OK so I have no idea what we saw that night.
I've searched everywhere for sightings or even myths around
the area where we saw it and I found nothing.
If anyone has any idea what we saw or if anyone else has seen
it, please let me know. My husband and I think it could
be a Wendigo but I'm not sure. I haven't heard anyone else say
they've seen anything like it in Red River Gorge.
I guess I want help figuring out what we saw and what to do after
the night I'm about to describe. I think we've had a few close
encounters with it since my friends and I go camping a.
Lot and my favorite place is Red River Gorge, Kentucky.
We go there often and I've been going ever since I was an
infant. I'm 28 now, married with a kid
and I still go. It's the closest place to where
I live where you can see the Milky Way on almost every clear
night. It's perfect for stargazing and
I see a shooting star nearly every time I'm there.
When we go without our kid, we'll night hike to a good
lookout point and stargaze for hours.
Our first experiences night hiking were on trails we knew
well and that were used frequently during the day, ones
with log fences and gazebo resting places.
The most used trail is a Natural Bridge State Park and leads up
to the Natural Bridge. It's around 2 miles uphill
depending on where you start. I've done this trail every
summer of my life and could do it blindfolded.
It has wooden steps, carved rock steps, log hand rails, and
multiple sitting areas under a roof plus trash cans.
But after you reach the main trailhead there are no lights at
all. While it is uphill, the
difficulty level is low. As long as you have good shoes
and water you'll be fine. My friends have done it with me
multiple times and are confident with it too.
Technically hiking this trail at night isn't allowed, but I've
never really cared about closing times for the outdoors.
When we use this main trail to hike to the top, we would park
in the lot designated for the pool and Hoedown Island.
You walk across the road leading to the pool and you're at the
1st trail marker. You go up gravel for a while,
past the Natural Bridge State Park lodge, and there's a
waterfall and some lights, so it's best to walk quickly and
watch out for Rangers who might tell you to leave.
Then you cross another road and there's a small shelter or a
Rockwall to rest on. That's where the trail to the
top really begins. The night started off strange.
As soon as we began hiking, the clouds rolled in and it looked
like stargazing might be a bust. We went anyway, hoping it would
clear by the time we got to the top.
At first we were just dealing with the usual paranoia that
comes with night hiking. It kept us stressed and quiet.
You know you've reached the bottom of the bridge when you
see a giant wall of limestone. At that time, there was a gazebo
to the right of this wall, and the trail continued alongside
it. We had just come up a fairly
steep part of the trail, so the gazebo was a welcome spot to
rest. My husband, my best friend at
the time, and I all sat on the gazebo steps.
The bench under the roof was even darker, so we stayed on the
steps facing down the trail that runs along the limestone wall.
Each of us had a bright LED headlamp and a handheld
flashlight. We didn't look at each other
much because the lights were so bright.
We sat in a line like the Last Supper and would walk in a line
or staggered to avoid blinding. Each other.
It was after hours by then, no ski lift rides had gone on for
hours and the Rangers had already done their final sweep
and left right before we got out of the car.
The ski lift takes you to the top, but the workers there do a
head count and only leave after everything is clear.
I'm mentioning this because that's what I was thinking about
when out of nowhere a girl with a headlamp started walking down
the trail in front of us. She was wearing a sun dress and
flip flops. This hike is uphill and might be
considered easy. But not in flip flops with no
water, and at night she would have had to hike up and then
back down alone, without being seen by any Ranger.
Her light was bright, and when she reached the spot where the
trail curves from in front of the gazebo down to where we came
from, she stopped. She stood there straight, like
an anatomical drawing facing us. We had six LED lights aimed at
her face, but she didn't turn away or seem bothered at all.
I said hello, she replied very slowly, pausing between words,
something like hello, how are you?
I said something like good how are you and she took even longer
pauses before saying oh I'm fine.
Then she just stood there, hands at her sides, staring.
Her light was so bright I had to shield my eyes.
Then she turned and walked slowly down the trail we had
just come up. She reached a bend, stayed there
for a minute, and then the light vanished.
We waited a while before continuing.
I kept saying how weird that was, but everyone else brushed
it off as me being jumpy. The fact remained.
Though no one came after her, she'd done this alone at night
and wasn't caught by any Ranger. We got up and started again to
the top. It felt like it took way longer
than usual, but we eventually made it.
There are stone steps called Fat Man's Squeeze that take you to
the top of the bridge and you can walk across it.
While up there we heard twigs snapping, almost alternating
from left to right. We lay down trying to stargaze,
but the clouds had only gotten thicker.
It was miserably hot. Every so often we heard voices
and my husband kept checking, but he never saw anyone.
We saw a quick flash of light with no person attached to it,
and we heard a bird call that sounded more like a human
imitating a bird. Very rhythmic, not natural.
I was convinced we weren't alone and hadn't been alone for a
while. But I'm the most easily.
Spooked of the group, I asked if we could leave and the others
immediately agreed, which scared me because it meant they were
also afraid. We headed back down the way we
came and it felt like it took forever.
We were moving quickly but it seemed like we weren't making
any progress. I even said this feels much
longer and they agreed. I kept shining my flashlight
behind me. My husband kept looking off to
the sides and my friend mostly pointed hers forward.
I felt like something was watching us.
I couldn't tell which footsteps were ours and which weren't.
If I heard a noise, I'd shine my light that way but never saw
anything. My husband said he kept catching
eyes in his flashlight. It could have been a raccoon or
something else, but he worried it might be a bear or a big dog.
He couldn't keep his light on them long enough to identify
whatever it was. Eventually we were on a flatter
section of the trail. A log fence or handrail was on
our right and we were walking in a row close to it.
Suddenly my husband stopped and said, what's that?
In more of an alarmed tone, I pointed my headlamp, but didn't
see anything at first. Then my husband's lights caught
a shape, and so did mine, and then my friends.
All six lights illuminated a light Gray creature.
It was crouched, kneeling on its right leg, and began turning
toward us. It slowly stood up.
My mind was racing. It looked human, but was way too
big. Skinny and tall, almost white,
but actually a pale Gray. Its skin looked kind of like a
dolphin's, a bit shiny, reflecting our lights.
