I watched from a distance while my grandma and grandpa fished on
their lake in the backyard. But one thing confused me.
While grandpa cast his line and watched his rod, waiting for the
anticipating tug of a fish, Grandma's gaze remained fixed
across the lake, her head tilted intently towards the dark fringe
of woods. I never saw her look at the
bobbing lures. She didn't even seem interested
in fishing at all. I thought that maybe she just
simply enjoyed looking at the trees, but a nagging feeling
persisted. There was more to her gaze than
a simple love for nature. It was summer break and I
decided to spend it at my grandparents house in Knoxville,
TN. They lived in a two-story house
recently built in 2018. It connected directly to a lake
with a dock jutting out on the far right side where my grandpa
kept his base boat. My grandparents were a sweet and
quiet couple. They kept to themselves most of
the time, living a peaceful life in their little corner of the
world every summer. Though my visits became a
tradition, Grandma's invitation was always an automatic yes, her
warm smile and gentle voice a beacon calling me back.
There were countless things to love about my grandma, her
kindness and generosity at the top of the list.
If I wanted something, it was usually an automatic yes from
her too. But one of the things I truly
cherished most was her stories. Unlike Grandpa, who mostly stuck
to tales of his time in the military, exciting stories
filled with bravery and adventure.
Of course, Grandma was a bottomless well of stories.
Whether it was a funny story from her childhood, a heart
warming story about a kind neighbor, or a fantastical
bedtime story that transported me to magical lands, Grandma
always had one on hand. She was one of those special
grandmas who could weave a story from thin air, her words
painting vivid pictures in my mind.
Grandpa, on the other hand, was a man of few words.
A quiet strength emanated from him, and the stories he did tell
were always about his service. He'd talk about the places he'd
been, the challenges he'd faced, and the lessons he'd learned.
While not as fantastical as Grandma's stories, they held a
different kind of magic, a testament to his resilience and
the experiences that shaped him. One of the things I always
admired about Grandpa was his outdoor skills, he'd tell me
Most of his knowledge came from his military training, jokingly
saying they prepared him for anything.
He was a true outdoorsman, the kind of person I'd trust
implicitly if we were ever lost in the wilderness.
He knew everything about fishing, the best spots on the
lake, the best techniques to catch different types of fish.
Some of my favorite memories were spent on his boat, cutting
through the cool morning water, the sun rising over the horizon,
and the gentle hum of the motor. A comforting lullaby every
night, Grandma dipped into her seemingly endless well of
stories. I never quite understood how she
did it. Her mind was like a sprawling
library, shelves overflowing with stories to tell.
One night she'd tell me a story of brave Knights seeking
vengeance, their swords gleaming in the sun.
Another night, she tell me a story of a land shimmering with
magic spells and cursed lands. Then there were the scary
stories. Now, Grandma usually avoided
them. She knew how they affected me.
But the thing about those stories was the detail.
Oh man, the detail. They were so vivid, so real.
It felt like I was peeking through a crack into another
world. A world where the monsters and
creatures she described lurked. A world so terrifying that I
felt like falling through that crack would kill me.
Every night was the same routine, nestled under a
patchwork quilt in the guest room.
I'd wait with bated breath. The soft click of the doorknob
was my cue. Grandma, her face etched with a
lifetime of stories, would enter, a gentle smile gracing
her lips. She'd pull up a rocking chair.
It's rhythmic Creek, adding to the lullaby effect.
Then, in a warm voice, she'd begin telling me a story.
One night, though, tucked under the patchwork quilt, I waited
for Grandma's nightly visit. The soft click of the doorknob
announced her arrival. Ready for another story?
She asked, her voice a warm rumble.
I nodded eagerly. Nights at Grandma's were
journeys to magical lands, each story more thrilling than the
last. But tonight I craved a different
kind of story, a different kind of excitement.
Can you tell me a scary story tonight, Grandma?
I blurted out. A flicker of surprise crossed
her face, followed by a thoughtful pause.
Unlike her usual repertoire of action-packed adventures, her
stories have always steered clear of scary ones.
She sat beside me on the patchwork quilt, her usual
mischievous eyes replaced by a thoughtful gaze.
