard before.
It wasn't a wolf or a coyote. It was something else, something
that made my stomach twist with fear.
I told myself it could be anything, maybe just the wind or
some animal I didn't know, but deep down I knew that wasn't it.
The howl came again, a bit closer this time, and I felt my
heart start to pound. I sat up, peering out through
the small mesh window of my tent.
I could smell a strong, musty odor, like a wet dog times 10.
The forest was pitch black, the fire now just a pile of glowing
embers. I could see nothing beyond the
dim light. They cast another howl, this one
even closer, echoed through the woods.
It was deep, almost like it was vibrating through the ground.
I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing.
I wasn't used to feeling scared out here.
The forest was my home, away from home.
But right now it felt different, like I was somewhere I didn't
belong. I stayed awake for hours,
listening, waiting. But the howls eventually
stopped, replaced by that same heavy silence.
It was almost worse not knowing if whatever made that sound was
still out there, hidden in the dark.
I didn't sleep much that night. Every creak of a branch or
rustle of leaves made me tense up, my ears straining to catch
the slightest noise. Whatever was out there, I had
the feeling it wasn't just passing through.
And as I lay there, staring up at the dark ceiling of my tent,
I couldn't shake the sense that I was being watched.
The howls from last night were still fresh in my mind as I
crawled out of my tent in the early morning light.
The sun barely peeked over the treetops, and everything around
me looked washed out and Gray. I tried to convince myself that
what I heard had been nothing more than my imagination or some
strange animal call. But even as I packed up my gear
for the day, the memory of that deep, echoing sound made my
hands shake. I spent the morning hiking
through the woods, trying to focus on capturing the beauty of
the forest with my camera. I photographed the sunlight
filtering through the leaves, the dewdrops glistening on
ferns, and even a curious squirrel that scampered close
enough for a picture. But no matter what I did, I
couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had settled in my
chest. It was like something was
watching me just out of sight, hiding in the shadows between
the trees. By the time the sun started to
dip again, I was back at my camp.
The quiet of the forest was heavy, almost like it had been
last night. The stream nearby bubbled
softly, but even that sound seemed muted, as if the whole
forest was holding its breath. I tried to distract myself by
making dinner, beans and rice, nothing fancy, but my eyes kept
darting to the tree line. Every shadow seemed to move,
every flicker of light made me jump.
As night fell, I built up the fire, hoping the flickering
flames would chase away my fear. I sat close to it, feeling the
warmth on my face, but that strange silence returned.
The usual noises of the forest, the chirps, the rustles, the
soft scurrying of small animals, all seemed to vanish again.
I couldn't help but feel like the forest itself was warning
me. Then, just like the night
before, I heard it. Footsteps, Heavy, deliberate and
close. My heart skipped a beat.
And I grabbed my flashlight, flicking it on with trembling
fingers. The beam cut through the
darkness, but all I could see were the trees and shadows.
The footsteps continued, slow and steady, circling my camp.
They were close enough that I could feel the vibrations in the
ground. I shined the light around
frantically, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was out
there. For a split second, I saw
something, a flash of movement at the edge of the light.
My breath caught in my throat as I saw eyes glowing like embers,
staring at me from the darkness. They were large, higher up than
they should have been for any normal animal, and they were
watching me. Panic gripped me.
I didn't know what to do. I called out, my voice shaky.
Who's there? There was no answer, just the
heavy footsteps continuing to circle.
I stood up, the flashlight beam bouncing wildly as I turned in
every direction, trying to keep the creature insight, but it
stayed just out of reach, always at the edge, always in the
shadows. The night felt endless.
I stayed by the fire, clutching the flashlight until my hand
ached. Every time I thought the
footsteps had stopped, they would start again, slow and
deliberate, as if to remind me that I wasn't alone.
My eyes burned from exhaustion, but I couldn't sleep.
I was too afraid to even close my eyes.
By the time dawn finally broke, the footsteps had faded away,
leaving only the heavy silence behind.
I stepped out of my tent, my whole body aching from tension
and lack of sleep. The first thing I saw were the
tracks. Huge footprints pressed deep
into the ground, circling my camp.
Claw marks gouged into the nearby trees, marks that were
far too big to belong to any animal I knew.
A chill ran down my neck as I looked around.
I knew I couldn't stay here. Whatever was out there, it
wasn't just curious. It was watching me, following
me, and I had the sinking feeling that if I didn't leave
soon, it would do more than just watch.
I had to get out before it was too late.
I knew I had to leave. There was no question about it
anymore. The footprints, the claw marks,
the way the footsteps had circled my camp all night, it
was clear that whatever was out there was not going to let me
be. My hands shook as I hurried to
pack up my gear. I had never packed so fast in my
life. Every moment I stayed here felt
like a risk, like I was being hunted.