It rose to its full height, Its head was long and its eyes were
set like a human's, forward facing, not on the sides, but I
couldn't make out any other features, just big empty pits
where eyes should be. It looked right at us and our
lights. The way it stood was
intimidating, almost like a snake rearing up to show its
strength. It had been crouching and then
slowly faced us as if challenging us.
Its arms hung low and its hands looked long, possibly reaching
near its knees. I'd guess it stood around 9 feet
tall. It had no hair at all and its
head was large. I couldn't process what I was
seeing and froze. Then I felt my husband hitting
my back yelling run, run, run. I realized we had to get out of
there, and I saw it pivot to the right, heading back up the trail
so it could circle around the barrier and get behind us.
We sprinted the rest of the way down, knowing it was faster than
us and could catch up once it was past the fence.
None of us spoke. It felt like if we did, we'd get
caught. We just ran, struggling with the
steep sections. It never felt like we were out
of its sight. By the time we reached the first
gravel part of the trail, we heard something crashing through
the forest to one side. We ran until we got to our car,
then drove off as fast as we could.
As soon as we hit the main road, the sky was clear and the stars
were visible. When it looked at us, I knew it
was smarter and faster than we were.
If we hadn't seen it first, it could have easily taken one of
us. I think it only hesitated
because all of us saw it at the same time and we stayed
together. Once we got back to where we
were staying, we each took out our phones and wrote down what
we'd seen. We didn't talk about it until
after we compared our notes, and they all matched.
Without a doubt, we had all seen something real.
I pulled up to my parents old place just as the sun dipped
behind the orchard. The house looks smaller than I
remembered, like time had pressed in on its walls, warping
the roof and giving the windows a tired stare.
A crooked fence half hid what used to be my childhood
playground, the tangled Grove of fruit trees that felt more like
a wild forest. On the drive over, I tried
telling myself it was all kid stuff, the strange shapes I used
to imagine darting between the trunks, the nervous rush in my
veins whenever I stepped onto the property.
But creeping back onto this land, memories came flooding in,
whether I wanted them or not. I stood in the driveway, bag in
hand, trying to keep my breathing steady.
The orchard was silent. No rustling leaves, no distant
snapping of twigs, just a weird hush, like the place was sizing
me up. I'd barely set foot inside when
my sister Nicole nearly tackled me with a hug.
She got here before me, which made sense.
She was always the early bird of the family.
She forced a smile, though her eyes gave her away.
She was on edge too, probably remembering those same
unexplainable things we never talked about.
Once we moved away, Mom offered to make us both tea, which was
basically her polite way of giving Nicole and me space to
catch up privately. The house smelled like old
floorboards and dust, stirring that sense of being a kid again,
freaking out over every bump in the night.
Later, when Mom and Dad turned in early, Nicole and I ended up
in the living room. Yellow light from an antique
lamp cast long shadows across the walls.
She asked me what I'd seen so far.
I shrugged and pretended everything was fine.
The orchard was the last thing I wanted to discuss, but somehow
we circled right back to it. We both kept glancing out the
window, half expecting something to loom near the fence.
Eventually we went upstairs to check out our old rooms.
Mine felt frozen in time. Same faded posters, same creaky
bed, same curtains fluttering in the draft.
I dropped my suitcase on the floor and looked out the window
at the thick cluster of fruit trees.
Rain clouds had rolled in, so the orchard was just a dark
blur. Instinct told me not to stare
too long, but I couldn't help. It my chest felt tight, like I'd
swallowed a stone. Something about that place
always set me on edge. When I finally peeled myself
from the window, I heard Nicole in the hallway.
She asked if I remembered how we used to sneak out there during
the afternoons, leaving behind random trinkets, books,
leftovers, even shiny rocks we thought looked cool.
We used to laugh about forest friends.
I kind of froze. It wasn't so funny now, not
after the things that happened in that orchard.
Our. Parents always chalked it up to
overactive imaginations, but deep down we knew we'd seen too
much to dismiss. I gestured for Nicole to come
into my room, and we shut the door quietly.
She looked nervous, chewing her lip the way she does when she's
stressed. I asked her if she truly
remembered seeing those shapes, and she nodded.
Before I even finished the question, she explained she
still got nightmares from time to time, always involving tall
silhouettes lurking behind warped trees.
Hearing it in her voice made my stomach clench.
We'd never actually admitted this stuff to each other, not
this directly. It was late, so we decided to
call it a night, but sleep didn't come easy.
I kept thinking I might hear something outside, or notice a
figure gliding past the window. My mind spun with possibilities.
Maybe I'd step out in the morning and discover footprints
in the wet grass. Or perhaps something else
entirely was waiting, hidden just beyond my line of sight.
I tried to stay rational, telling myself it was just the
heaviness of the past playing tricks.
But that unease kept gnawing at me, and I couldn't relax.
Before I crawled under the sheets, I took one last glance
at the orchard. The clouds had cleared a bit,
and the moonlight gave the trees a ghostly shine.
I didn't see anything move, but I sure as hell felt watched.
It was as if that entire stretch of land had been anticipating my
return. I shut the curtains, flipped off
the light, and slipped into bed, heart thudding hard enough to
keep me awake. Somewhere beyond these walls,
the orchard loomed Silent, brooding, and too full of
memories neither Nicole nor I wanted to face again.
I woke up feeling like I'd barely slept at all, but morning
light was filtering through the curtains.
After the restless night, I felt a weird determination settle
over me. I needed to face that orchard.
The plan was simple. Nicole and I would walk past the
broken fence, scope out the trees in broad daylight, and put
our minds at ease. Except deep down, I suspected
we'd only confirm our worst fears.
Nicole was already up, pacing by the back door with a flashlight
in her hand. It wasn't even that dark out,
but we both clung to the idea of extra light as if it might
shield us. We didn't talk much.
Maybe we didn't want to voice what we were really thinking,
that we were about to step onto ground We should have left
alone. I nudged the old fence, testing
its stability. Rotten planks gave under my
hand, so we crawled through a gap in the boards instead.
The orchard greeted us with this damp, overgrown stillness.
Weed sprouted near the trunks, and gnarled branches twisted
overhead, blocking out patches of sun.