Her eyes flickered towards the window for a moment before
returning to me. Then, with a gentle smile, she
began. Those woods outside your window,
she started, her voice a warm rumble.
I instinctively glanced towards the window, the familiar
silhouette of the trees outlined across the lake.
There's something in those woods, she continued, her voice
dropping to a hushed whisper. A shiver danced down my spine,
though the room remained pleasantly warm.
Those simple words made me so uncomfortable that I was tempted
to just tell Grandma to stop. But the truth was, I was hooked.
Grandma did tell me scary stories on rare occasions, but
they were always fictional, completely disconnected from the
real world, she continued. Every seven years it comes out
of those woods, it emerges, a creature that's been on this
earth for thousands of years. It crawls On all fours.
It hunts, a silent predator searching for its prey.
I began to tense up a little. The room remained quiet, but the
air felt heavy. Its body is like a man, but
twisted and contorted, she murmured, and its limbs
elongated, reaching out at odd angles.
Its skin is black as coal, making it difficult to spot
During the night. I swallowed hard, my eyes
instinctively drawn back to the window.
The trees, once comforting now seemed to writhe with unseen
shadows. But the worst part?
She continued, her voice barely a tremor is its eyes, multiple
eyes scattered across its head like a spider.
They pierced the darkness, searching for an unsuspecting
victim. She continued, her voice a
hushed whisper sending shivers down my spine.
Sometimes, if it has trouble finding prey, it ventures
closer, closer to houses, searching for unlocked windows.
My breath caught in my throat, the image of eyes peering
through the glass sent a jolt of terror through me.
If it finds an opening, she murmured, it will crawl inside
and snatch the closest person to it, dragging them back to the
woods. I squeezed, my eyes shut, the
warmth of the quilt a poor barrier against the sudden
chill. It keeps its victims alive for
seven long years, she whispered, feeding off them slowly until
the hunger returns and it's time to hunt once more.
My grip tightened on the blanket, and my knuckles were
white. A cold sweat was dripping down
my skin. But don't you worry, she said,
her voice gentling. As long as we keep the windows
locked, we'll be safe. And don't forget to do the same
at your mom's house. She rose from the quilt, her
smile strained at the edges, a smile meant to reassure, but one
that couldn't hide the sliver of unease in her eyes.
Her movement seemed slow and deliberate as she walked towards
the window. My eyes followed her, my heart
hammering A frantic rhythm against my ribs.
She stared out of the window for a moment, as if checking to make
sure the thing wasn't around, and then she checked to make
sure the window was locked. Just as she was about to turn
away, I blurted out, unable to contain the question that had
lodged itself in my throat. Grandma, have you have you ever
seen it? She paused for a few moments, a
flicker of something unreadable crossing her face before a
reassuring smile crept onto her lips.
She didn't answer me. She simply leaned down and
kissed my forehead, a gesture filled with a strange intensity.
Goodnight, darling, she whispered.
Then, with a gentle click, she shut my door behind her.
I was awake for most of that night, staring at the darkened
window pane. The familiar silhouette of the
woods outside now held a new kind of terror.
I kept wondering if I would see that face my grandma described,
a face with multiple eyes staring back at me.
Eventually, exhausted from fear and lack of sleep, my eyelids
drifted shut and I finally drifted off.
While I slept, I dreamt of its form shifting and writhing in
the darkness. I ran, my legs pumping, but it
was like I was running on ice. Panic seized me as the figure
lunged, its long arms wrapping around my legs.
It dragged me a rag doll through the grass, the stench of damp
grass filling my nostrils. The woods grew bigger as the
thing dragged me there, its jagged edges threatening to
devour me whole. I tried to scream, but no sound
came out. Just as the branches of the
trees were about to engulf me. I jolted awake, gasping for
breath. Light streamed through the
window, painting familiar shapes on the ceiling.
The room held a peaceful stillness.
It took several deep breaths to slow the pounding of my heart.
Relief washed over me, chasing away the lingering dread.
Since that night, despite Grandma's steady stream of new
stories, the creature in the woods has remained a constant
shadow in the corner of my mind. Thankfully, the nightmares,
those terrifying chases through endless woods, didn't last.
Slowly, the story faded from memory.
