It was just another summer night in Harrisonburg, VA My roommate
Alan and I were sprawled in the kitchen munching on late night
snacks. We had been watching horror
movies earlier, and though the house was now silent, the eerie
echoes from the film seemed to linger in the air.
Our house, a three story older building, often creaked and
moaned as if it were settling into the earth a little more
each day. As the clock struck one AMA,
faint noise broke the silence. At first I thought it was just
the house groaning under its own weight, or perhaps the wind, but
as I paused, holding my breath, I realized it was something
else, a moaning sound, soft and distant.
I glanced at Alan, who had paused with a chip halfway to
his mouth, clearly hearing it too.
Must be the neighbours, I whispered, not wanting to
believe it could be anything else.
But the sound grew clearer, more distinct.
A baby's cry mingled with a sort of banging.
It was coming from outside, specifically, it seemed, right
at our front door. The hair on the back of my neck
stood up. Do you hear that?
I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Yeah, Alan replied, his eyes wide.
It sounds like it's right outside.
We tiptoed from the kitchen to the living room, which was one
level above the ground floor, to get closer to the front door but
still maintain a safe distance. The cries and banging grew
louder, more desperate. It sounded like someone or
something was trying to break in.
The thought sent shivers down my spine.
Should we call the police? Alan suggested, his voice shaky.
I nodded and he pulled out his phone, dialing the non-emergency
number. I tried to steady my breathing
as he explained the situation to the dispatcher.
There's some really weird noises outside our door, like a baby
crying and someone trying to smash the door down.
The dispatcher seemed concerned but calm.
Can you describe the noise? Is it continuous as if on cue?
A loud bang echoed through the phone, making the dispatcher
pause. Was that it?
She asked. Yes, that's it, I said, louder
than I intended, my heart racing.
We'll send someone out to check it, she reassured us.
But somehow her words didn't comfort me.
We sat in the living room, the floor cold under our feet,
waiting. The noises continued, sometimes
pausing for a few minutes before starting up again, even louder.
Each bang against the door made us jump.
Each cry made our skin crawl after what felt like hours, but
was only about 30 minutes. The noises started to fade,
coming and going in the wind, but by then we were too scared
to even think about sleep. We discussed what it could be a
stray animal, a prankster, or maybe my mind teased with a
shiver, something supernatural. But deep down, I hoped for a
rational explanation that daylight would bring.
As the sky outside slowly began to lighten, the noises stopped
completely. We never did hear the sound of a
police siren or see flashing lights outside.
It was just the night, the eerie sounds and us waiting,
wondering, fearing what might be lurking just outside our door.
The wait for the police felt endless.
Alan and I sat huddled together on the couch, every noise making
us flinch. The eerie silence that followed
our phone call was somehow worse than the noise itself.
My eyes kept darting to the window, half expecting to see
someone or something peering in. But there was nothing, just the
quiet darkness of the night. Should we check it out
ourselves? Alan finally whispered, breaking
the tense silence. He looked as scared as I felt,
but there was a resolve in his voice that I hadn't heard
before. I hesitated.
Every instinct told me to stay put, to wait for the police,
even though deep down I knew they might not come.
But the thought of facing whatever was out there terrified
me. Are you sure?
I asked, my voice barely audible.
Alan nodded, standing up. He went to the kitchen and came
back with a couple of kitchen knives.
The sight of the knives in his hands was sobering.
We were actually arming ourselves to face something
unknown. Gripping my knife tightly, we
crept towards the staircase that led down to the front door.
My heart pounded in my chest. With each step we took.
The banging had stopped, replaced by a sinister
scratching that echoed through the quiet house.
It sounded like nails on wood, persistent and unsettling.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, we paused.
The front door stood ominously quiet before us.
I reached out slowly and peered through the peephole.
My breath caught in my throat as I expected to see some horrific
creature on the other side. But there was nothing, Just the
empty porch bathed in the faint glow of the street light.
Confused and still frightened, we opened the door a crack, the
knife ready in my hand. The cool night air brushed
against my face and I half expected something to jump at
us, but there was nothing. No signs of disturbance, no
marks on the door, nothing out of place.
We closed the door, locking it again, and retreated upstairs.
The silence continued, thick and heavy, around us.
We sat back down in the living room, not speaking, listening
intently for any sound. But as minutes ticked by,
nothing happened. Exhausted and still on edge, we
decided to wait for morning. I didn't think I could sleep,
but at some point fatigue overtook fear and I drifted into
a restless sleep on the couch. When morning came, it was almost
anti climactic. The sun shone brightly, birds
chirped outside, and it felt like any other day, but the
memory of last night hung over us like a dark cloud.
I ventured downstairs again, half expecting to finally find
something amiss. But outside, everything was
peaceful. No footprints, no damage to the
door, nothing to show for our night of terror.
As the days passed, Alan and I talked less and less about what
had happened. What was there to say?
We had no explanations, no answers, But the memory of that
night lingered, a shadow in our minds.
We speculated about what it could have been.
A stray animal, a practical joke gone too far.
Or maybe, just maybe, something supernatural, But without
evidence, they were just guesses.
Sometimes late at night, I still listen for the sounds, half
expecting them to start again, but they never do.
Whatever visited our house that night remains a mystery, a
creepy, unresolved whisper in the dark.
As long as I can remember, the old house next door had always
been an escape for me, a world away from the constant reminders
of my inadequacies that seemed to permeate every corner of my
own home. It wasn't just a building.
It was my great grandmother's realm, a place where the walls
whispered secrets of a distant past and every nook seemed to
hold a story. The house was large, more than
you'd think necessary for an elderly couple, and filled with
relics of a bygone era. The wooden floors creaked under
foot, echoing through hallways lined with sepia toned
photographs of ancestors I'd only met in tales.
Heavy curtains hung on the windows, their fabrics rich but
faded, filtering the sunlight into soft amber hues that danced
on the antique furniture. My grandmother, living just a
stone's throw away in a more modern, less characterful house,
often found my youthful energy too much to handle.
Go spend some time with your great grandma, she'd say, her
voice tinged with exasperation. It wasn't a suggestion.
It was a reprieve for both of us.
My great grandmother, a sturdy woman with lines of wisdom
etched deep into her tan face, was the opposite.
She'd greet me with a warm, enveloping hug, smelling of sage
and soap, her eyes twinkling with the kind of mischief that
only the old and wise can truly appreciate.