The deeper we went, the quieter everything seemed, like the air
itself had thickened. After a few minutes, Nicole
called my name softly. She pointed to the ground, where
a strange print marked the soil. It looked like a large hand with
elongated fingers pressed into the mud, and there were more
staggered, as if two or three creatures had passed through.
Some impressions were bigger, others thinner, but all of them
had that unsettling, almost human shape.
My stomach churned at how fresh they looked.
No leaves, no debris filled them in.
Yet we kept going, stepping carefully between the gnarled
roots. Broken branches littered the
ground, some arranged in odd patterns, like a scatter of
bones around a sacrifice site. The hair on my arms prickled
when Nicole led me to 1/2, collapsed lean to hidden behind
a tangle of branches. At first I thought maybe
homeless folks had taken shelter here, until I caught the smell.
It was a mix of wet animal fur and something rotting around the
lean to lay a scattering of smaller bones, maybe raccoon or
possum, lined up in an almost ceremonial pattern.
I tried to steady my breathing as we walked farther in.
The orchard felt massive, more like a twisted forest than the
neat rows I remembered from childhood.
My ears started picking up on faint rustlings, though I
couldn't pinpoint where they came from.
Nicole raised the flashlight, even though the afternoon sun
was still filtering through the leaves.
That pale beam swept across tree trunks, marred by scratches,
long, deliberate streaks that spiraled around the bark.
It reminded me of some kind of cryptic writing.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move.
I froze. A tall, gangly figure stepped
out from behind a trunk, just enough for me to make out its
silhouette. It had blotchy patches of hair
on its shoulders, and its arms bent in an unnatural angle
against its chest. The face was hidden by shadow,
but I could sense it watching. I felt an overwhelming tension
ripple through me, as if my body was warning me not to get any
closer. Suddenly, it fled.
Only fled is too tame a word for how it moved.
It darted away in a burst of blurred speed, limbs contorting
as though it wasn't fully bound by joints or bones.
Leaves and twigs crunched in its wake.
Nicole cursed under her breath, and I stumbled backward, eyes
scanning the orchard for any sign of it.
That's when she pointed out another shape lurking a few
yards deeper. A broader figure standing
completely still. Its eyes dull and whitish,
stared our way like a pair of dead orbs.
We both stood there, hearts pounding, not sure whether to
run or speak or simply stand our ground.
In the end, our instincts. Chose for us.
We backed away one step at a time, refusing to look away from
those glowing eyes. The creature stayed rooted, as
if it was letting us leave on our own.
Once we turned and began speeding up, the orchard broke
into a frenzy of noise, branches snapping, leaves rustling.
I couldn't tell if it was behind us or somewhere off to the side.
All I knew was that we had to get out.
By the time we reached the yard, my chest felt tight and Nicole's
face had lost all color. We slammed the back door, locked
it, and stared at each other, breaths ragged.
I realized I still had the flashlight death gripped in my
hand. She leaned against the wall,
trying to calm down, and finally looked at me with an expression
that said it all. This wasn't just our
imaginations. Those prints that lean to those
things, they were very real. We dragged ourselves to the
living room, where the sun shining through the windows felt
almost surreal after what we'd just seen.
Neither of us spoke for a good few minutes, then Nicole
whispered that she couldn't shake the feeling they knew we
were coming, like we'd walked into their domain uninvited, and
I had to agree. It was as though the orchard had
been anticipating our return, waiting to reveal how it had
changed and to show us that we weren't the only ones prowling
those twisted rows of trees. That evening, Nicole and I
huddled in the living. Room, the only light coming from
a single lamp that cast jittery shadows on the walls.
Outside, the orchard loomed, all dark trunks and twisted
branches. A storm was brewing.
Gusts rattled the windows, making us flinch at every sudden
noise. Neither of us wanted to head
upstairs, so we made a silent pact to stay up and keep an eye
on the backyard. Part of me hated the idea, like
if I looked hard enough I might invite something to stare back.
But ignoring it felt worse. Midnight approached and the wind
kicked up, whipping leaves around the yard.
In the faint glow of the porch light, I noticed a shape dart
between the trees. I nudged Nicole and she killed
the lamp, plunging us into near darkness.
Through the window I could make out what seemed to be one of
those long limbed figures. Head tilted as if listening for
us, I found myself gripping the window sill with tense fingers.
We stood there for what felt like forever, until the figure
drifted out of sight behind the orchard line.
Nicole whispered that we needed to follow it, that maybe this
was a chance to learn something. I didn't like it, but a weird
sense of determination forced my hand.
We grabbed our flashlights, pulled on jackets, and slipped
out the back door. The cold night air practically
stung my face. I inched forward, scanning the
darkness. A glimpse of Milky white eyes
flickered behind a gnarled trunk, then vanished.
The orchard was drawing us in. We crossed the fence again,
stepping onto the path where the ground turned spongy from all
the recent rain. My pulse hammered as we move
deeper, the flashlight beams picking up nothing but branches
and scattered debris. Soon, though, we found ourselves
in a small clearing. Moonlight seeped through a gap
in the canopy, illuminating an arrangement of sticks and bones
piled around an old tree stump. The sight made my stomach churn.
Clumps of fur, rotting fruit, and bits of cloth were woven
into a strange pattern. It almost looked like a shrine,
or maybe a warning. A rustle broke the tense
silence. Something tall crouched behind a
cluster of shrubs at the clearing's edge.
At first it watched us with that blank, lifeless stare.
Then it pulled back, like it was waiting for our next move.
Nicole gently set an apple near the stump, mimicking the
offerings we left as children. Her hand shook, but she managed
to keep steady long enough to place it down.
Another shape crept through the trees, a creature with broader
shoulders, half hidden in the gloom.
Its presence felt more assertive, like it was the one
in charge. Everything happened in a blur.
There was a snapping noise from the shadows, and we caught sight
of 1/3 figure, smaller but disturbingly quick, crawling on
all fours. Nicole and I backed away.
A surge of terror roiled in my chest and my flashlight
trembled, the beam dancing across twisted roots.
We heard heavy breathing. Hours, maybe theirs, and the
orchard seemed charged with a restless energy.