A few years later, a different kind of darkness descended upon
our family cancer. A cruel, selfish thief stole my
grandmother's health, bit by bit.
She fought for months. But in the end, the disease won.
It left a hole in our lives, especially for Grandpa.
Now he lives alone. The silence of the house, heavy
with her absence. Talking about her seems to bring
a fresh wave of pain etched deep into the lines on his face.
Sometimes he murmurs about just waiting for his turn to join
her. It's a heartbreaking sight, a
man transformed into a solitary figure simply waiting to die.
That year was a blur of grief, a dark tunnel we all had to
navigate, but with the love and support of family and friends,
we eventually managed to pull through.
With each passing year, the grief lessened, but Grandma's
memory remained. Then, after another few years,
during my senior year in high school, something happened.
I walked into the house. After a long day.
The familiar scent of an empty house greeted me.
Mom had already left for work. Pulling my backpack onto my bed,
I pulled out my books and settled in for an evening of
homework, studying, and the occasional break to watch TV.
I shut off the TV, changed into my pajamas, and crawled into
bed. Sleep, however, remained
elusive. My mind was a tangled mess,
tossing and turning over the events of the day.
Finally, I peeked at the clock on my desk, it's green glow
reading almost 3:00 AM. Just then, a sound shattered the
silence, a sharp tap that echoed through the room.
My eyes flew open, snapping towards the window.
A wave of ice washed over me, freezing my blood solid.
Memories of Grandma's story flooded back the creature the
woods. There, pressed against the glass
was a form that blocked most of the moonlight from filtering in.
If not for the sliver of moonlight peeking in around what
was blocking it, I wouldn't have been able to see it at all.
It's human shaped body pressed against the window and across
its head. I could have sworn I saw
movement, a flicker like multiple tiny insects scurrying
across its flesh. Then a horrifying realization
dawned on me. They weren't insects.
They were eyelids. Eyelids flickering open and
shut. Scanning my room with frantic
urgency, my breath hitched. Was this a dream?
Just then, a shadowy limb, long and impossibly thin, snaked out
towards the base of my window. Had I locked the window?
The sickening sound of the window as the glass began to
slide up hit my ears. Terror choked and screamed in my
throat. There are woods behind my mom's
house, too, and a sickening realization dawned on me.
This wasn't just a story, it was real, and it was here.
Adrenaline surged through me, and my flight or fight responses
kicked in. I threw myself out of bed in a
desperate scramble. My feet pounded the floor as I
bolted towards the door, flinging it open, but my escape
was cut short. The door slammed shut in my
face, the force of it throwing me backward.
A strangled cry escaped my lips as a wave of terror washed over
me. My body locked up and every
muscle seized in a silent scream.
Somehow it was now in my room, that fast.
It was no longer at the window. It was now above me, above my
door. One of its grotesquely long
limbs tipped with a hand like a spider's claw pressed firmly
against the door, pinning me inside.
Another seemed contorted at an unnatural angle, its fingers
splayed against the wall in a grotesque parody of a grip.
The head, if you could call it that, twisted on its neck in a
way that defied human anatomy, almost spinning completely
around, a chorus of eyes locked onto me, trapped and alone.
I stumbled back, my mind scrambling for any flicker of
hope. The 2nd floor was an escape
route, but a leap out the window would likely result in injury,
leaving me in a vulnerable position.
Besides, that's where it probably wanted me.
Right next to the door stood my wooden baseball bat.
In a desperate lunge, I grabbed it, the wood rough against my
grip. With a yell, I swung the bat
with all my strength, connecting with a sickening thud.
Splinters of wood rained down as the impact sent a tremor through
the room. The creature recoiled slightly,
its multiple eyes flickering in what might have been surprise,
but the silence that followed was the most unsettling part.
No roar of pain, no growl. This thing moved with an
unnatural quiet. Even as it moved, it made no
noise. It descended to the floor, its
grotesque form dwarfing the space in my room as it loomed
closer. Lowering its body in a predatory
Crouch, I swung the mangled bat wildly.
The bat connected with a bone crunching impact, sending more
shards of wood flying through the air.
The creature recoiled, its grotesque form momentarily
faltering. Seizing my chance, I bolted past
the thing, flung open the bedroom door, and slammed it
shut behind me with a resounding bang.