I could feel the silence of the forest pressing down on me,
thicker than ever before. Even the gentle murmur of the
stream nearby had gone quiet. It was as if the whole forest
knew what was happening, and it was holding its breath, waiting
to see what I would do. My heart pounded as I slung my
pack over my shoulder, my eyes darting from shadow to shadow,
always expecting to see something step out from between
the trees. I started my trek back, my legs
moving quickly despite the weight of my pack.
I tried to focus on the path ahead, but I couldn't shake the
feeling that I was being watched.
My instincts screamed at me to move faster, but I knew I
couldn't afford to lose my way. In my panic, I forced myself to
breathe, to stay calm, but it was hard when every sound of
leaves moving, every breaking of a twig made my heart jump.
I hadn't gone far when I heard it, a sudden loud crash behind
me. I spun around, my heart
pounding, and saw the trees swaying violently, as if
something massive had just pushed through them.
I didn't wait to see what it was.
I ran. My feet pounded the forest
floor, my breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Branches whipped at my face and arms, and the weight of my pack
made every step feel like a struggle, but I couldn't stop.
I could hear it behind me, the heavy, crashing footsteps, the
deep, guttural growls that sent chills down my spine.
It was close, too close. I could almost feel its
presence, like a dark shadow looming over me.
I didn't dare look back. I focused on the path ahead,
dodging trees, leaping over roots, trying to put as much
distance between myself and whatever was chasing me.
The forest seemed to close in around me, the trees blurring
together as I ran. My lungs burned, my legs ached,
but I kept going. I had to.
I couldn't let it catch me. Suddenly, the ground beneath me
gave way. I stumbled, my foot slipping on
the edge of a steep ravine I hadn't seen.
In my panic, I fell hard, the world spinning around me as I
tumbled down the slope. I hit the ground with a thud,
the air knocked out of my lungs. For a moment, everything was a
blur of pain and dizziness. I struggled to my feet, my whole
body aching. The ravine was deep, and I was
lucky I hadn't broken anything, but I didn't have time to think
about that. I looked up, my eyes widening as
I saw the shadowy Bigfoot figure standing at the edge of the
ravine, its glowing eyes locked on me.
It was huge, at least nine feet tall, its fur dark and matted.
It let out a roar that echoed through the forest, a sound so
deep and powerful that it shook me to my core.
But then, to my surprise, it stopped.
It stood there, staring down at me, its eyes burning like
embers. For a moment, it was as if we
were locked in a silent standoff.
I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, my breaths coming
in shaky gasps. The creature let out a deep,
rumbling growl, then slowly stepped back, disappearing into
the shadows of the forest. There was an intense, musty
smell after that made my eyes water.
I didn't wait to see if it would change its mind.
I turned and ran again, my legs barely holding me up as I
scrambled away from the ravine. My car wasn't far now.
I could see the edge of the forest, the glint of sunlight
reflecting off the metal. I stumbled towards it, my heart
pounding with desperation. I reached the car, fumbling with
the keys as my hands shook. I threw open the door, jumped
in, and slammed it shut behind me.
My breaths came in ragged gasps as I started the engine, my eyes
darting to the tree line, half expecting to see those glowing
eyes again. But the forest was still, the
shadows deep and quiet. I drove away, my hands gripping
the wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.
The road blurred beneath me as I speed away, the forest slowly
fading into the distance. The terror lingered, a
heavyweight in my chest. I knew I had escaped, but I also
knew that I would never forget what I had seen.
Some places, I realized, we're meant to stay wild and
untouched, places that guarded their secrets with a primal,
terrifying force. And I had been lucky to get
away. I don't plan on going into those
woods again. The Appalachian Mountains were
beautiful, no doubt about that. When the sunset behind those
tall peaks, everything seemed to glow in shades of orange and
pink. It almost made me forget how
eerie the forest could be when the night settled in.
Almost. I was Jake, just a college kid
spending my summer working as a camp counselor.
It was my job tonight to keep watch while everyone else slept
in their cabins. I took the night watch shift
because, well, I wanted to prove I could handle it.
Plus, it was kind of boring to sit around the campfire all the
time. I thought it might be nice to
have some quiet out in the woods, just me and my
flashlight. Boy was I wrong.
The first hour was fine. I walked around the edge of the
camp, my flashlight swinging side to side, making the trees
look like dark, shifting giants. I could hear the crickets
singing and sometimes an owl would hoot in the distance.
The camp was peaceful, and I kept thinking back to all the
goofy things the campers did earlier that day.
One kid, Benny, tried to toast a marshmallow without a stick and
almost set his sleeve on fire. I laughed to myself, shaking my
head. But then things started to get
strange. It started with a rustling
sound. At first I figured it was just
the wind moving through the branches, but it kept happening,
like something was moving out there, just beyond the reach of
my flashlight. I stopped walking, trying to
listen closely. The air felt different, like it
was holding its breath. I told myself it was probably
just a raccoon, or maybe one of the campers sneaking around for
a prank, but my gut told me something else.