We bolted. Branches tore at my jacket,
tripping me up as Nicole and I sprinted toward the fence,
adrenaline pounding in our ears. Behind us, we caught fleeting
movements in the darkness. Part of me thought they were
chasing us. But when we reached the fence
line, everything went eerily calm, like the orchard exhaled
once we crossed out of its domain.
We stumbled into the house, locked the door and collapsed
onto the living room floor. My heart hammered so hard I felt
dizzy. Nicole looked just as rattled,
tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
We sat there, both of us struggling to process that
clearing, those silent, watching figures and the feeling that
we'd intruded on something ancient and territorial.
By morning, neither of us could pretend this was just an
overblown childhood fantasy anymore.
We packed our bags quietly deciding to leave Redwood Falls.
A weight of dread clung to me, though, like we were only
postponing the inevitable. Those things in the orchard had
seen us, recognized us, and somehow I couldn't shake the
idea that we'd been allowed to leave this time.
I'd been burying myself in work for weeks, churning through
endless shifts and coming home with barely any time to eat or
crash. My head felt like it was in a
vise from all the stress, so the idea of a midnight walk on the
wooded trail behind my neighbourhood started sounding
pretty good. It used to be my favorite place
to clear my thoughts. A straightforward path, usually
quiet except for the hum of crickets and the soft crackle of
leaves under foot. I stepped onto the trail, taking
in the surprisingly still air. I expected the usual nighttime
chorus, but everything felt muted.
My flashlight beam cut through the darkness in a narrow arc,
revealing only the next few feet of dirt and tangled roots.
The hush unsettled me, so I kept moving, hoping the rhythmic
motion of walking would calm my nerves.
With each step I tried to convince myself I was just being
jumpy after a long shift. About a mile into the forest, a
noise caught my attention. A rustle in the leaves to my
left, like someone stepping off trail.
My first thought was that it might be another late night
Walker, but whoever it was didn't say anything or respond
when I paused and took a quick look around.
I shouted a casual greeting, hoping to ease the tension.
Nothing. The silence weighed heavier
after that. I flicked off my flashlight,
standing dead still in the dark, straining to pick up any sign of
movement. Not a single branch swayed.
The night felt thick, as if the air itself was holding back a
secret. I took a breath and turned the
light back on, deciding to head back.
My steps were faster this time. Only a minute later, there was a
distinct crunch of foliage behind me.
Instead of sounding like a person strolling, it reminded me
of something moving in a way humans don't.
I whipped around, shining my flashlight at the trees, but
spotted nothing besides a few crooked trunks and the dull glow
of their bark. I barked a warning, telling
whoever might be out there to knock it off and that I wasn't
in the mood for games. No voice answered.
There was just a long stretch of waiting, like the woods were
testing how long I'd stand my ground.
I caught the flash of something pale between the trees, just for
a split second, but it stood out starkly in the blackness.
My throat tightened in a wave of panic I'd never quite
experienced before. Whatever I glimpsed was
hairless, a shape that seemed all arms and legs, like it was
built to be on all fours. It moved in an almost fluid way,
vanishing before I could focus on its exact form.
I felt pinned in place by an awful sense that it was still
near. Suddenly, a burst of motion
stirred behind me again and I spun, fists clenched around my
flashlight. This time a laugh, I can only
call it that, reverberated through the trees.
The sound was unlike any normal laughter, higher pitched with an
unnatural rasp that made every instinct in me scream to run.
I did. I sprinted until I hit the
familiar edge of the trail. Stumbling onto the street lights
at my door, I fumble with my. Keys.
Half expecting to find that thing right behind me wearing
that distorted grin I'd imagined in the darkness.
Once I got inside, my entire body was shaking.
I locked every door and window, peering out into the shadows as
if it could slip under the porch light at any second.
Later, I told the cops I'd run into a suspicious person.
I couldn't bring myself to describe the tall pale figure on
all fours or the spine tingling laugh.
Saying it out loud felt absurd, like admitting I'd crossed into
some twisted nightmare. But the sight of that form in my
flashlight's beam refused to leave my mind, and in my gut, I
knew I'd have to go back. If I didn't, that nameless,
mocking presence would haunt me forever.
I spent the next day stuck in a restless fog.
My nerves were still raw from that freakish encounter, and
even though I tried explaining it to my closest friends over
text, I could tell they were skeptical, like they figured I
was overtired or half delirious. But I wasn't about to let it go.
I invited three of them over, pretty much pleading for backup.
I told them every detail, right down to the bizarre laugh that
echoed through the darkness. They kept exchanging glances,
torn between curiosity and thinking I'd completely lost it.
After a solid hour of me pacing around my living room and
rehashing the events, they finally agreed to come with me.
Two of them brought pistols, 1 slung a shotgun over his
shoulder, and I triple checked the batteries for our
flashlights. Jokes flowed while we prepped.
It was their way of dealing with the tension.
My own anxiety didn't budget though.
I kept flashing back to that hairless shape I'd seen vanish
behind the trees. A big part of me wondered if
we'd be safe. Another part knew it wouldn't
let me rest unless I had backup. We set off at around 9:30 PM,
stepping onto the same trail that had haunted my dreams the
past few nights. The initial stretch felt like
any typical night hike. A slight breeze leaves overhead,
forming ghostly patterns in our flashlight beams.
My friends kept up the banter, aiming to lighten the mood.
I tried to join in, but my mind kept drifting to the possibility
of seeing that thing again, this time with others around to
confirm I wasn't imagining. It.
Deeper along the path we slowed our pace.
The trees pressed in closer and the ground turned uneven.
An unsettling hush replaced our earlier chatter.
Even my buddies confident jokes fizzled out.
We all felt it, like the forest itself was sizing us up.
I started scanning every bit of shadow, gripping my flashlight
so hard my hand hurt. Out of nowhere, heavy footfalls
broke the silence. They seemed distant but headed
in our direction. Slow and deliberate at first, We
aimed our flashlight beams toward the noise, but caught
only glimpses of movement in the undergrowth.
I shouted a warning, announcing we were armed, that we'd fire if
necessary. No response.
Instead, those steps morphed into a frenzied scramble,
sounding more like an animal charging than a person walking.
One friend triggered his flashlight and pointed his
pistol, voice shaking as he threatened whoever might be
lurking out there. The sound stopped.