Adrenaline pumping, I raced down the stairs, each step echoing in
the sudden silence. Reaching the living room, I
fumble for the light switch, illuminating the space with a
warm glow. Panting, I gripped the broken
bat like a lifeline. It's splintered end pointed
towards the top of the stairs, towards the thing in my room.
Suddenly a new sound pierced the tense silence, the creak of the
front door opening. A silhouette emerged from the
doorway, the dim porch light casting long shadows across her
face. There you are, my mom's voice
laced with exhaustion. What the hell are you?
The sentence died on her lips, completely cut short.
Her eyes widened, but neither she nor I had time to react.
In a sharp and quick moment, a shadowy, distorted limb tipped
with a spidery claw, shot out, wrapping around my mother's
waist. It snagged her, sinking its
talons deep into her flesh, A sickening tear echoing in the
sudden silence. A strangled noise bubbled in her
throat, cut short before it could form a scream.
But then I heard her scream, fully formed as the thing
dragged her away, away to the woods.
I ran with all my effort, but the thing was fast.
Too fast. All I could do was keep running,
watching as my mom screamed with her arms folded around the
creature's arm in a desperate attempt to escape.
It had her though, exactly where it wanted her, out in the open.
I fell face first into the grass, a SOB wrenching its way
out of my chest. Warm tears streamed down my
face, blurring my vision as I watched in horror.
Mom's screams turned into blood, curdling shrieks fading into a
horrifying silence as they disappeared into the
indistinguishable maw of the woods.
The police came, but what could they do?
What could I tell them? I told them exactly what I saw.
They looked at me like I was crazy, but what else could I
say? For hours I sat in a sterile
interrogation room, the harsh overhead light blurring my
vision. They questioned me over and
over, dissecting my story, searching for inconsistencies.
But all I could do was repeat the horrifying scene, my voice
cracking with each retelling. There was no evidence to tie me
to my mom's disappearance, nothing but my frantic pleas,
and the raw terror etched onto my face.
Finally, they seemed to reach a reluctant roadblock.
With a sigh and a dismissive glance, they released me.
Now a search party Combs the backyard, venturing into the
dense woods behind our house. Bloodhounds sniff the damp
earth, their mournful howls echoing through the trees in my
room, the silence pressing down on me like a physical weight.
As the harsh light of dawn breaks.
I stare at the window. A large hand print, a grotesque
splayed imprint of multiple fingers, clings to the outside
of the glass. A cold realization settles over
me. Now I know that at least one of
my grandma's stories is real. The road to Marshall Lake wound
its way through the Ponderosa Pines like a lazy river, the
trucks tires crunching softly on the gravel beneath us.
The windows were down, the crisp Flagstaff air mixing with the
scent of pine and earth, a sure sign that we'd left the concrete
confines of the city far behind. Emily, sitting beside me with
her feet on the dashboard, had the map unfolded in her lap, her
finger tracing the route we had just taken.
Looks like we're the only ones out here, she said, her voice
tinged with excitement and maybe just a whisper of apprehension.
I could tell she felt it too. The thrill of the remote, the
untamed wild that stretched around us like an unopened gift.
We set up camp on a clearing near the lake, far enough to be
alone, but close enough to see the sparkle of water through the
trees. It was our first time at
Marshall Lake and the place had a rugged beauty that made me
wish I had brought my old camera.
The tent went up easily between 2 sturdy Pines, our temporary
home standing proud in the late afternoon light.
As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the lake, we
gathered wood for the fire. The air grew colder, a reminder
of the approaching night. Emily busied herself with the
fire, her cheeks flushed from the effort and the chill while I
took care of our modest dinner. Canned beans warmed up on the
portable stove and some bread. We ate mostly in silence, the
kind of easy silence you find with someone you know all the
way down to their bones. The fire crackled and popped,
throwing sparks into the twilight like our own private
constellation. The conversation turned to
plans, to the hikes we would take, and the early mornings
we'd surely curse when the cold seeped into our bones.
It was Emily who suggested putting out the fire early, a
practical decision against the creeping cold.
We retreated to our tent, the nylon fortress that seemed so
flimsy now against the vastness of the Arizona night.