Something wasn't right. The rustling grew louder, and
then I heard it. A branch snapping.
It wasn't the kind of noise a small animal would make.
It was louder, heavier. Like someone or something was
out there. I swallowed hard, my mouth
suddenly dry. My flashlight flickered and I
cursed under my breath, giving it a quick shake.
The beam steadied, but my hands were trembling now.
I tried to keep moving, but the feeling of unease grew with
every step. My ears strained to catch every
sound. And then I heard it.
Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate footsteps
circling the camp. My heart started to pound in my
chest, each thud echoing in my ears.
I spun around, shining my flashlight into the darkness,
but there was nothing there. Just trees and shadows.
Then came the worst part. I heard a breath, a deep, raspy
breath coming from right behind me.
I whipped around so fast I almost tripped over my own feet,
but when I looked, there was nothing.
Only the empty darkness and the beam of my flashlight cutting
through it. I felt my stomach twist with
fear. I wasn't alone, I could feel it
in my bones. My eyes dropped to the ground,
and that's when I saw them. Footprints, big clawed
footprints pressed into the dirt right in front of me.
They definitely weren't from any animal I knew.
My heart was hammering now, my whole body buzzing with fear.
I had to get back to the main cabin.
I had to tell someone, but every step I took felt like the forest
was closing in on me, the trees leaning closer, the shadows
growing darker. Suddenly I heard branches
snapping again, this time louder, closer.
The footsteps were following me. My breathing quickened and I
forced myself to move faster, almost tripping over roots and
rocks in my rush. I could feel the eyes on me,
watching, waiting. Whatever it was, it was out
there, and it was getting closer.
The silence of the night had turned into something
threatening, something that made my skin crawl.
I knew I had to make it back to the cabin, but fear was like a
weight on my shoulders, slowing me down.
I could hear the breathing again, the heavy, deep breaths
of something that didn't belong here.
I took one last look over my shoulder, and in the moonlight I
saw the shadows shift, something moving between the trees.
I didn't wait to see more. I turned and ran, the sounds of
snapping branches and heavy footsteps following me as I
sprinted towards the cabin, my heart pounding, fear driving me
forward. Whatever was out there, I knew
one thing for sure. This night was far from over.
I ran. I ran like I never had before,
my feet pounding against the dirt, my flashlight bouncing in
my hand. The shadows around me seemed to
come alive, shifting and twisting with every step I took.
My heart was hammering so loudly it drowned out everything else.
I didn't care if I tripped or if I lost my way.
I just had to get away from whatever was out there.
The footsteps behind me we're getting louder, and I could feel
the panic rising in my chest. Each thud was heavier, more
deliberate, like whoever or whatever was chasing me knew
exactly where I was going. My lungs burned as I gasped for
air, my eyes darting around, trying to make out anything in
the darkness that would give me a clue about where to go.
I had to get to the Ranger station.
That was my only chance. I turned off the main path,
crashing into the underbrush. Branches tore at my arms and
face, but I didn't stop. I couldn't.
I could still hear it behind me, the snapping of twigs and
rustling of leaves. I knew it was close, too close.
A howl echoed through the forest, a deep, chilling sound
that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
It was like nothing I'd ever heard before, Angry, hungry, and
not human. My legs felt like they were
moving through water, the fear pulling me down, making every
step harder. I stumbled down a small hill, my
feet sliding on the loose dirt. For a moment, I thought I was
going to fall, but I managed to catch myself, barely keeping my
balance. I could hear the creature
getting closer, its breathing ragged and deep, like it was
savouring the chase. I didn't dare look back, I was
too scared of what I might see. I spotted the outline of the
Ranger station through the trees, the small building barely
visible in the darkness. My chest tightened with hope,
and I pushed myself harder, forcing my legs to move faster.
I burst out of the trees and onto the clearing in front of
the station. My fingers fumble with the door
handle, and for a heart stopping moment I thought it was locked.
But then it gave way and I threw myself inside, slamming the door
shut behind me. The whole building shook as
something slammed into the door, the force of it nearly knocking
me off my feet. I backed away, my heart
pounding, my eyes darting around the small room.
The station was dark, lit only by the moonlight streaming in
through the broken windows. Maps were scattered across a
dusty table, and there, on the wall, was the radio.
I rushed over to it, my hands trembling as I tried to find the
right frequency. The creature outside let out
another howl, the sound vibrating through the walls.
I could hear its footsteps circling the station, the
floorboards rattling as it slammed against the walls.
The radio crackled to life and I let out a shaky breath, my voice
barely more than a whisper as I called for help.
Hello, is anyone there? Please, I need help.
A voice came through, crackling and faint, but before I could
answer, the door splintered under a massive blow.
I turned, my eyes wide with terror as a clawed arm reached
through the gap, swiping at the air.
My eyes darted around the room, and I spotted an old, rusted
hatchet leaning in the corner. I grabbed it, the metal cold and
heavy in my hand. I swung it at the arm, the
creature letting out a growl of pain.