Ready to explore, She'd ask, as if the house was a vast
continent we had yet to conquer. She embraced our Native American
heritage. A patchwork of me tribe
traditions, she clung to like a lifeline.
In contrast, my grandmother wanted nothing to do with it.
It's all in the past, she'd say dismissively.
But for great grandma, the past was a treasure chest, and she
delighted in passing its gems on to me, even if I was too young
to understand their full value. The room where I stayed when I
visited was at the far end of the house, almost a mirror image
of the isolation I felt at home. Yet here it felt different, like
solitude, chosen rather than imposed.
The room was spacious, especially to a child with a
large bed whose headboard was made of sliding glass door
cabinets filled with dusty books and odd trinkets. 2 large
windows dominated the walls, one overlooking the side yard with
its young pine trees, the other facing out towards the barn.
That barn was an old, hulking structure filled with shadows
and secrets. It housed everything from my
great grandfather's rusting tools to the camper they once
used to explore the States. But it was more than just
storage. It was a Sentinel, watching over
us with its quiet strength. One particular night, the
security lights mounted on the barn suddenly flooded my room
with light, startling me awake. I lay in bed, the sheets twisted
around my legs, my heart pounding with the suddenness of
it all. When sleep proved elusive, I
climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the window, my hands pressed
against the cold glass, the floodlights casting long shadows
across the lawn. I was about to turn away when
something in the side yard caught my attention, a figure
barely discernible in the dim light moving amongst the pine
trees. Curiosity overcame my fear, and
I watched, fascinated, as the figure paused beside a young
tree, its movements deliberate and mysterious.
In that moment, surrounded by the echoes of my great
grandmother's stories and the watchful eyes of the old barn,
the ordinary seemed to slip away, leaving behind a world
ripe with possibilities of adventure, of mystery, of
connections to a past that whispered ever so softly,
calling out to me from the shadows.
That night, with the floodlights, harsh glare cutting
through the darkness like a signal flare, I found myself
unable to return to the comforting embrace of sleep.
The light seemed to etch every corner of my room in sharp
relief, shadows playing tricks on my young mind.
With a sigh, I abandoned any hope of sleep and padded over to
the toy crate under the window. The building blocks felt cold
and unfamiliar as I stacked them without purpose, my eyes
occasionally straying to the window.
It was during one of these aimless glances that I noticed
something odd in the side yard, just beyond the reach of the
floodlights reach. There was a figure barely more
than a silhouette, moving with a deliberate caution that caught
my breath in my throat. He wasn't just wandering, he
seemed to be searching for something, his hands carefully
manipulating the lower branches of a young pine tree.
Curiosity, a constant companion, nudged me closer to the window.
My fingers gripped the windowsill as I hoisted myself
up on the crate for a better view.
The figure was a young man, his features shadowed yet distinct
against the dim backdrop. He wore tan overalls that seemed
to blend with the natural environment, and his movements
were precise, almost reverent. As he handled the tree, I
watched my forehead pressed against the cold glass as he
shifted his weight from 1 foot to another, his head turning
slightly as if listening for a sound I couldn't hear.
Then suddenly, he stopped. His body tensed and his head
turned sharply towards the window where I was hiding.
Our eyes met, and I could see his widen in alarm, or perhaps
fear. The moment stretched taut as a
wire before he abruptly turned. What happened next would forever
challenge my understanding of the natural world.
In a fluid motion that defied logic, the young man seemed to
dissolve his form shimmering under the moonlight.
And where he had stood, there was now a deer, a creature so
sleek and so real that I blinked several times to make sure my
eyes were not deceiving me. The deer bolted its hooves,
thudding against the hard earth, disappearing into the darkness
beyond the barn. The floodlight clicked off,
plunging the room back into semi darkness.
I stumbled backward, heart pounding, mind racing.
What had I just seen? A trick of the light, a dream or
something else? Something ancient and wild
morning couldn't come soon enough.
As soon as the sky turned a muted Gray, I hurried to my
grandmother's kitchen, where the smell of coffee and bacon filled
the air. My story tumbled out in a
nervous rush, words tripping over each other as I described
the young man and his inexplicable transformation.
My grandmother's reaction was a complex tapestry of emotions,
concern, confusion, and a trace of fear.
She listened in silence, her lips pressed into a thin line,
her eyes darting to the window overlooking the side yard.
When I finished, she stood abruptly, her chair scraping
against the tile. We'll look into it, she said
tersely, avoiding my gaze. She and my great grandfather
spent the morning walking the perimeter of the yard, their
heads bowed in conversation. They returned with nothing to
report, no signs of the young man or the deer.
My great grandfather was dismissive, eager to chalk it up
to a child's overactive imagination.
But I knew what I had seen, and in the depths of my heart, a
seed of wonder took root, growing with each passing year,
fed by the mysteries of the night and the silence of those
who refused to believe. Years peeled away like the bark
on those old pine trees, each layer revealing new truths and
forgotten myths. I grew up, moved away, and
carved out a life that rarely acknowledged the unexplained
mysteries of my childhood. But those memories, those
whispered tales of the supernatural, clung to me like
the scent of sage after rain. I had learned about Skinwalkers
from a book, the term leaping off the page at me like a spark.
They were creatures of Navajo legend, beings capable of
transforming into animals, embodying the very essence of
the unnatural. The more I read, the more I
doubted my childhood encounter. Real Skinwalkers were sinister,
accompanied by a palpable sense of dread and malodorous decay.
None of that had touched my experience.
The young man had seemed more scared than scary, his
transformation into a deer almost graceful.
The memory had settled into the back of my mind, a puzzle
missing too many pieces until a casual dinner at my mother's
house brought it rushing back. We were reminiscing the way
families do when the years make past troubles seem smaller, and
I mentioned skinwalkers. Her reaction was not what I
expected. There was no laugh, no
dismissal. Instead, she paused, a fork
halfway to her mouth, her eyes narrowing slightly.
Oh, you saw the man too, huh? She said, her voice dropping to
a whisper, as if the walls might hear and disapprove.
Her words sent a chill down my spine.
What, man? I urged, leaning forward, my
earlier convictions shaken, she set her fork down, her
expression distant as she looked past me, perhaps seeing the past
more clearly than the present. There was an old, balding man
who used to dance around the roof with his belt made of
feathers. Whenever I'd go out there to
yell at him for being so loud, he'd smile at me and fly off
like a bird. The story tumbled out of her in
fragments, each piece etched with the certainty of her
experiences. My mother had never been one for
tall tales or flights of fancy, which lent a weight to her words
that was hard to dismiss. The implications of her story
twisted in my gut. Had my family been haunted by
these encounters for generations?