Everything fell silent for a stretched moment.
Then we caught a flash of something pale sliding behind a
wide trunk. Too fast for comfort.
Another friend swore under his breath while the shotgun wielder
pulled his weapon forward. The tension in the air felt
thick enough to slice. Suddenly, a shrill cry rang out.
Part scream, part laughter, that chilling echo bounced through
the branches. The friend with the shotgun
fired, his blast lighting up the trees in a harsh burst.
Splinters erupted from a trunk, but all we saw was a twisted
silhouette streak to the side, vanishing into deeper darkness.
My pulse thudded in my ears as the reality hit.
This was real. We were out here with something
that shouldn't exist, and it didn't seem afraid of our
firepower. Everyone started talking at
once. Another round went off into the
spot we'd last seen movement, but only the echo of gunfire
answered. The rest of the forest swallowed
our flashlight beams. When the smoke cleared, the hush
returned, broken only by our ragged breathing.
The sudden quiet may have been worse than the chaos.
I could almost sense an intelligence lurking out there,
waiting for our guard to drop. We regrouped, rifles and pistols
still raised, and began a slow retreat back to the trailhead.
Nobody tried to act brave anymore.
We stuck close, scanning all angles, hearts pounding.
Nothing else came charging at us, but I got the impression we
were being followed the whole way.
Once we neared the opening of the path, we practically jogged
to my car, arms still ready in case that thing decided to
pounce. At home, we collapsed around the
kitchen table. Nobody had any appetite. 1 Buddy
said he'd caught a clearer glimpse, a long limbed figure
hugging the ground, its eyes non existent or hidden in shadow.
Another kept insisting he'd nailed it with the shotgun, but
no trace of blood or any sign of injury showed up afterward.
By the end of the night, our skepticism was gone.
We could hardly speak. Each of us looked like we'd seen
a nightmare step off the page and walk among us.
Lying in bed hours later, I stared at my ceiling, questions
raging in my brain. We'd gone in expecting to corner
some weirdo messing around in the dark, maybe find a half
baked prankster. Instead, we ended up with a
glimpse of something we couldn't easily define, and the worst
part was knowing we'd barely. Scratch the surface.
I spent the next few days in a weird limbo between haunting
memories and frantic web searches.
I tried piercing together any clue that might explain what
lurked in those woods. Every free moment I'd be
scrolling through forums where people wrote about unexplained
sightings, reading posts from folks who claimed they stumbled
across pale creatures or heard voices.
That didn't belong to anything human.
Some sounded far fetched, but a handful lined up disturbingly
well with what my friends and I witnessed.
All of us had agreed to try again.
We were dead set on capturing solid evidence this time.
Photos, video, or at least something beyond shaky memories
and bullet casings. I met up with the crew at my
place, the same living room where we'd gathered in panic
after our last run in. Instead of going in blind, we
laid out a plan. Bring more robust cameras, a few
motion sensors, and better lights with extended range.
We even rigged up a cheap night vision setup that one friend had
thrown together using old security camera parts.
It looked clunky, but we were desperate enough to give it a
shot. The evening we picked was grim,
which fit our mood perfectly. Clouds choked out the moonlight
and the temperature dropped low enough to make the air feel
heavy against my skin. We joked half heartedly about
forming a paranormal SWAT team, but the tension was impossible
to ignore. Nobody wanted to say it, but we
were all thinking, what if this time it doesn't back off?
We parked near the trailhead. The headlights swept across the
looming trees as we climbed out. Instead of cracking jokes, we
got right to work unloading gear.
A hush settled over us like an unwelcome tension that wouldn't
quit. I could tell my friends were on
edge just from the way they moved.
Quick, efficient, no wasted gestures.
We entered the woods at a slow pace.
I kept glancing over my shoulder, half expecting to see
that pale shape lurking behind us right from the start, but for
a while we only heard the crunch of leaves beneath our boots.
Eventually, the dense canopy swallowed what little light we
had, forcing us to rely on our flashlights and the faint glow
from the night vision rig. Every so often, a branch would
snap and we'd all stop in unison.
Scanning the darkness, we settled near the spot where we'd
confronted the creature before. The plan was to set up a camera,
pointing into the deeper brush while the rest of us crouched in
a semi circle, ready to flip on the biggest spotlight if we
sensed any movement. One friend positioned motion
sensors around the perimeter, carefully masking them behind
fallen logs or thick bushes. Another was in charge of the
night vision feed. Squinting at the small monitor
we'd rigged up in a backpack, time seemed to crawl.
We whispered back and forth, trying to stay alert without
giving ourselves away. For long stretches, the only
sound was our own breathing. Then something shifted to our
left, the faint noise of leaves rustling, too rhythmic to be the
breeze. We glanced in that direction,
barely able to see beyond a few feet.
My heart thudded like a war drum.
The sensors didn't go off, but the night vision guy muttered
that he saw a flicker of movement on his monitor.
We aimed the light in that direction, but the undergrowth
was so thick it felt like we were illuminating nothing.
A minute crawled by, then another.
Just as we were starting to think it might have been an
animal, a loud scrape echoed from our right, the complete
opposite side. It was the kind of sound you'd
hear if something dragged across the forest floor.
We all whipped around. My friend with the shotgun
dropped into a firing stance, muzzle aiming into the shadows.
I panned my flashlight over the area, but it reflected off
something pale for barely an instant.
The next second, a sudden cackle tore through the silence, as if
mocking our attempt at vigilance.
My nerves had felt raw before, but that sound magnified
everything. The friend with the shotgun took
the shot without hesitation. The flash lit up a grotesque
outline. Elongated limbs, skin that
looked ghostly white under the bright light.
It recoiled, letting out a guttural shriek that rattled the
branches overhead. Another friend fired as well,
and I saw a flurry of movement as whatever it was lunged
sideways out of view. The cameras captured flickers of
it darting behind a mass of tangled brush before the night
vision feed cut to static. We heard the thrashing of
branches as it speed deeper into the woods. 1 Friend swung the
spotlight that way, revealing nothing but swaying leaves.
For a moment, I wondered if we'd actually heard it, or just made
it furious. There was no real time to think,
though. A mocking laugh echoed again,
this time more distant. It sounded bizarrely giddy, like
it was toying with us. We debated chasing it.