The door was breaking, and I knew I couldn't stay here.
The creature wasn't just trying to get in, it was toying with
me, enjoying my fear. I took a deep breath, my hands
shaking as I made a decision. I hurled the hatchet at the
creature, the blade grazing its shoulder.
It let out an enraged roar, and I took my chance.
I ran to the nearest window, throwing myself through it.
Glass shattered around me, cutting into my skin as I hit
the ground outside. I pushed myself up, my whole
body aching. The creature was still behind
me, its roars echoing through the night.
I ran, the darkness closing in around me, my only thought to
keep moving, to survive. The headlights of a truck
appeared in the distance, and I felt a flicker of hope.
I stumbled into the open, waving my arms.
The truck skidded to a halt, and a Ranger jumped out, grabbing me
and pulling me into the vehicle. The door slammed shut and the
truck speed away, the tires kicking up dirt.
I looked back, seeing the creature standing at the edge of
the forest, its eyes glowing in the darkness, filled with fury.
I collapsed against the seat, my body trembling, exhaustion
washing over me. I knew I was lucky to be alive,
but I also knew that whatever was out there, it wasn't done
with me yet. The Ranger's truck speed down
the narrow Rd. the headlights cutting through the thick
darkness. My heart was still pounding in
my chest, and every breath felt like fire.
I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to see the creature
chasing us, but all I could see were the trees rushing by in a
blur. The Ranger beside me was talking
into his radio, calling for backup, but his voice seemed far
away, like I was hearing it through water.
All I could think about was the creature, the glowing eyes, the
way it moved, how close it had been.
The Ranger must have noticed my shaking hands, because he
reached over and gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
You're safe now, kid. He said, his voice steady.
I nodded, but deep down I wasn't so sure.
I knew that thing was still out there, and it wasn't going to
stop, not until it got what it wanted.
The truck pulled up to another Ranger station, this one larger
and more secure looking than the last.
The Ranger helped me out of the truck and we hurried inside.
The door slammed shut behind us and he locked it, sliding a
heavy metal bar across for good measure.
The station was brighter, with more lights and a big map spread
out on a table in the middle. There were a couple of other
Rangers there too, their faces serious as they listen to what
had happened. I tried to explain everything,
the footsteps, the howling, the way it had chased me, but my
words kept getting jumbled. My hands were still shaking and
I couldn't catch my breath. One of the Rangers handed me a
bottle of water, and I took a sip, trying to calm down.
They were talking about searching the woods, trying to
track the creature, but all I could think about was how it had
looked at me. Like it knew me, like it wanted
me. Suddenly, there was a loud crash
from outside. My heart skipped a beat, and
everyone in the room froze. The Ranger who had driven me
there moved to the window, peering out into the dark.
Stay here. He said, his voice low.
He nodded to the others and they all moved towards the door,
their flashlights and weapons ready.
I wanted to tell them not to go, that it was too dangerous, but
the words caught in my throat. The door creaked open and the
Ranger slipped outside, leaving me alone in the station.
The silence was deafening. I could hear my own breathing,
shallow and quick, and the distant rustling of leaves
outside. I moved closer to the table, my
eyes darting around the room, looking for anything I could use
to protect myself. My gaze landed on a flare gun,
half buried under a pile of papers.
I grabbed it, my fingers tightening around the handle.
It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.
The minutes felt like hours. I strained to hear any sound
from outside. Voices, footsteps, anything.
But all I heard was the wind. Then, out of nowhere, there was
a deep, guttural growl. It was close, too close.
My stomach twisted with fear, and I backed up until I hit the
wall, the flare gun clutched tightly in my hands.
The window shattered, Glass sprayed across the room and I
ducked, covering my head. When I looked up, I saw it.
The creature, its glowing eyes staring right at me through the
broken window. Its lips curled back, revealing
sharp yellow teeth, and it let out a low, menacing growl.
I could feel the fear gripping me, freezing me in place.
I knew I had to move, had to do something, but my body wouldn't
listen. The creature lunged, its massive
arm reaching through the window, claws scraping against the
floor. I raised the flare gun, my hands
trembling so badly I could barely aim.
I pulled the trigger and the flare shot out, a bright,
blinding light filling the room. The creature let out a roar,
jerking back, its eyes squinting against the sudden brightness.
I didn't wait to see what would happen next.
I turned and ran, throwing myself through the door at the
back of the station. I could hear the creatures
enraged growls behind me, the sound of it tearing at the
walls. I stumbled out into the night,
my legs barely able to carry me. The woods were dark, the trees
looming like shadows. But I didn't stop.
I couldn't stop. I had to keep moving.