Was there something about our land or our blood that pulled
the veil between worlds thinner? I thought it was just dreams,
she concluded with a shrug, as if that could explain away the
roof dancing man and the flying feathers.
But I couldn't let it go that easily.
That night, under the same stars that had witnessed my childhood
confusion, I felt a connection to my great grandmother's
stories, to the heritage she had tried to preserve.
It wasn't just about understanding what I had seen.
It was about embracing the possibility that the world was
broader stranger than I had allowed myself to believe.
As the moon carved silver paths across the darkened earth, I
made a decision. I would not dismiss the wonders
and terrors of the night. Instead, I would seek them out,
explore the legends, and perhaps find the thread that connected
these events. Maybe, in doing so, I could
finally make peace with the shadows of my past and
understand the legacy my great grandmother had entrusted to me.
The night was still, the world holding its breath as if waiting
for me to take the next step, and I was ready to walk into the
darkness, armed with curiosity and a respect for the mysteries
that dance just out of sight. It was just another quiet night
in our small town, sandwiched between the sprawling wilderness
and the restless echoes of the past.
My sister and I were in our room, each engrossed in the soft
glow of our phones, trying to ignore the creeping silence that
blanketed our home after dark. Our town wasn't much a few dusty
streets, some old buildings, and a reputation for being a little
rough around the edges, But it was our home.
The oddity began subtly. At first, it was just a strange
sound that cut through the night's calm, a bird's call, but
not any bird I'd ever heard. It was raspy and strained, like
someone with a sore throat trying desperately to mimic a
crow. I looked over at my sister, her
face illuminated by her phone screen, her brow furrowed in
confusion. Did you hear that?
I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Yeah, she replied, pausing her game.
That doesn't sound right. We shrugged it off initially,
attributing it to one of the town's many quirks.
Our apartment complex sat on the edge of town, where the concrete
gave way to untamed woods, and it wasn't uncommon for wildlife
to venture close to human habitats.
Or so I thought. As the night wore on, the sound
didn't stop. Instead, it continued
unrelenting for hours, only ceasing around 2:00 AM.
By then, my sister had fallen asleep, her phone slipping from
her hands onto the bed. I lay in the darkness, listening
to the silence that followed, feeling a strange sense of
unease the next day. I asked Dad about it at
breakfast. He's Native American, and though
we weren't very involved with tribal activities, he sometimes
shared stories or legends from his culture.
Dad, do you think it could be some weird bird?
I ventured, hoping for a logical explanation.
He paused his fork mid air, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Could be, he said slowly, but his tone suggested otherwise.
I wanted to press further to ask if it could be something
supernatural. Skinwalkers, the shape shifting
creatures of Native American lore, had always fascinated me,
but Dad never liked talking about them.
He believed some things were better left unspoken.
That night the sound returned. It was the same unsettling call
stretching into the early hours. My sister slept soundly, but I
lay awake, listening and wondering.
The local dogs began barking furiously at something unseen,
and a chill ran down my spine. Could they sense what I was
slowly beginning to suspect? Over the next few weeks?
The bizarre occurrences became our nightly ritual.
The mysterious calls would start around 11:00 PM, each episode
lasting until the early morning. It was becoming harder to
dismiss as just an animal. The calls seem too deliberate,
too eerie. 1 Evening I decided to brave a question that had
been gnawing at me. Dad, do you think, could there
be skinwalkers here? I asked, trying to sound casual.
He stopped looking at me with a seriousness that tightened my
chest. That's not something to joke
about, he said sharply. Then, after a tense moment, he
added. Just don't think about it too
much, all right? But how could I not?
With each passing night, the sound seemed closer, more
personal. I couldn't shake the feeling
that something was out there, watching, waiting, something
that wasn't just a bird. As I lay in my bed that night,
listening to the raspy calls, a deep, unsettling fear began to
take root in me. What if the legends were more
than just stories? What if they were a warning?
The scream that night wasn't just another sound in the dark.
It clung to my mind, echoing in my thoughts long after it had
shattered the stillness outside our window.
I tried to convince myself it was just some animal, or maybe
my imagination fueled by the creepy stories I've been
reading. But deep down, I knew it was
neither. It was something far more
sinister, something that chilled me to the bone the next day, I
couldn't shake off the dread that clung to me like a second
skin. I needed answers, or at least
some reassurance, that I wasn't losing my mind.
So I turned to the Internet, diving deep into the lore of
Skinwalkers, those shape shifting creatures of Native
American mythology known for their malevolence and ability to
mimic human voices and animal sounds.
The more I read, the more the pieces seem to fit together,
painting a terrifying picture that I couldn't ignore.
Despite my growing fear, I decided to share what I was
experiencing with my friends. Maybe they would have logical
explanations that could dispel my fears, or at least offer some
support. We gathered at my house for a
sleepover, a night that started with video games and junk food,
trying to keep the atmosphere light.
But as the night deepened, I couldn't keep the story to
myself any longer. Guys, I've been hearing these
weird noises at night. I started my voice, hesitant, I
told them everything, from the strange bird calls to the
chilling scream we heard right outside our window.
At first they laughed it off, making jokes about me watching
too many horror movies, but I could tell they were uneasy,
especially when I mentioned the skinwalkers.
The room grew silent, the air thick with tension and unspoken
fears. That's when we heard it, a
faint, distant call that made every one of us sit up.
It was the same raspy, twisted sound I've been hearing for
weeks, my friends. Faces turned pale, their earlier
skepticism replaced by fear. Did you hear that?
I whispered. There was no need for them to
answer. Their wide eyes said it all.
The night didn't get any easier. We tried to distract ourselves,
but every little sound made us jump.
It wasn't until my friend's dog started growling at something
outside, barking and pacing restlessly, that we truly felt
terror grip our hearts. Whatever was out there wasn't
just a figment of my imagination, it was real, and it
was close. We spent the rest of the night
huddled together in the living room, too scared to venture near
the windows or doors. The sounds continued
intermittently, a cruel reminder that the night was far from
over. Eventually exhaustion took over
and we fell into a fitful sleep, the echoes of our fears haunting
our dreams. When dawn finally broke, my
friends were more subdued, the laughter and jokes from the
previous night long forgotten. They apologized for not
believing me earlier, and admitted that the experience had
shaken them too. As they left, I felt a mix of
relief and isolation. It was one thing to face an
unknown terror on your own, but sharing it with others made it
all the more real, all the more terrifying.