Inside, nestled in our sleeping bags, we listened to the last of
the day, birds calling to each other across the water, their
songs fading as darkness took hold.
The change was subtle at first, the deep silence that fell like
a blanket over the woods. It was a silence you could feel,
heavy and expectant, as if the forest itself was holding its
breath. I lay their eyes wide open,
staring at the tent ceiling, listening to the whisper of
Emily's breathing beside me. There was a piece in it, a
stark, wild piece that you couldn't find back home, where
the night was never truly dark nor silent.
I felt a primal tug, a connection to this land that was
older than any city, any road. But beneath that awe, a thread
of unease began to weave its way through my thoughts.
It wasn't anything I could put my finger on, not at first, just
a feeling like the distant memory of a bad dream.
I told myself It was nothing, just the jitters of being out
here, far from any help, far from the lights, and the noise
and the safety of numbers. But as I lay there, the edges of
my unease sharpened into focus with the sudden clarity of a
sound that should not be there, A sound that would turn our
night under the stars into a night on the run.
The moon was full, a bright Sentinel in the sky casting long
silver shadows across the forest floor that seeped through the
fabric of our tent. Inside, Emily and I lay wrapped
in our sleeping bags, the cold of the night a distant concern
against the heat we generated. Together we whispered stories to
each other, stories of our past trips, our close calls and
narrow escapes, but always with a laugh at the end, because here
we were, still venturing into the wild side by side.
But the night was different. Here it had a thickness to it, a
density that felt like it could smother the fire we had banked
hours ago. The trees stood Sentinel around
us, their branches brushing, the breath of wind into whispers
that skittered along my nerves. Emily had drifted to sleep, her
breaths even and slow. But sleep eluded me.
I lay there, eyes tracing the patterns, the moonlight painted
on the tent ceiling, my mind to alert, to attune to the
unfamiliarity of our surroundings.
That's when I heard it, the unmistakable sound of footsteps,
crisp and clear against the soft earth just behind our tent.
My heart thumped loud in my ears, a staccato beat that
seemed too loud in the hush of the forest.
I nudged Emily gently, my voice a whisper.
Did you hear that? She was awake instantly, the
same sharp edge of alertness I felt mirrored in her eyes.
Footsteps. I mouthed, and her nod was
tight, controlled. We lay there, holding our
breaths, listening, but the sound had vanished as quickly as
it had come, leaving only the thumping of our hearts and the
distant call of a night bird. Courage, or maybe it was
foolishness, nudged me out of the tent.
I gripped the bear spray, its weight cold and solid in my
hand. The night greeted me with its
moonlit silence, the trees like spectres around our camp.
I scanned the shadows. My every sense strained to its
limit. Nothing moved, no signs on the
damp earth to suggest anyone or anything had been near our tent.
An unexplained cold shiver ran down my spine as I ducked back
inside. We should try to sleep, Emily
whispered, her voice tight with a fear she tried to mask.
We settled back into our sleeping bags, the false calm a
brittle shell around us. But peace was a stranger to us
now, chased away by the sound of footsteps that came again
nearer, this time undeniable. The decision was silent, but
mutual. We wouldn't stay, not with this
unease, not with the unknown so boldly stepping into our night
packing was a hurried, frantic affair.
Essentials only. Everything else left behind, as
if we could shed the fear with the weight of our abandoned
gear. The forest seemed to close in
around us as we made our way back to the trailhead, the moon
a watchful eye above. The distant sound of gunfire
shattered, the silence urgent and startling.
I thought of the campers we had seen earlier, wondered if their
night had turned as sour as ours.
They too, it seemed, had decided that the mystery and the menace
of the night were too much. Their sight was deserted, a
rapid departure written in the disarray left behind.
Driving away from Marshall Lake, the motel's promise of a locked
door in a lighted room never felt more like a sanctuary.
Our adventure had turned into a flight, a retreat from an unseen
threat that lingered in the shadows, leaving us with more
questions than we had answers and a new respect for the wild
that was both beautiful and at times, deeply terrifying.
I've always been the kind of guy who needs to see something to
believe it. Ghost stories?
Not for me. Superstitions.