Part of us wanted to finish what we started, but a colder, more
rational side pointed out that we were outmatched in its
territory. We'd lost our night vision feed
and stumbling around in the dark while it crept through the trees
seemed like a death wish. I shouted for everyone to
regroup. The plan went out the window the
moment we realized it had vanished beyond our reach.
We scooped up the equipment we could grab quickly.
Some of the motion sensors stayed behind and made our way
back, picking a direct path rather than following the trails
winding route. As we pushed through
undergrowth, our arms and faces got scratched up, but we didn't
care. We wanted out of those trees.
Once we burst onto the main path, we hustled toward the car.
The whole time, I was positive that thing might come barrelling
at us from the side. I kept my flashlight aimed
behind us, half expecting to see those contorted limbs close
enough to touch. But we reached the safety of the
open lot without another attack. When we finally slammed the car
doors shut, the relief was almost dizzying.
We drove back to my place, none of us speaking until we were
inside with the lights on. I felt like I was stuck in a
nightmare that refused to end. We checked the cameras, found
brief shots of that lanky shape twisting away from the second
gunshot, then a flash of white as it tore the night vision lens
from its perch. Most of the recordings after
that were static or wild swings. As the cameras hit the ground,
we talked in low voices about what we'd do next.
Another visit felt like tempting fate, but leaving it alone meant
living with a terrifying unknown at our doorstep.
For all our preparations, we barely managed a few seconds of
footage and more questions than answers.
I felt hollow. That night, I sat alone in my
living room after everyone headed home.
My windows were locked, the curtains drawn, The memory of
that pale form burned into my mind.
We might have proof, but we also had proof of how unprepared we
really were. And if it was still out there
laughing and unhurt, what would stop it from following us back,
or worse? Part of me wanted to pretend
none of this ever happened, to bury it and return to a normal
routine. Another part knew there was no
going back. We'd looked behind a curtain we
never should have touched, and now it felt like the forest
itself was awake, waiting. I was barely old enough to speak
when the strangest memory stamped itself on my mind.
Imagine this, a wide sky with no horizon, like someone had wiped
away land and sea, leaving only clouds drifting in every
direction. There I stood, if that's even
the right word, for floating weightlessly with nothing
beneath my feet. Right beside me was an older man
who seemed both familiar and alien at once.
His face was kind, his eyes carrying a wisdom I couldn't
possibly understand as a toddler.
He wore a robe the color of worn linen, and he asked, Are you
prepared? The question didn't frighten me.
In fact, it felt more like a gentle invitation, something
that promised a journey I was meant to take.
A flicker of images flashed before me, moments from what I'd
later recognize as my own life. Then everything rushed downward.
The only way I can describe it is as though I tumbled from that
place above the clouds, right into my birth.
It's absurd, right? A kid that young shouldn't have
any concept of birth, much less of meeting an Indigenous man on
a plane of thin air. But that memory never went away,
and as I grew older I tried to wave it off like a dream or an
overactive fantasy, yet it clung to my subconscious with
relentless persistence. My parents never talked much
about our ancestry. Dad mentioned once that we had a
bit of Indigenous blood in the family line, centuries old, but
no one kept track of specifics. We lived in coastal Maine for a
while when I was very small. Cold winters, fierce winds.
My grandparents would recount local stories about the harsh
realities of living in such climates.
Nothing supernatural, mostly pioneer struggles and survival
tales. They all seem normal enough for
our region. But something always caught my
attention whenever talk turned to lonely woods or hidden
corners of the shoreline where eerie things supposedly
happened. As I got older, I fell into a
typical kid routine Cartoons in the morning, elementary school
in the afternoon, homework at night.
Life seemed boringly ordinary, except for these faint glimpses
I'd catch sometimes at night. Whenever the clouds blocked the
moonlight, I'd sense a silhouette near my bedroom
window, like a presence. Standing just beyond the glass,
it never lasted more than a second or two, so I'd bury my
head under the blankets and blame it on my wild imagination.
That logic stopped comforting me around the time I turned 71.
Evening while lying awake, a mental image seeped into my
consciousness. A face so thin it looked more
skeleton than human. The skin stretched taut as if
starved, the lips drawn back to reveal teeth that almost glowed
white. An expression twisted into a
grin too wide, too unnatural. My nerves instantly went
haywire. I couldn't grasp where this face
came from or why it popped into my head.
I never saw a real corpse at that age, so conjuring such a
graphic sight out of nowhere made no sense.
I tried to explain it to Mom the next morning.
She gave me a sympathetic smile and told me I probably had a bad
dream. Though I wanted to believe her,
that explanation felt hollow. This mental image wasn't
confined to sleep. It lingered during broad
daylight, flashing in my thoughts.
If I let my mind wander at recess while other kids laughed
on the swings, I'd stand off to the side, imagining that awful
grin hovering right behind me. More than once, I spun around,
expecting to find a real creature there.
Mom's concern grew whenever she noticed I refused to sleep.
With my curtains open, I'd practically beg her to shut them
tight. Or better yet, let me keep a
small lamp on through the night. She asked if I was afraid of
burglars or big dogs outside. Anything tangible she could fix.
I couldn't tell her the truth in a way that didn't sound insane.
I keep picturing a leathery half dead face that stares through
the window. That's not exactly an easy topic
for a kid to bring up, so I stayed quiet.
The only person I tiptoed around the subject with was Grandpa.
During one of our rare quiet talks, he leaned back in his
creaking chair, reminiscing about old folk tales.
He spoke of travellers who wandered too far in the snow and
never came back, the same of strange shapes glimpsed at dusk
among the spruce trees. He joked that these were just
local ghost stories meant to scare children, but he never
completely dismissed them either.
He'd shrug and say some folks claim they've seen things we
can't explain. Then he'd pat my shoulder like
that was all the advice he could offer.
All this built into a constant edge in my life.
By day, I was just another kid dealing with spelling tests and
trading snack packs with classmates.
By night, my thoughts circled back to that haunting face.
Skin pulled so tight, eyes too far back in their sockets, grin
that didn't belong on anything alive.
Clouds became my silent enemies whenever the sky darkened.