Now, not only did I have to worry about my own safety, but I
also feared for my friends, for my sister, and for anyone who
might cross paths with whatever was lurking in the darkness
outside. The summer was dragging on, and
with each passing night the sound seemed to grow bolder,
closer. I couldn't escape the feeling
that whatever was out there was watching me, following me.
The weight of constant dread was like a shadow I couldn't shake
off, darkening even the brightest of my days.
It was getting harder to pretend everything was OK.
My sister noticed my anxiety, and I could tell it was
affecting her too. She jumped at slight noises now,
her eyes often flickering to the window at the faintest rustle.
We were both on edge, always anticipating the next whisper of
terror. Then one windy evening, as the
sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the
room, it happened. The familiar, raspy call began
again. But this time it was different.
It was closer than it had ever been before.
My heart pounded in my chest as I peered out the window, my
hands trembling. There, in the dim light of dusk,
I saw it, a figure so thin and distorted it hardly looked
human, its eyes sunken deep into its skull.
It was staring right at me. I froze.
My breath caught in my throat. The curtain fluttered
momentarily blocking my view, and when I looked again, it was
gone. But the sight was burned into my
memory, haunting me even more than the sounds.
I knew I couldn't keep this to myself anymore.
I needed to tell my parents to share the burden that was slowly
crushing me That night at dinner, I finally broke the
silence. Mom, Dad, There's something
outside. It's been there all summer.
I started, my voice shaky. Their expressions turned serious
as I recounted everything from the first strange calls to the
chilling sighting just outside our window.
To my surprise, they listened quietly, their faces etched with
concern. When I finished, my dad sighed
deeply. I was hoping it wouldn't come to
this, he said. He then shared more about the
legends I had only read about, confirming that what we might be
dealing with was indeed a skinwalker.
We need to be careful, he continued.
These entities are not just stories.
They are a part of our history, our culture, and they demand
respect. The conversation felt surreal.
Here we were discussing ancient creatures of legend as if they
were part of our everyday lives, but it also brought a sense of
relief. I wasn't alone in this.
My family was with me, and we would face this together.
As the summer drew to a close, the occurrences began to wane,
the sounds became less frequent, and the eerie presence I felt
seemed to retreat. Maybe it was our acknowledgement
and respect for the lore that calmed the unrest, or perhaps
the creature had simply moved on.
The dread that had filled my summer began to dissipate,
leaving behind a cautious piece. I was more aware, more
respectful of the legends that had always been a part of
MyHeritage but had never felt so real.
Now I find myself listening more intently to the sounds of the
night, always on guard for anything unusual.
The fear has lessened, but the awareness remains.
It's a constant reminder of that summer, of the fine line between
our world and the mysteries that lurk just beyond sight.
I can only hope that the coming nights bring peace, and maybe,
just maybe, I'll finally get a good night's sleep.
The morning air was cold enough to see your breath, and I pulled
my jacket tighter around me as we drove through the sparse
landscape of the Western United States.
The sky was a pale Gray, promising more winter chill as
the day wore on. I was bundled up in the
passenger seat, listening to the rumble of the truck as my
brother focused on the icy road ahead beside me.
T fiddled with the radio, trying to find a station that wasn't
just static in this remote part. We were heading to a local
reservation to practice roping in their arena, something we had
been looking forward to all week.
My brother and T were both seasoned with their horses, who
had the temperaments of seasoned, laid back
professionals. My mare, on the other hand, was
a different story. She was as skittish as they
come, and I often joked that she spooked at her own shadow.
Today she was more restless than usual, shifting and whinnying in
the trailer behind us. Looks like Daisy's already
picking up on the vibes. I muttered, trying to mask my
concern with a half hearted laugh.
Yeah, she's always been a handful, my brother replied, not
taking his eyes off the road. T just nodded, glancing back at
the trailer through the rearview mirror.
We arrived at the arena early. The reservation was quiet,
almost eerily so, and shrouded in the early morning fog that
seemed to muffle sounds, making everything feel more isolated.
We unloaded the horses, and even my brothers and TS usually calm
mounts seemed a bit jittery, prancing and eyeing their
surroundings warily. Weird, isn't it?
On edge, T said as we LED them to the arena.
I nodded, feeling a twinge of anxiety.
Let's hope they settle down once they get a feel for the place.
The arena was large, bordered by tall fences and with a fine view
of the distant mountains. It was an ideal place for a day
of roping practice. We spent the morning running
drills and practicing our throws.
The horses gradually began to settle, but there was a
lingering tension in the air, something unspoken but mutually
felt among us. As the day wore on, we decided
to break the monotony with a ride along the nearby river
trail. Might do the horses some good to
stretch out and relax a bit, my brother suggested.
The trail was not far from the arena, and as we approached the
river a foul smell hit us. It was like stumbling upon a
rotting carcass, pungent and overwhelmingly vile.
What the heck is that? T exclaimed, pulling her horse
to a stop. I have no idea, but it's bad, I
replied, feeling my mare tense under me.
She was close to panicking, pulling at the reins and trying
to turn back. We decided to cut our
exploration short. Whatever was causing that smell
might have been nearby, and none of us wanted to encounter it.
As we turned back, I couldn't shake off the feeling that
something was watching us from within the dense tree lines that
hugged the riverbank. I kept glancing over my
shoulder, half expecting to see something emerge once back.
At the. Arena.
We tended to the horses, trying to calm them down with gentle
strokes and soft words. But.
Even as we prepared. To leave for TS House, where we
plan to stay the night the unease remained.
It's probably nothing, I told myself as we locked up the arena
and headed out. Just the wilderness playing
tricks on us. Yet as we drove away, I couldn't
help but feel that something was amiss.
Something about the reservation felt off today, and the
sensation of being watched lingered long after we left.
After settling the horses for the night, we piled into the
truck, the heater blasting to ward off the evenings growing
chill. As we drove to TS House, I tried
to push away the eerie feelings from earlier.
The house was cozy, a welcoming contrast to the cold in our
unnerving day. TS family was warm and inviting,
and they had already started dinner by the time we arrived.
The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the air, and
for a moment it was easy to forget about the strange
occurrences at the reservation. We spent the evening laughing
and sharing stories over dinner. TS parents were good hosts, and
they seemed to sense our need for a distraction after we had
eaten our fill. T suggested a few games of pool
in their basement. The atmosphere was light and the
earlier tension gradually slipped away as we focused on
the clack of billiard balls and playful competition.