In the distance, I saw more headlights, more Rangers
arriving. I waved my arms, shouting, my
voice hoarse. The truck skidded to a stop, and
the Rangers jumped out, their flashlights cutting through the
darkness. One of them grabbed me, pulling
me behind the truck as the others move towards the station,
their weapons raised. I collapsed against the side of
the truck, my whole body trembling, tears streaming down
my face. I could hear the creatures
roars, the shouts of the Rangers, but it all felt
distant, like it was happening to someone else.
I was alive, but I knew this wasn't over.
That thing was still out there, and it wasn't going to stop, Not
until it got what it wanted. And somehow, I knew that
something was me. The hike up the Rocky Mountains
was tough, but we didn't care. We were too excited to be out
here, far away from everything, just us in the wild.
The air smelled of pine and the sky was so clear that you could
almost reach out and touch the clouds.
I remember looking over at Kyle, who had the biggest grin on his
face like a kid on Christmas morning.
We all felt it, the thrill of adventure, the freedom.
Matt led the way, always a few steps ahead, pointing out deer
tracks and telling us about the best spots for hunting.
When we finally set up camp, the sun was already dipping below
the mountains, painting everything in gold and orange.
We got a fire going and before long we were laughing, roasting
marshmallows and talking about everything and nothing.
It felt perfect. I could hear the crackle of the
fire, the rustling of the wind in the trees, and the distant
calls of animals. The world felt big and peaceful,
like we were the only people left on it.
But then, just as the night started settling in, we heard
it. A noise from deep in the woods.
It wasn't like anything I'd ever heard before.
It was this low, rumbling growl, almost like a mix between a bear
and something else. I looked over at Kyle, and I
could see the unease in his eyes.
Did you hear that? He whispered, his voice barely
audible over the crackling fire. Doug just laughed, shaking his
head. Probably just a bear.
He said, trying to brush it off, but I could tell Kyle wasn't
convinced, and honestly, neither was I.
The noise came again, this time closer.
It was louder, more distinct, and it sent a shiver down my
spine. It was like the woods themselves
were groaning, something deep and ancient that had no place in
the modern world. Trevor turned his head,
squinting into the darkness, but he didn't say anything.
I think we were all waiting for someone else to say it, to admit
that it wasn't just a bear, but nobody did.
We tried to laugh it off, but the mood had shifted.
The fire didn't seem as warm, and the darkness around us felt
thicker, like it was pressing in.
We eventually crawled into our tents, but sleep didn't come
easy. Every time I closed my eyes, I
heard that noise again, echoing in my head.
I kept telling myself it was nothing, but the unease stuck
with me. The next day, we kept moving
deeper into the mountains. The forest felt different,
though. The usual sounds of birds and
insects were gone, replaced by this heavy silence that made my
skin crawl. Trevor swore he saw something, a
large shadow moving between the trees, but he quickly laughed it
off, saying he must have imagined it.
I wanted to believe him, but the way his eyes kept darting back
to the woods told me he wasn't so sure.
By the time we set up camp again that night, I think we were all
on edge, even if no one wanted to admit it.
The laughter from the night before was gone, replaced by 4
smiles and nervous glances. When the sun finally dipped
below the horizon, we gathered around the fire again, but it
didn't feel the same. The shadows seemed longer,
darker, and the forest felt like it was watching us.
Then, just as the fire started to die down, we heard it again.
That same guttural growl, but this time it was closer.
Much closer. Kyle's face went pale, and even
Doug, who'd been so confident before, looked worried.
I felt my heart start to pound, and I could see the fear in
everyone's eyes. We were not alone.
Something was out there watching us, and it was getting closer.
By the third day, we knew something was very wrong.
The forest was way too quiet and that strange feeling of being
watched never went away. Every snap of a twig, every
rustle of leaves made me jump. It felt like the woods had eyes
and they were locked on us. We tried to stay calm, but we
couldn't ignore the tension that hungover us.
No one was laughing anymore, we all just wanted to get out of
there. That morning, we found them.
The footprints. They were huge, way bigger than
any bear print I'd ever seen. The tracks were deep, like
whatever made them was heavy, and they circled our camp like
it had been watching us all night.
Matt knelt down, his face serious.
He ran his fingers along the edge of the print, his eyes
narrowing. This isn't a bear, he said
quietly. No one argued with him.
We all knew he was right. Panic started to set in.
We packed up our gear as fast as we could, not even bothering to
eat breakfast. I could feel my heart racing, my
hands trembling as I rolled up my sleeping bag.
I kept glancing over my shoulder, half expecting to see
something staring back at me from the trees.
Matt took charge, telling us we needed to head back to the
trailhead. No one argued, we just wanted to
leave. As we started hiking back, the
feeling of being watched only got worse.
The forest seemed to close in around us, the trees pressing
closer, the shadows darker. I kept seeing things out of the
corner of my eye, dark shapes that seem to move just as I
turned my head. Trevor was walking next to me,
and I could tell he felt it too. He kept glancing around, his
face pale, his eyes wide. Do you see that?