My stomach twisted in anticipation.
I'd force myself to blink, hoping each time I open my eyes
that maybe this terror would vanish.
It didn't vanish. In fact, it settled in deeper,
as if waiting for the right moment to reveal its full,
monstrous self. And that's what had me on edge.
The nagging hunch that I was seeing only a fragment of
something bigger, a presence that was content to lurk in the
corners of my mind until the day it decided to show itself
completely. So there I was, living a double
life, in a sense. One side was your average
childhood, fighting with my younger sister over the TV
remote, rolling my eyes when Mom asked me to clean my room,
looking forward to an ice cream cone after school.
The other side was an ever looming suspicion that I was
being watched by something beyond my understanding,
something that had latched onto me from my earliest breath.
The memory of that robed man in the sky tied oddly into these
nightmarish visions, but I couldn't connect the dots.
All I knew was that this fear refused to leave, and each year
that went by it felt a little more real.
I told myself it was nothing. I pushed it down.
But some shadows aren't satisfied with being ignored,
and I was starting to suspect that no amount of daylight could
truly protect me from the thing waiting just behind the clouds.
I was 10 when I stumbled across a library book that changed
everything. It was an old volume in the back
corner of the local branch pages, yellowed from age and
handling. The book chronicled an I'll
fated Arctic expedition. Men trapped in endless ice, some
vanishing without explanation, others found decades later
preserved in the unforgiving cold.
Their photographs were printed in grainy black and white, but
the images still came off the page with startling clarity.
As I flipped through, a picture of a recovered body made me
freeze, its features. Drawn skin, slightly parted
lips, vacant eyes mirrored the twisted face that had plagued my
dreams for years. It was as if those nightmares
had been plucked out of my head and captured by a camera long
before I was born. The coincidence might have been
chalked up to a child's imagination meshing with grim
pictures. Except my nights got worse from
that point on. Whenever clouds passed over the
moon, I sensed something just beyond the bedroom door.
The hallway, usually harmless, turned into a stretch of
shadows. Ordinary sounds, the settling of
the house. The refrigerator humming
suddenly felt sinister, as though something in the darkness
was drawing closer. Sleep didn't come easily.
When it did, my dreams were restless, teeming with images of
tall silhouettes backlit by muted light.
A few years later, in my teens, I met Melissa.
She was vibrant, full of laughter, yet she also came with
a subtle intensity that drew me in.
She admitted, once, quietly, that she'd picked up on a shadow
around me the first week we hung out, though she didn't spell out
what that meant. Curious, I pressed her, and
little by little she revealed she often had odd intuitions
about people. Sometimes she knew who was
feeling low before they said a word.
Or she'd sense a presence in an empty house only to discover a
tragic back story tied to the place.
Normally, I would have called it nonsense, but she kept reading
me too accurately to ignore. As we grew closer, I worked up
the courage to describe the face I'd been seeing.
Melissa didn't laugh or roll her eyes.
She listened carefully, her expression grim.
She confessed that on more than one occasion, while standing in
my kitchen or passing the open window in my living room, she
had felt watched by something neither of us knew what to call
it, only that it radiated a hostility that made the air feel
heavier. My curiosity turned into
obsession. I began reading about various
legends, especially those involving winter spirits or
creatures born of starvation and cold.
That's when I learned about something referred to as Ganuska
in a few sources. A being that was said to appear
as a gaunt, ice kissed monstrosity devouring anyone
foolhardy enough to wander alone in a frigid forest.
Every article I found described it as eternally hungry with skin
pulled tight over its bones. A near perfect match for what
I've been envisioning since childhood.
Accounts varied, but they all shared a common thread.
A relentless predator that thrives on human fear and
desperation. Sleep became even more elusive.
Melissa noticed dark circles under my eyes and worried that I
was barely eating. I'd lie awake into the early
hours, convinced the temperature dropped whenever my thoughts
drifted to that hideous figure. At times I felt almost feverish,
sweating under thick blankets, only to feel a sudden chill that
made my stomach twist. My faith as a Methodist had
always taught me to question unearthly claims, so I attempted
to reason it away. Yet my nerves weren't fooled.
The more I researched, the more I sensed an unseen force
pressing closer. One detail about these winter
spirits struck me harder than the rest, the belief that
speaking or thinking of them too deeply might feed their
presence. I wasn't sure I believed it, but
a creeping suspicion told me that this dark obsession of mine
was giving it room to grow. I spent long nights hovering
over my computer, jumping at every minor noise, searching for
any explanation or antidote to the fear that now filled my
waking hours. Every piece of folklore I
uncovered seemed to strengthen the parallels between my
experiences and these old, unsettling tales.
Melissa tried to support me, even offered to talk to a friend
of hers who supposedly had experience dealing with
malevolent entities. I hesitated, torn between my
reluctance to dive into rituals I didn't comprehend and the
dread that ignoring this thing would only make it bolder.
By the time winter rolled around, I felt constantly on
edge, scanning corners and windows as if expecting a
glimpse of that long, limbed shape.
Logic told me to back off, but curiosity and desperation had me
pressing forward. The more I dug, the heavier the
air felt around me, like the weight of an ancient presence
was settling in for the long haul.
And deep down I wondered if I'd passed the point of no return,
if shining a light on this horror had only made it that
much more real in my life. I wish I could say moving to
northern Alabama offered a clean slate, that the milder winters
would smother any remnants of that bleak presence, but it
didn't take long for me to realize I'd brought the darkness
with me like some unwelcome stowaway.
At first, Melissa and I focused on settling into our new place,
unpacking boxes and exploring the friendly little town.
Days were usually full of sunshine and friendly neighbors
dropping by with homemade pies. Nights, though, came with a
different kind of hush, and I couldn't shake the sense that
something out there watched each step we took.
When the first cold snap hit in mid-december, the house felt
different. Drafty, maybe, or simply uneasy.
I'd walk down the hallway and catch faint scratching noises
that could have been tree branches against the siding,
except there were no branches near that section of wall.
Melissa asked if I thought raccoons were nesting somewhere,
but neither of us really believed it.
Truth was, any time I heard that sound, a wave of dread tensed
every muscle. It felt as if a visitor paced
just outside the house, searching for a way in.