However, as the clock neared, 9A wave of exhaustion hit me.
The adrenaline of the day had worn off and the warmth and food
made my eyelids heavy. I.
Think I want to check on. The horses one last time before
bed, I announced, feeling a responsibility to ensure they
were settled for the night. T glanced at her family friend
who had joined us for dinner. His face darkened a bit.
You shouldn't go back there alone at night, he warned in a
tone that brooked no argument. I hesitated, taken aback by the
intensity of his warning. T quickly offered to go with me,
and together we bundled up and headed back to the reservation.
The drive was silent, except for the crunch of tires on the
Frosty Rd. The reservation was only a half
mile away, but the road was icy, forcing us to drive slower than
usual. As we approach the bridge.
That crossed the river near the arena.
A heavy sense of dread filled the truck.
It was so palpable that even tea seemed to stiffen.
I peered out the window, trying to shake the feeling when my
eyes locked onto something terrifying, glowing yellow eyes
peering out from the darkness. They were unsettlingly bright,
unnaturally so, as if they emitted their own eerie
luminescence. Do you smell that?
T whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the
engine. It was the same foul stench we
had encountered earlier by the river.
I nodded, unable to tear my gaze away from those haunting eyes.
Let's just check on the horses quickly and get out of here, I
murmured, trying to keep my voice steady.
We reached the arena, and I jumped out to rush to the
stables. The horses were visibly
agitated, pacing in their stalls and whinnying nervously.
None of them had touched their feed, which was unusual and
unsettling. We hurriedly made sure they were
secure, but the sense of being watched was overwhelming.
We didn't linger. Climbing back into the truck, we
drove away as fast as the icy Rd. would allow.
Once safely back at TS House, the relief was palpable, but the
fear lingered. We locked the doors and
retreated to our rooms, trying to convince ourselves that we
were just being paranoid. But as I lay in bed trying to
sleep, the image of those glowing eyes haunted me, and
when I finally drifted off, it was only to be awoken later by a
faint tapping sound at the window.
A chill ran down my spine as I remembered the family friends
warning we weren't alone. The sound of my brother shaking
me awake pierced through my groggy consciousness.
My eyes snapped open to the dimly lit room where the early
light of dawn hadn't yet reached.
His finger pressed against his lips signaled for silence before
he pointed towards the window. My heart skipped as I heard it,
the faint rhythmic tapping and occasional scratching against
the glass. Did you hear that?
He whispered, his voice tense with fear.
I nodded, my throat tight. I hadn't told him about the
yellow eyes or the smell from the night before.
It had been too late, and honestly, I was hoping it had
just been our imaginations running wild.
But the tapping at this ungodly hour was real and unnerving.
Trying. To muster.
Courage, I whispered back. It's probably just a branch or
an animal. Try to go back to sleep.
But as I said it, my eyes darted to the window, half expecting to
see those eerie, glowing eyes staring back at me.
Neither of us moved for what felt like an eternity, each tap
sending a shiver down my spine. Eventually the noise stopped and
my brother, not convinced but too exhausted to stay awake, lay
back down. I, however, couldn't shake the
feeling of being watched. The moment the room lightened
enough to see clearly, I nudged T awake and explained what had
happened. We need to check outside, I
said, the urgency clear in my voice.
With T and my brother now both alert, we cautiously stepped
outside, the cold morning air biting at our skin.
The ground was frosty, and our breath fogged in front of us as
we made our way to the window where we had heard the tapping.
There, in the soft mud, were tracks, clear, distinct prints
that looked eerily like deer hooves, yet arranged as if
whatever made them walked on two legs.
This isn't right, T muttered, her voice barely above a
whisper. No deer walks like this.
The reality of our. Situation was setting in fast.
We were dealing with something unknown, something that didn't
adhere to the natural order of things, with a shared look of
determination mixed with fear. We agreed it was time to leave.
We needed to get our horses and get out before anything else
happened. The.
Drive back to the. Reservation was tense.
Each of us was lost in our own thoughts, the previous night's
events replaying in our minds over and over.
When we arrived, the first thing we noticed was how the horses
hadn't touched their feed or water from the night before.
They were anxious, pacing and knickering as we approached.
We need to hurry, I said, and everyone nodded in agreement.
We quickly loaded the horses into the trailer, not even
bothering to clean up our gear properly.
As we drove over the bridge one last time, I couldn't help but
look back towards the tree line where I had seen the glowing
eyes, and there it was again, that massive, sickly looking
buck staring back at me. Its skin hung loosely.
And it looked as if it were both rotting and alive at the same
time. Its legs were wrong, bending in
unnatural angles, and when our eyes met, it smiled.
That smile with those sharp, pointed yellow teeth will haunt
me forever. We.
Didn't stop until we. Were far away from the
reservation. The ride home was silent, each
of us processing the fear and relief of leaving that place
behind. But even as we arrived back at
our house, the memory of that smile, that unnatural,
terrifying grin, lingered in my mind, a grim reminder of the
unknown that still lurked out there, somewhere on the
reservation. The sun is a relentless.
Overlord, It's fiery gaze scorches the earth beneath my
boots as I lead my team through the jagged maw of the Canyon.
Every step I take is an act of defiance against the unforgiving
terrain of the American Southwest.
The canyons around us are like the ribs of some ancient
slumbering beast, and we mere mortals dare to tread upon its
bones. Keep close, I call out my voice,
barely carrying over the sound of our synchronized footsteps
that reverberate against the oppressive walls.
The echo serves as a haunting reminder that in this place,
nature does not yield. It dominates.
My fingers, brush against the worn leather of my satchel.
It's heavy with the tools of our trade, but it's my resolve that
truly weighs on me. As we venture deeper, the
silence is absolute, save for the occasional clatter of a
loose stone kicked down the path by one of us.
Each Echo feels like a taunt, as if the Canyon itself is mocking
our pursuit of knowledge, our hunger to unearth secrets long
buried within its sinewy depths. I.
Squint against the glare. Of the sun, which seems to aim
its blistering rays with malicious intent.
Even the air we breathe is tinged with the taste of dust
and desolation, a stark reminder of how inhospitable this ancient
land is to those who dare to unveil its mysteries.
The heat wraps around us like a shroud, suffocating and
unyielding our. Journey today is driven.
By whispers of the past, tales of petroglyphs etched into the
canyons, flesh holding truths untold With each step, the
anticipation builds within me, a gnawing curiosity that has
become my constant companion. It's that very curiosity that
has led me here. Where the lines between academic
pursuit and obsession blur, the landscape is a canvas of
desolation, painted with hues of red and orange that bleed into
one another under the harsh gaze of the sun.