He whispered at one point, but when I looked, there was nothing
there. Still, I knew he wasn't
imagining it. We were all seeing it by the
time the sun started to dip low in the sky.
We were exhausted. The hike was tough, and the
constant fear made it even harder.
We decided to make camp one last time before we reached the
trailhead. No one wanted to stop, but we
didn't have a choice. We were too tired to keep going,
and it would be dangerous to hike in the dark.
We set up our tents in a small clearing and Matt built a fire.
Though it didn't feel comforting like before, the flames
flickered weakly, casting long dancing shadows that made the
darkness seem even more alive. We sat around the fire, not
talking much. The silence was heavy, like we
were all waiting for something to happen.
And then it did. The growl came again, but this
time it was so close that I could feel it in my chest, a
deep rumbling sound that made my whole body tense up.
I looked at Kyle, and his face was as white as a sheet.
Doug, who had always been the one to laugh things off, looked
terrified. He gripped his rifle tightly,
his knuckles turning white. Suddenly, there was a crash from
the trees, and I saw it. A massive figure just at the
edge of the fire light. It was tall, covered in dark
fur, its eyes glowing in the flickering light.
For a second, none of us moved. We were frozen, staring at this
thing that shouldn't exist. Then it let out a roar, a sound
so loud and so full of anger that it felt like the ground
itself was shaking. Everything erupted into chaos.
Matt shouted for us to grab our gear, but before we could do
anything, the creature lunged forward.
I saw Kyle get grabbed, his scream echoing through the night
as the thing dragged him into the darkness.
I wanted to help him, but I couldn't move.
I was paralyzed with fear, my heart pounding so hard it felt
like it would burst out of my chest.
The scream stopped suddenly, and the silence that followed was
worse than the roar. Matt grabbed my arm, snapping me
out of it. We have to go now.
He yelled. I nodded, my throat too tight to
speak. We grabbed what we could and
ran, the forest around us a blur of shadows and fear.
I could hear the creature behind us, it's heavy footsteps
crashing through the underbrush, getting closer and closer.
Branches slapped at my face and I stumbled, barely managing to
keep my balance. All I could think about was
getting away, about surviving. We ran until my lungs burned,
until my legs felt like they would give out.
Somehow we made it to a steep hill and we half ran, half slid
down it, the creatures roars echoing behind us at the bottom.
We didn't stop, we just kept moving, pushing through the pain
and the fear, knowing that if we stopped, even for a second, we
wouldn't make it out alive. By the time the sun started to
rise, we were still running. My legs felt like they were made
of lead, every step of struggle, but the fear kept me going.
I could hear Matt and Doug breathing heavily beside me, and
Trevor, limping along with his twisted ankle, was barely
keeping up. We were all running on pure
adrenaline, the roars of that creature echoing in our ears,
pushing us forward. We had no idea where we were
going. The forest all looked the same,
dark, endless, and filled with shadows that seemed to move when
I wasn't looking directly at them.
Matt led the way, his face set with determination, though I
could see the fear in his eyes every time he glanced back at
us. He kept telling us we were
close, that we just needed to keep going a little longer, but
I wasn't sure if he even knew where we were anymore.
The creature was still out there.
Every once in a while, we'd hear its heavy footsteps crashing
through the trees, or its growl, low and menacing, coming from
somewhere in the distance. It was like it was toying with
us, letting us think we might have a chance, only to remind us
it was still there, still hunting us.
My heart pounded in my chest, each beat feeling like it was
going to tear me apart. Then, just as I thought I
couldn't take another step, we saw it.
The edge of the forest. It was still far off, but I
could see the sky beyond the trees, a lighter shade of blue.
That meant we were finally getting close to the trailhead
there. Matt shouted, pointing.
I felt a surge of hope, and somehow I found the strength to
keep going, to push myself a little harder.
But the creature wasn't done with us.
I heard it again, a crashing sound behind us, closer than
ever. I glanced back and saw it, a
massive shape moving between the trees, its eyes locked on us.
It let out a roar, and I felt my whole body go cold.
We were so close, but I knew it could catch us if it wanted to.
We had to make it to the truck. It was our only chance.
We stumbled out of the forest, the sunlight blinding after so
long in the shadows. The truck was there, just a few
yards away, and I felt a wave of relief.
We ran for it and Matt fumble with the keys, his hands shaking
so badly he almost dropped them. Doug and I helped Trevor into
the back seat and I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to
see the creature burst out of the woods any second.
Matt finally got the door open and we scrambled inside.
I slammed the door shut just as I saw it, a massive dark figure
emerging from the tree line. It was even bigger in the
daylight, its fur matted and its eyes glowing with fury.
Matt started the engine and I screamed at him to go to get us
out of there. The truck roared to life and we
speed away, the tires kicking up dirt and gravel.