No thanks. I grew up in Appalachia, where
tales of eerie happenings and strange creatures in the woods
are as common as dirt roads. But even living there nearly my
whole life, nothing weird ever happened to me.
Until this story I'm about to tell.
Last year, when I was almost 22, life threw me a curveball.
I found myself questioning everything from my job to where
I was living. It wasn't just me either.
My best friends Mark and Jesse, we're in the same boat.
We were all fed up with the monotony of our daily routines,
feeling like old cogs in an endlessly grinding machine. 1
chilly evening in late October. While we were hanging out at our
usual spot, the old diner on Main Street, Mark slammed his
first on the table and said let's just leave all of this.
Let's go see what's out there. Jesse's eyes lit up and I
couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement at the thought.
By the end of the night, fueled by cheap coffee and wild dreams,
we made a pact. We would quit our jobs, sell
almost everything we owned, and hit the road.
The plan was simple. We would live out of our cars
and travel across the country. We'd take odd jobs, maybe do
some door dashing just to keep gas in our tanks and food in our
bellies. It was crazy, but it was also
exactly what we needed, a complete break from everything
we knew. 2 weeks later, with our cars packed in, our old lives
packed away in boxes and memories, we set out.
Our first destination was Tennessee, in the heart of the
Smoky Mountains. To stay with a friend of
Jesse's. Her name was Sarah, and she
lived off an old back Rd. surrounded by dense woods that
climbed up the mountainside. As we drove up her narrow
driveway, Sarah came out to greet us with a wide smile and
an infectious enthusiasm. Welcome to my little piece of
the mountains, she said, gesturing around at the
sprawling wilderness that enveloped her small, cozy house
That night. As we sat around a crackling
fire in her backyard, Sarah began to share stories about
living in the mountains. This place has a mind of its
own, she told us, her voice dropping to a whisper.
The house is haunted, and there's something in the woods,
too. It hangs around the shed back
there. She nodded toward a rickety old
shed that looked like it might collapse if you breathed on it
too hard. I raised an eyebrow, the skeptic
in me immediately on alert. Haunted, really, Sarah laughed,
a clear ringing sound in the quiet of the evening.
I know it sounds crazy, but I've heard it echo my own words back
at me when I yelled into the woods one night and I've seen
something peeking at me from behind that shed.
Not an animal, not human either. I glanced at Mark and Jesse,
expecting them to share my disbelief, but they were hanging
on Sarah's every word. I shook my head, dismissing the
tales as just that, tales. We were here for adventure,
sure, but ghosts and monsters weren't part of my plan.
Little did I know, my skepticism was about to be challenged in
ways I couldn't have imagined. The first night in the Smoky
Mountains was an adventure of its own.
We had parked our SU VS in a semi circle around Sarah's old
spooky shed. Despite her warnings, I felt No
Fear, just the thrill of a new beginning.
I settled into my makeshift bed in the back of my car, the cool
night air mixing with the scent of pine and earth.
It was peaceful, and I drifted off to sleep with a smile, the
distant hoots of an owl acting like a lullaby.
But the calm didn't last long. The second night brought a shift
that none of us were prepared for.
It was like the atmosphere had changed.
The air felt heavier, charged with an unspoken anticipation.
I woke up suddenly, feeling a chill that went deeper than the
night air could account for. It was like I was being watched.
I sat up, trying to shake off the unease, telling myself it
was just the weirdness of sleeping in a new place.
My eyes scanned the dark outlines of trees and the glints
of moonlight off the other cars. Nothing moved, nothing sounded,
but the feeling wouldn't go away.
I reached for the door, my hand hesitating on the handle.
Every instinct screamed at me to stay inside, a sense of dread
washing over me and waves. Finally, I retreated, my back
pressing against the cold glass of the window as I tried to see
into the inky blackness outside. Jesse had a similar experience.
The next morning, over coffee, she confessed that she too had
woken up, feeling an intense presence.
It was like someone was right outside my window, watching me,
she said, her voice a whisper. Her eyes were wide, her usual
skepticism replaced by fear. Mark, ever the brave one, tried
to lighten the mood. Probably just a raccoon curious
about our camp, he joked, but his laughter sounded forced, and
he kept glancing towards the woods.