In the distance, the outline of the Canyon walls rise up like
the jagged teeth of some primordial creature, ready to
snap shut at any moment. And yet, amidst the stark
brutality of this place, there is a beauty, an undeniable
rawness that fuels my passion. Sam, watch your step, comes a
cautious voice from behind me, reminding me that even in my
fervor, I am not alone. We are a team bound together by
a shared thirst for discovery and the thrill of the unknown.
Our destination lies ahead, veiled in shadow and silence,
beckoning us to uncover what lies beyond the realm of the
living. The sun may be merciless, the
silence overwhelming, but my heart races with the promise of
discovery. For within these ancient walls
lie stories waiting to be told, horrors to be faced and truths
to be revealed. And I, Doctor Sam Jamieson, will
stop at nothing to bring them into the light.
Pass me the brush, will you? I called out, my voice a stark
contrast to the sibilant whispers of sand skittering
across rock. My fingers itched for the tool
as I hovered over a promising fissure that cleaved through the
earth at my feet. Here, grunted Mark, the team's
geologist, his hand extending A worn brush with bristles frayed
from use. His skeptical eye never failed
to question my hunches, yet here he was, indulging my instincts.
Our relationship was a dance of respect and rivalry.
Each step measured, each turn sharp, with silent challenges.
Thanks, I muttered, focusing on the task.
The excavation was delicate work.
Every stroke had to be precise, like a surgeon wielding A
scalpel. The others watched a circle of
guardians against the encroaching dread of the
canyons. Think we'll find anything?
Sam? Asked Jenna, her tone light but
her eyes betraying a glimmer of the same hunger that drove us
all. She was the youngest of us,
eager and bright, her presence a balm to the raw edges of our
group's dynamics. Something calls to us from these
stones, I replied. More to myself than to her.
I can feel it. The sun bore down an unyielding
overseer as we worked in tense silence.
Time slipped by unnoticed, measured only by the shadows
that began their slow crawl across the Canyon floor.
And then my brush caught on something.
A line? No.
Several lines etched into the rock.
With each careful sweep, a form emerged, grooves deepened by
ancient hands, revealing A petroglyph so old it seemed to
pulse with the weight of eons. Look at this.
I breathed, my heart pounding with triumph.
The image sprawled before us was both mesmerizing and malevolent,
a creature with limbs too many to count, a body twisted in
shapes unnatural, its eyes hollow, pits that seem to stare
back from the abyss of time. Impossible.
Mark's voice trailed off, his usual skepticism, swallowed by
the sight. The depiction was a grotesque
mockery of life, limbs contorted, fangs bared in a
silent snarl, claws that suggested not just predation but
an intelligence behind the hunt. Sam, what is that?
Jenna's voice quivered. The notes of excitement now
edged with fear. I hushed her.
My gaze locked onto the carving. Was it my imagination or did the
air around us grow colder? An omen mark.
Ventured his face. Unreadable or a warning?
Neither, I, said, the scientist within me, refusing
superstition. It's a piece of history, a
chapter of a story long forgotten.
But even as I spoke, the unsettling sense of being
watched crept over me, a prickle on the skin that defied reason.
We stood together, a fellowship circled around, an ancient
horror bound by the thrill of discovery and a dawning
realization that some secrets might have been meant to stay
buried in the unforgiving embrace of the canyons.
As the sun dipped below the jagged horizon, its last rays
bled out across the Crimson sand, casting long, monstrous
shadows from the twisted petroglyphs.
The chill of twilight crept over us, a stark contrast to the
day's scorching heat. It felt as though we were not
merely watching nightfall, but rather witnessing the awakening
of something ancient and sinister.
We gathered our equipment slowly, the weight of dread
growing heavier with each passing moment.
Let's move back to camp, I suggested, my voice low, almost
swallowed by the growing darkness.
The others nodded, their faces etched with unease.
We knew the dangers of navigating the Canyon at night,
but the oppressive atmosphere around the petroglyphs urged us
to leave the trek. Back was.
Tense each of us jumping at the slightest sound.
A distant rockslide, the eerie call of a night bird, or the
rustling of the wind through the sparse desert brush.
The. Normal noises of.
The wilderness seemed distorted, as if mocking our fragile sense
of security. Halfway to camp, Jenna suddenly
stopped, her hand shooting out to grip my arm.
Do you hear that? She whispered urgently.
I strained my ears, and there it was, a soft, rhythmic thumping,
like footsteps padding through the sand.
But these were not the footsteps of any desert creature known to
us. They were heavier, deliberate,
filled with an intent that sent shivers down my spine.
It's following us, Mark breathed, his eyes darting
around the shadowy landscape. We increased our pace, the
sounds of our own hurried steps mingling with the continuing
thuds behind us as we pushed forward.
The unmistakable sensation of being haunted settled over us.
The thing behind us wasn't just mirroring our movements, it was
hurting us. Towards the cliffside.
I directed, hoping the open space would give us an
advantage, Any advantage. Our lights flickered across the
rugged terrain, revealing nothing but the endless dance of
shadows. When we reached the Cliff, the
vast emptiness of the desert stretched out before us, the
moonlight casting a pale, haunting glow over everything.
The thumping stopped abruptly, replaced by a stifling silence.
We huddled together, backs to the Cliff, facing outwards into
the darkness. Where is it?
Lisa's voice trembled. I scanned the horizon with my
flashlight, catching nothing but the eerie stillness of the
desert night. Then, without warning, a gust of
cold wind swept across us, and with it came a low, guttural
growl, an ancient, terrifying sound that seemed to rise from
the very earth beneath our feet. The ground trembled and a
fissure cracked open near the petroglyphs site, throwing
clouds of dust into the air. As the dust settled, A grotesque
shape began to emerge, a creature of nightmares, its body
a horrific amalgamation of the figures we'd seen carved into
the stone. It was as if the petroglyphs had
breathed life into this abomination.
Its limbs were twisted too numerous and malformed, ending
in sharp, jagged points that scraped the ground.
Its eyes, if they could be called eyes, glowed with a
malevolent red light, piercing the darkness and locking on to
us. We were frozen, terror rooting
us to the spot as the creature advanced.
Its movements were jerky, unnatural, as if every step was
guided by the chaotic will of the cursed.
Petroglyphs. Run.