I looked back, watching as the creature stood there, its eyes
following us as we drove away. It didn't chase us, it just
stood there, watching, until the forest swallowed it up again and
it was gone. The silence in the truck was
heavy, the only sound our ragged breathing and the rumble of the
engine. None of us spoke, there was
nothing to say. We had made it out, but we had
lost Kyle and the weight of that hungover us like a dark cloud.
As we drove away, I couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't
over, that the creature was still out there, somewhere in
those dark woods, watching, waiting.
And I knew that I would never forget the sound of its roar,
the sight of those glowing eyes in the darkness.
We had survived, but a part of me knew that we were leaving
something behind in those mountains, something that would
never let us go. It was supposed to be a fun
family vacation, a chance to get away from all the stress of our
everyday lives and just be together.
When we arrived at the cabin, it seemed like the perfect place,
exactly what we needed. The cabin sat in the middle of
nowhere, surrounded by thick, towering trees.
It looked like something out of an old storybook, with its
wooden porch and stone chimney. The air smelled like pine
needles and fresh earth, and I could hear the distant sound of
a stream somewhere in the forest.
My dad, Mike, seemed especially happy.
He stretched his arms above his head and grinned.
See, guys, isn't this great? No distractions, no city noise,
just us and nature. I wanted to believe him.
My mom, Laura, smiled too, though I could see her eyes
scanning the forest as if she was trying to get used to how
quiet it was. My brother Jake was already
pulling his bag out of the car, and I followed, eager to get
settled inside the cabin. It was even cozier than I
expected. The floors creaked when we
walked, and the fireplace looked like it had been used a million
times before. We unpacked and settled in, and
by the time the sun started to go down, we were all sitting
around the fire, roasting marshmallows and joking around.
It felt almost perfect, almost. That night, I woke up to a
noise. It wasn't loud, but it was
strange. A low, deep sound, almost like a
growl. I sat up in bed, holding my
breath, listening. The cabin was dark, and the only
light came from the moon shining through the curtains.
I glanced over at Jake, who was still asleep in the bed across
the room. Maybe it was just an animal, I
tried to convince myself, but something about it made my skin
prickle. The next morning, I wasn't the
only one who had heard it. Mom was in the kitchen, her face
pale as she looked out the window.
Did anyone else hear noises last night?
She asked. Dad shrugged it off, saying it
was probably just the wind or some animal wandering nearby.
He always tried to keep things calm, but I could tell Mom
wasn't convinced. After breakfast, we decided to
explore a bit. We hiked down a narrow trail
that led away from the cabin, and Jake found a good spot for
fishing by the stream. For a little while, it felt like
things were normal again, but as we walked back to the cabin, I
couldn't shake the feeling that we weren't alone.
I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to see something, but
there was nothing there, Just the trees and the rustle of
leaves in the breeze. When we got back, that's when we
saw them. Footprints, huge ones, circling
the cabin. They were pressed deep into the
mud, each one almost twice the size of my dad's boot.
My heart started to pound and I looked at my parents.
Dad frowned, trying to act like it wasn't a big deal.
Probably just some prank. He said, but his voice didn't
sound so sure. Mom didn't say anything, she
just stared at the Prince, her face getting even paler.
Jake and I exchanged a nervous glance.
I wanted to believe Dad, but those Prince, they didn't look
like something someone would make for fun.
They looked real, and whatever had made them was huge.
We tried to go on with our day, but the feeling of unease never
left. Even when we were inside the
cabin, I felt like there were eyes on us, watching from the
forest. Every little sound made me jump,
the creak of the floor, the rustle of branches outside.
At one point I thought I saw something moving between the
trees, just a shadow slipping out of sight.
I told myself it was nothing, but my heart wouldn't stop
racing. That night, as the sun
disappeared and the forest turned pitch black, I couldn't
help but feel that whatever was out there was getting closer,
and I wasn't sure if we were safe in the cabin.
After all, it was late when it started, The heavy, thudding
footsteps that seemed to echo through the entire cabin.
I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep
because of the uneasy feeling in my stomach, when I heard the
first thud. I froze.
It sounded like something or someone was walking outside just
beyond the walls. And it wasn't just the sound, I
could feel the vibrations, like whatever it was had real weight.
I glanced over at Jake, he was sitting up too, his eyes wide in
the darkness. Did you hear that?
He whispered, his voice barely audible.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
The footsteps grew louder, coming closer to the cabin.
I could hear the floorboards creak as mom and Dad got out of
bed, their whispers coming from the other room.
I slipped out of bed and moved to the window, carefully pulling
the curtain aside just a tiny bit.
My breath caught in my throat when I saw it, a huge dark shape
moving just beyond the tree line, its eyes glowing faintly
in the moonlight. I let the curtain fall back, my
hands shaking. Jake, there's something out
there. I whispered.
He didn't respond, just stared at me, his face pale.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash from the front of the cabin.
It sounded like something had hit the wall hard.
Mom screamed, and Dad shouted for everyone to stay calm.
But how could we stay calm? The thing outside was trying to
get in, everyone in the backroom now.