The unease grew as we prepared for another night, this time
armed with flashlights and a bit more caution.
We hadn't even settled in when our electronics started acting
up first. Jesse's walkie-talkie crackled
and died right in the middle of her sentence.
Then Mark's flashlight flickered out, and my heart sank as I
watched my own walkie sputter and go silent.
Something's not right, Mark muttered, looking around
nervously. The failures were too
synchronized, too convenient to be coincidences.
And then, as if to confirm our fears, we heard it, the
unmistakable sound of something large moving through the
underbrush near the woods. We didn't need any more
convincing. Gathering our essentials, we
hustled towards Sarah's house, abandoning our outdoor camp for
the safety of solid walls. Inside, the sounds of the forest
seemed muffled, distant, but the feeling of being watched
lingered. That night, none of us slept
well. The house felt safe, but not
secure enough to ease the chill that had settled in our bones.
We talked in hushed tones about what to do next, our plans for
carefree travel overshadowed by the unexplainable dread that had
claimed our spirits. As dawn broke, We were tired but
resolute. Whatever was out there, we
couldn't let it dictate our journey.
But first, we needed to feel safe again.
We needed a plan, and maybe, just maybe, we needed to believe
a bit more in the things we couldn't see.
After the unnerving incidents of the previous night's, we all
agreed it was best to stay inside the house.
Despite the safety of walls and locked doors, the shadow of fear
still loomed over us. Breakfast was a quiet affair,
each of us lost in our own thoughts, mulling over the
strange events. As we cleared the dishes, Mark
broke the silence. We can't let this scare us off.
We came here to explore, right? But maybe we should do something
about whatever's out there. His suggestion was met with
hesitant nods. We were all feeling the edge of
our comfort zones being stretched.
Sarah, overhearing our conversation, came over with a
small box. I think this might help, she
said, handing us a bundle of dried sage.
It's supposed to cleanse the place.
Maybe it'll clear whatever's causing this weirdness.
I was skeptical, but at that point I would have tried
anything to shake off the eerie dread clinging to us that
evening under a sky brushed with the colors of sunset.
We walked around the property with the burning sage, letting
the smoke drift over the shed, into the woods, and around our
cars. The air filled with its sharp,
cleansing scent. I couldn't say if it was the
sage or just the act of doing something, but it felt like we
were taking control back from the shadows.
The night that followed was surprisingly peaceful.
Whether it was the sage or just our own determination, the heavy
atmosphere seemed to lift. We slept in our cars again, a
testament to our regained bravery.
No strange noises disturbed the night, and no feelings of being
watched crept into our dreams. In the mornings that followed,
we began to relax more. Our conversations returned to
plans and dreams. The laughter came easier and the
tension that had tightened around us started to unravel.
It seemed like whatever had been out there either moved on or was
pushed away by our actions. Reflecting on those nights as we
prepared to leave Tennessee, I found myself conflicted.
Part of me, the skeptic, wanted to dismiss it all as overactive
imaginations fueled by unfamiliar surroundings and
scary stories. But another part couldn't ignore
the raw fear I'd felt, the tangible effect of our cleansing
ritual, and the shared experiences that were too
coincidental to brush off. As we said our goodbyes to Sarah
in the mountains, I looked back at the shed one last time.
It was just an old wooden structure, weathered by time and
elements, yet it had been the center of our brief encounter
with the unknown. I realized then that this trip
was changing me in ways I hadn't expected.
I was opening up to new possibilities, to the idea that
there might be things beyond my understanding.
We continued our travels, visiting other places, each with
its own stories and mysteries, but nothing ever came close to
what we experienced in the Smoky Mountains.
Those nights stayed with us, a constant whisper in our
conversations. Eventually, life called us back
to reality. The trip ended, and we
reintegrated into our regular lives.
But the bond forged through that shared adventure held.
We were different, now, touched by the unknown, forever
connected by the memory of that strange, haunting time in
Tennessee. As for me, I'm still a skeptic.
But now I'm a skeptic with an open mind, aware that some
things might be beyond the reach of reason.
As Eric and I pulled onto the gravel path that led to the old
camper, the tires crunched softly under the weight of our
city worn SUV, each turn of the wheels echoing like a soft
whisper through the dense Wisconsin woods.