I finally managed to scream, the spell of fear momentarily
broken, we scattered, scrambling desperately along the cliffs
edge, but the creature was swift, its form blurring into a
horrifying speed that no living being should possess. 1 by 1
screams filled the air cut abruptly short.
I darted into a narrow crevice, my breath ragged, heart pounding
violently against my ribs. The creature's growls echoed in
the Canyon, a sound so terrifying it seemed to shake
the stars themselves Crouched in the darkness, I heard the faint
whispers of my team. Please.
Prayers. Cries cut short by the night,
then silence. I was alone.
The chilling realization dawned on me that this creature, this
ancient guardian of the Canyon, secrets had been unleashed by
our own curiosity. And now it was my turn.
The last thing I saw was a flash of red eyes and a mass of
twisted limbs as it descended upon me.
The petroglyphs final gruesome story coming to life as darkness
consumed me. The Canyon walls seem to whisper
a morbid satisfaction in their tone, as if they had waited eons
for this night. The sun our relentless overlord
had set, and with it any hope of escaping the canyons ancient,
unforgiving grip. I want to start out by saying
I'm not a cop, I'm not a park Ranger, and I'm not some Bigfoot
hunter who would just run off into the woods for nothing.
I don't live in a farmhouse with a shotgun under my bed for the
coyote sounds some people decide are skinwalkers.
I've been hiking for as long as I could walk.
My dad taught me what specific birds looked like and then what
they sounded like. Even now, there's a shelf 5 feet
high in my living room, stocked with nature books.
I knew the. Differences.
Between local species of woodpeckers before I was eight,
I've been a wildlife researcher in Wyoming for maybe seven years
now. I'm a young guy, kind of baby
faced, so I get odd looks a lot when I'm out with all the
equipment. It's rural here, mostly
livestock, quiet apart from when everyone drives up to Cheyenne
for the rodeo every year. I can't go anymore.
Saw a horse break its leg during the wild horse race and I never
really got over it. Sorry, I am kind of distracted.
I had to fill up Jerry cans for my truck the other day and my
mind is so all over the place even the station's cashier
noticed It feels really far away.
What happened to me? Five days ago I went into a
private swathe of forest on the edge of a lake, all owned by
some group of enterprising millionaires, wanting to build
some of those stupid cabins you see on TV with the marble
counters despite the rustic goal.
Distracted again. Anyway, I was out there because
they found six dead elk within one week.
One week. This property is big, but it's
not that big. There are wolves in Yellowstone,
not here, and they obviously wanted to know if there was some
Big Bear starting to kill for sport.
Some of the rich hunters that rented weeks during the season
would be angry too, if bulls they'd been following on trail
cams got eaten before they could be stuck up above the fireplace
the first. Carcass they.
Marked was 3/4 of a mile in. I'm an all right navigator.
I sometimes have trouble getting places, but I'm good at
following markers on my way out. I'm pretty visual.
It was late morning, maybe 10. I wasn't going to be an idiot
and let it get dark. The first body told me it wasn't
a bear. I didn't know what my opinion
really was yet, or if I ever had one.
I don't know if you've ever seen an elk or someone posing with a
dead one, but they're big. This one had an almost
cartoonish impact imprint in the pine needles, like those craters
asteroids leave in movies, like it had been tossed diagonally
toward the ground, really hard. It was a cow on her side, split
from where her jawbone ended at her neck, all the way down
between both front legs, down her gut, stopping after her back
legs. I noticed almost immediately
when, what do you do? You know, examine.
Poke it with a stick. I put my gloves on and took a
closer look and whatever it was had almost cleaved her in half,
maybe 6 inches to spare. The cut was sharp.
I've never seen anything like it right through her sternum, the
smoothest I'd seen anything like that with the shoulder high
gloves on. I examined her internally,
propping the upper of her front legs up.
Her heart and her liver were missing.
It scared me. I think I was trying to
rationalize it. I got there and saw her.
No blood on the ground, with two missing organs and guts all
neatly in place, like they'd been put back when.
Yeah, I just told myself it was poachers.
When I got to the second carcass, a bull elk, it started
to change my mind. I don't know if you've ever been
around something decaying or had a mouse die in your house.
It. Doesn't take a lot of.
Flesh to make something stink. You can empty your pool filter
too close to the house and still smell the bugs.
Neither of them stunk at all. At the bull, I noticed what I
hadn't at the cow. There were no flies.
His liver was missing like hers, and though I had trouble
leveraging his leg up and got kind of frustrated, I found his
heart was missing too. The injuries were the same.
Dead stone, cold dead. I've been around a lot of
animals that have died in some way or another.
Nothing had ever chilled me to my God damn bones like this did.
I was on the way to the third one when I was attacked.
I never got to see the third one or the remaining 3 because I
ended up having to drive to the clinic after.
I'm going to try to give this as much detail as I can remember
because I swear I'm not crazy. There were these two rocks with
a hiking trail between them, the path worn by both animals and
people. The rocks went up maybe 10 feet
on either side, each about the width of how my truck is long,
with a couple of feet between them and the path.
I remember thinking I needed to try spikes for my boots because
the pine needles this time of year got pretty slippery in
places where they were thick. I didn't hear anything really
notable. I crushed a pine cone under my
boot and then it was on me. It looked like something I'd
imagine would crawl out of a cave in the body, slim by pedal,
but with digitigrade hind legs. It came out of nowhere and it
was so quiet. You're going to ask me how I
even noticed all of that, and it's because it jumped down from
the rocks to land in front of me.
I was almost out and there was a lot of ground behind me to
cover. One step back and it pushed its
back foot at me. Not all that fast, not a blow,
just the way someone would reach for a handshake.
It had hooves and I smelled burnt hair.
I remember now those videos from that martial arts style where
you can do one inch punches and yeah, it felt like a car hit me
in the chest, like I'd taken a hit from a Big Horn ram.
It crushed the breath out of me and I flew backward.
The forest floor broke my fall and by the time I gasped in air
and focused, it was staring me directly in the eyes.
Its skin wasn't white, not really translucent.
I could see its veins and arteries pulsing beneath in the
rhythm of a heartbeat, pushing so quickly.
It was maybe shock, maybe fear that kept me still, with it down
on all fours like that. I don't think it was breathing.
We were so close that I could see the blood vessels in its
eyes. It was larger than me, larger
than an elk Moose sized as big as a full size van.
Its head was a foot wide, maybe more gaunt and shaped like a
bison skull. The skin was stretched over.
It's so tight it looked like it had rip its nostrils, long slits
that went maybe halfway up its head.