A couple of days later, the power flickered during a Gray
afternoon. Melissa had gone to work,
leaving me alone, so I grabbed a flashlight and rummaged through
drawers, looking for fresh batteries.
While doing that, I became aware of how silent everything had
gone, like the entire house was braced for something.
Then, through the kitchen window, I noticed the silhouette
of a figure in the yard. It stood perfectly still, taller
than any person I'd ever seen in real life.
The moment I tried to focus on it, the power surged back to
life and all the lights blinked on, flooding the window with
glare. By the time I managed to squint
into the yard, the shape was gone.
My heart hammered so hard it felt audible in my ears.
Melissa came home that evening and I finally blurted out what
had happened. She didn't doubt me, which felt
both comforting and terrifying. There was no maybe you imagined
it from her. Instead, she said.
I think we have to try something about this.
She'd already reached out to one of her long time friends, an
amateur practitioner who claimed expertise in warding off
malevolent entities. My gut twisted at the idea of
turning to rituals I knew nothing about, but I couldn't
deny that common sense had gotten me nowhere.
We arranged to meet her friend Sam at our place.
As soon as Sam stepped inside, she frowned like she'd walked
into a frigid draft. She carried a small bag that
clanked with who knew what. I hovered awkwardly in the
corner, watching her set candles on our coffee table and sprinkle
a powdery mix in the corners of the living room.
She explained it was a blend of sage, salt and other herbs meant
to purify the space. I wasn't sure what I expected,
but the ritual she performed was calm, almost methodical.
She lit the candles, murmured prayers or incantations under
her breath, then walked from room to room, drawing symbols on
scraps of paper and tucking them above door frames.
The walls felt like they were vibrating with tension, as if
the house held its breath while she worked.
At one point, Sam paused in the hallway and whispered, It's in
here somewhere, waiting. She never raised her voice, but
the finality of her tone made my skin crawl.
When she finished, she gathered her materials and tried to
reassure us. I've set up protections, she
said. But you 2 need to stay strong in
your conviction that it can't rule your life.
If you keep dwelling on it, you're inviting it to stick
around. She left soon after, closing the
door behind her with a solemn nod.
That night, Melissa and I settled down in the living room,
both of us exhausted but hopeful that the measures Sam took might
help. We tried distracting ourselves
with a movie, something light hearted to break the tension.
We were about halfway in when the lights flickered again.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to stay calm.
I told myself it was just the local power grid acting up.
Then I caught a glimpse of something in the reflection of
the TV screen, towering, gaunt, hovering behind us.
I spun, expecting to find the room empty, and sure enough,
there was nothing there. But the moment left me shaken,
and Melissa looked equally unnerved.
Sleep was no better. I drift off only to wake from
1/2 dream of wind howling against the house, that tall
shape lurking outside the window.
At one point, I nearly convinced myself I heard slow, deliberate
footsteps on the porch. By morning, I was drained, and
Melissa suggested a short walk outside to clear our heads.
We bundled up against the chill and wandered a path near the
woods behind our property. The skeletal branches overhead
filtered the pale winter sun, creating patches of shadow that
made me uneasy. Every now and then I'd swear I
saw motion in my peripheral vision, but looking directly in
that direction revealed only empty woods.
Religious guilt gnawed at me. My Methodist upbringing had
taught me to be wary of dwelling on spirits or unseen forces.
Yet here I was, tiptoeing through what felt like a
spiritual battleground. I actually visited a nearby
church that week, sitting in a Pew to pray for clarity.
The pastor, a well meaning older gentleman, offered comforting
words but didn't have much practical advice.
Evil feeds on our fear, he said. Remain strong, trust in your
faith. Good advice, maybe, but not
exactly a step by step manual for banishing a winter Wraith.
Days passed and the tension at home seemed to lessen, at least
marginally, as though Sam's rituals had thrown up a wall
around us, Melissa noticed fewer cold spots and fewer moments of
inexplicable dread. I started to hope that maybe
we'd turned a corner, but I'd known from the start this
wouldn't resolve so easily. The real test came one cloudy
evening, with the temperature dropping fast and the wind
picking up outside. A loud thud rattled the back
door. My heart leaped into OverDrive.
Melissa and I glanced at each other, then ran to see what
caused it. We found nothing but swirling
leaves on the porch. My nerves were still jangled by
the time I tried to return to the living room, and that's when
every hair on my arms rose. Standing outside the window was
a shape so large it filled the frame.
Shoulders jutted at impossible angles, skin that appeared
stretched and weathered like it had been exposed to centuries of
freezing temperatures. For a heartbeat, I couldn't
move. It didn't lunge, didn't roar,
just stared through the glass with that hideous grin carved
across its face. My breath came in ragged gasps,
but I managed to break eye contact and reach for the
nearest lamp. The second I flicked it on, the
window glare hid whatever stood out there.
By the time Melissa dashed in and we flung the curtains open,
there was only the empty yard, the darkness beyond the porch
light unbroken. That's when it dawned on me.
I was out of easy options. This thing, whether a literal
ancient spirit or a haunting manifestation of something
deeper, had followed me from childhood.
Ignoring time and distance, I was left with a choice between
diving into a lore and tradition I barely understood or
continuing to suffer these attacks of terror, possibly
letting them consume me. Melissa tried to calm me down,
reminding me that Sam's protections had helped once and
could be reinforced, maybe with additional guidance from others
who understood these rituals more thoroughly.
I stared out into the night, imagining that towering figure
still standing in the shadows even if I took the next steps,
contacted tribal elders, Tried more protective rights.
I wasn't sure how that clashed with my faith or my sense of
reality, but at this point I realized I'd do almost anything
to make this thing go away. The final image burned in my
mind was that grin against the window, like it was silently
daring me to act like it was certain I'd never escape its
reach. I don't know exactly which path
I'll choose yet, but ignoring it isn't an option.
If there's one thing I've learned, it's that darkness like
this doesn't just fade. It waits, hungry and patient,
for the next cold wind or the next moment of doubt to slip
back in. And if I stand by doing nothing,
it may eventually devour everything I hold dear.
So now I'm standing at a threshold, uncertain but
determined to confront whatever this is.
Because letting it rule my life any longer simply isn't an
option.