Dad yelled. I grabbed Jake's arm and we ran,
mom and dad right behind us. We slammed the door shut and
pushed a dresser in front of it, the sound of our heavy breathing
filling the room. I could hear the creature
outside, it's growls deep and guttural, and then the
splintering sound of wood as it began to pound on the front
door. What is that?
Jake whispered, his voice trembling.
None of us had an answer. All I knew was that we had to
get out, and fast. Dad's eyes were wide, and I
could see him thinking, trying to come up with a plan.
The cellar, he said finally. We have to get to the cellar,
it's our only chance. He looked at Mom and she nodded,
though her face was white with fear.
We moved as quietly as we could, slipping out of the back room
and into the kitchen. The front door was barely
holding on, the wood splintering with each blow from the
creature. I held my breath as Dad opened
the cellar door, motioning for us to go down.
One by one we climbed into the darkness, the air cold and damp
around us. In the cellar it was pitch
black, and I could hear Jake breathing fast beside me.
Dad closed the door above us and we all crouched there,
listening. The sound of the door upstairs
being smashed open made my heart feel like it was going to
explode. The creature was inside.
Dad found a small window near the ground, just big enough for
us to crawl through. He smashed it open, the noise
making me flinch. Go.
He whispered, and we did. I crawled through the window,
feeling the cold night air on my face.
Jake followed, then mom and dad. We were outside, but we weren't
safe, not yet. We ran, our feet pounding on the
ground, the forest a blur around us.
Behind us I could hear the creature roar, a sound so loud
it seemed to shake the trees. I didn't look back.
I just kept running, my heart pounding, my legs burning,
hoping that somehow we could make it out of this alive.
The cold night air cut into my lungs as we ran.
Branches whipped at my face, and the ground seemed to blur
beneath my feet. I could barely see where I was
going, but I knew one thing. I couldn't stop.
None of us could. The roar of the creature behind
us echoed through the forest, loud enough that it seemed to
shake the trees. My heart pounded in my ears,
drowning out almost every other sound except for the heavy thud
of our footsteps. Jake stumbled ahead of me, his
foot catching on a root, and he went sprawling.
I reached down, grabbing his arm, my fingers trembling as I
pulled him back up. Come on, Jake.
I yelled, my voice breaking. He nodded, his eyes wide with
fear, and we kept moving. I could see Dad up ahead, his
flashlight beam bouncing wildly as he led the way.
Mom was right behind him, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.
I wanted to call out to them, to tell them we needed to hide, but
there was no time. The creature was getting closer,
I could feel it. Its growls were louder now, so
close that I could almost feel the vibrations in the ground.
Finally we broke through the tree line, stumbling onto the
dirt Rd. where the car was parked.
My heart leaped into my throat at the sight of it.
Safety. We just had to get there.
I could hear Dad shouting for us to hurry, his voice desperate.
I glanced back just once, and that was enough.
I saw the massive shape emerge from the darkness, its eyes
glowing, its teeth bared. Dad reached the car first,
fumbling with the keys. His hands were shaking so badly
that for a moment I thought he wouldn't be able to unlock it.
Come on, come on, I whispered under my breath, my feet
pounding against the dirt as I ran.
I could see Mom pulling at the door handle, and then finally I
heard the beep of the locks. We all scrambled inside, the
doors slamming shut just as the creature reached the edge of the
road. It let out a roar that shook the
car, and I saw its huge hand swipe at the air, just missing
the back bumper as Dad threw the car into gear.
The tires spun on the gravel for a second, and then we were
moving, speeding away from the cabin and the creature that had
chased us. I looked out the back window, my
heart still pounding. The creature stood at the edge
of the road, its eyes glowing red in the dark, watching us as
we disappeared into the night. I couldn't breathe, couldn't
think. My whole body was shaking.
We'd made it. We were alive.
No one spoke as we drove, the forest blurred by the headlights
cutting through the darkness. I could hear Mom sobbing softly
in the front seat, and Jake was gripping my hand so tightly it
hurt, but I didn't let go. I couldn't.
I needed to feel that we were all still here, that we'd all
made it out. We didn't stop until we reached
the nearest town, a tiny place with a motel that looked just as
old as the cabin had. Dad parked the car and we all
sat there for a moment, the engine ticking as it cooled.
I could still hear the creatures roar in my head, still see its
glowing eyes. I knew I'd never forget it.
None of us would. We checked into the motel, the
lady at the front desk giving us strange looks as we stumbled in,
covered in dirt and shaking. But I didn't care.
All I cared about was that we were safe.
For now, at least. That night, as I lay in the
motel bed, staring at the ceiling, I could still feel the
forest around me. The darkness, the feeling of
being watched. It was all still there, just
under the surface. I knew we'd escaped, but I also
knew that whatever was out there wasn't gone.
It was still in those woods, waiting, And somehow I knew it
would always be there, a part of Maine that I could never quite
shake.