The eyes that looked into mine were large, with no fleshy
eyelid, and when it finally blinked, 2 clear lids came in
from the outer edges of its eyes, its scleros besides the
blood vessels. Red like us.
We're so white. Everything's got a little color
in its eyes, but this was the whitest white I'd ever seen.
There wasn't an iris and its pupil was just clear, like when
they take a photo of the back of your eye at the eye doctor, it
felt like I was seeing the inside of its skull and it damn
sorry. I'm trying to be rational and
not get all shivery and supernatural with it.
It just stared. I'd worked with dogs when I
started my career with animals. It was instinct, maybe wanting
it to be done quickly or trying to calm it like I'd talk to dogs
with my body language. I tilted my head up and to the
side, went limp, closed my eyes. It felt like 2 hours before it
moved, it probably was 5 minutes.
I opened my eyes when I heard it rustle, but didn't move.
It brought up its front foot arm, I guess stood up a little
higher, and that's when I understood.
It looked like it had scythes on its hands, A palm shaped like
ours, one finger joint, then these claws a foot long.
Three of them and a thumb that had no claw at all, I thought.
I almost knew It had cut me in half and I'd be gone, but it
moved so slowly it brought that hand up, took one of its four
fingers, and dragged that claw down from my collarbone.
I was wearing a canvas coat with a sweatshirt and thermals
underneath. It started to split me.
I moved my head like watching a car crash as it sliced through
all of my clothing and down into my skin.
Like air, not like butter, like air.
It cut maybe 1/2 inch into me. Adrenaline is a drug, I'll tell
you that. It stopped 2 inches below my
belly button and then it turned and started to walk away like
nothing had happened at all, just moseying.
As I sat up a little and started to really feel it, It had turned
away from me, stood up tall, the horns.
It had reminded me of five pronghorn, spliced, not quite
antlers, And now I saw it had floppy bald ears like a pig.
I could see where every vertebra in its body pushed up against
the skin, the definition of every muscle like a shaved horse
on every steroid. With its skin that clear, it
almost blended and reflected the colors around it.
I lay there and watched it go until I couldn't see it anymore.
Toward the lake. I think I heard a boat motor.
I didn't even care. When I managed to get on my
feet, I ran. There was paracord in my truck
and I put my jacket on backward and tied it around me to put on
some pressure while I drove to the tiny medical clinic.
My brain gets a little spotty right before that quiet town.
Nobody kicked by a horse today, so I got in and the doctor, Jen.
I've known her since I moved here.
Older lady got to me immediately.
I remember that she took the jacket off and went kind of
pale, looking at there wasn't any blood.
I could see my flesh split perfectly down the middle in the
mirror on the wall above the sink.
In the exam room, I saw how well it was centered between the
bumps of my collarbones. She told me they'd bandage it,
and I just basically sat there in some kind of shock and let
them move me around. I don't even remember the drive
there or home. It reminded me of autopsy cuts
in TV shows with two fewer lines and higher.
Jen's an old soul. Her family's been in this state
longer than any I can think of. She's 30 but graying at the
temples down to earth. She's sweet and very logical and
is tired as hell of telling people Bigfoot doesn't live out
here. When they find out she's a local
and ask. It terrified me.
When in that empty waiting room escorting me out, she told me in
a low voice that I'd better go out see the Joneses because
their livestock guardian dog had died.
She had this look on her face when she said it, patting my
back and just said a bear. It reminded me of that tone
someone uses when someone else says something they don't
believe. Patronizing.
Oh, it was a bear? Sure, just like that.
I wanted to throw up. I don't know if she knew.
I just left. I feel like I'm being pulled
into something terrifying. I've been looking at apartments
in Portland all night. I've been trying to draw the
thing like I used to with animals back home, but I just
can't get it right. I feel like Jen is trying to get
me to look into this. I barely know her, but she
looked at me like she knew everything about me.
Help, I guess. What do I do?
As the days passed. The encounter haunted me like a
specter lurking just beyond the edge of my consciousness.
I. Couldn't shake the feeling.
That I was being watched. That every shadow held the
silhouette of that monstrous creature waiting to strike
again. Sleep became elusive, my nights
consumed by vivid nightmares that echoed the chilling reality
of that fateful encounter. Despite my best efforts to
rationalize what had happened, to convince myself that it was
just a hallucination brought on by stress or fatigue, the
evidence refused to be ignored. The wounds on my body, the
absence of blood, the sheer terror etched into my memory,
all were undeniable reminders of the truth I desperately wish to
deny. But denial could only shield me
for so long. Reality, cruel and unforgiving,
crashed down upon me with the force of a tidal wave.
It started with whispers, murmurs exchanged in hushed
tones among the townsfolk, Their gazes filled with a mixture of
fear and suspicion whenever they thought I wasn't looking.
Then came the disappearances. Pets vanishing without a trace.
Livestock slaughtered in the dead of night, their mutilated
corpses left as grisly warnings for those who dared to venture
too far into the wilderness. Rumors spread like wildfire.
Tales of a creature beyond comprehension, a being of
darkness and death that prowled the forests.
Hungry for blood. I tried to leave, to escape the
nightmares that haunted my every waking moment, but the tendrils
of fear had already ensnared me, binding me to this cursed land.
Every Rd. LED back to the same inevitable
conclusion. There was no escape, no
sanctuary to be found in this world or the next.
And then, one fateful night, it came for me.
I heard at first a low, guttural growl that sent shivers down my
spine, followed by the sound of rustling leaves and snapping
twigs as it drew closer, its presence A suffocating weight
pressing down upon me. I scrambled to lock the doors,
to seal myself away from the darkness that threatened to
consume me whole, but it was already too late.
With a deafening crash, it burst through the flimsy barrier of
wood and glass, filling the room with its noxious scent and the
sound of its laboured breathing. I cowered in the corner, my
heart pounding in my chest like a drum beat of impending doom as
it loomed over me, its eyes burning with a hunger that
chilled me to the very core of my being.
And then, with a single swipe of its razor sharp claws, it ended
my torment, snuffing out the last flicker of life within me
with merciless precision. As my vision faded and darkness
closed in around me, I knew that I had become just another victim
of the creature that haunted these woods, another nameless
soul lost to the eternal abyss. And as the echoes of my screams
faded into the night, I could only pray that my fate would
serve as a warning to those who dare to tread where no mortal
should ever roam. For in the heart of Darkness,
there are no heroes, only monsters waiting to claim their
next victim.