I leaned back in my seat, trying to soak in the tranquillity of
the towering Pines and the sweet, earthy aroma that seeped
through our open windows. It's beautiful out here, isn't
it? I murmured more to myself than
to Eric. Yeah, and quiet, Eric replied,
his eyes scanning the road ahead.
Perfect spot to unwind. We were here at the invitation
of a college friend who owned the land.
She'd always spoken of its beauty and isolation as
something magical, and now, seeing it first hand, I could
understand why. The camper was parked in a small
clearing, the edges of which were blurred by the encroaching
shadows of the evening. It looked older than I
remembered from the pictures, its exterior battered by time
but still sturdy, A testament to decades of withstanding harsh
winters and blazing summers. We unpacked our gear with the
light fading around us, the sunset spilling its last gold
over the horizon. The sense of isolation grew more
profound as darkness settled, wrapping around us like a thick
blanket. Despite the chill in the air,
Eric decided to start a campfire.
The flames flickered and danced, casting lively shadows that
battled the encroaching darkness.
I should have felt relaxed, but a knot of unease had begun to
tighten in my stomach. Maybe it was the overwhelming
silence, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the fire,
or the distant call of a night bird.
Or perhaps it was the way the woods seemed to watch us,
ancient and knowing. I tried to shrug off the
discomfort, blaming it on the long drive and maybe the
sandwich I had at the last gas stop.
As the night drew on, my discomfort turned into a mild
nausea. I excused myself, thinking a
good night's sleep would set me right inside the camper.
The air was stale but warm. I popped a couple of antacids,
crawled into the narrow bed, and pulled the scratchy blanket up
to my chin. The mattress was firm, the
pillows flat, but exhaustion pulled me down into a deep
sleep. I don't know how long I slept
before the nausea returned, fierce and demanding.
It dragged me from sleep with a jolt, my body clamoring for air.
I stumbled out of the camper, my hands shaky, my breath catching
in sharp, cold drafts. The night had grown darker, if
possible, and the air outside felt like ice on my skin.
Leaning against the camper, I gave into the violent waves of
sickness, the sounds of my distress loud in the silence.
The fire had died down to glowing embers, casting just
enough light for shadows to play tricks on my eyes.
I rinsed my mouth with water from a nearby bottle, spitting
repeatedly to rid myself of the lingering bitterness.
It was then, as I looked up to navigate my return to the
camper, that I saw it. A face so close yet obscured by
darkness watching me. My heart stopped, Or maybe it
raced. I couldn't tell which.
All I knew was the face was there, and then it wasn't,
disappearing as I blinked, swallowed by the night.
Was it real? Was I seeing things?
The silence seemed to lean in, waiting for my reaction.
I stood frozen, unsure, my mind grappling with shadows and
doubts. The unease I had felt earlier
was now a roaring terror, and as I backed into the camper, my
only thought was a desperate hope that morning would come.
Quickly the cold bit at my cheeks as I stumbled back out of
the camper. My breath puffed out in frantic
clouds as I hunched over, gripping my knees, trying to
settle the riot inside my stomach.
For a moment there was relief. A silent, grateful gasp under
the immensity of the star freckled sky as I straightened
up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
That's when I saw it. Not more than three feet away,
in the very edge of the dim light.
A face was watching me. At first I thought my eyes were
playing tricks, a shadow, maybe, or a trick of the mind brought
on by sickness and the oppressive dark.
But no, it stayed unblinking, fixed on me as much as I on it.
The face was oddly symmetrical, hauntingly humanoid, but wrong,
terribly wrong in ways that sent a shiver rippling through my
spine. Its eyes, two dark pools, seem
to absorb the weak light around us, and its mouth was a thin,
straight slash across what could be called a face.
I couldn't move, couldn't scream, my voice trapped in my
throat as if the cold had frozen its solid.
Then, tentatively, I tilted my head to the side, trying to
discern more details, and to my horror, it mimicked my movement
exactly, a slow, deliberate tilt of its head mirroring mine.
My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat screaming at me
to run, but my feet might as well have been buried in the
ground. We continued this eerie dance,
leaning slightly forward then back, each of us moving in a
cautious choreography. I wanted to look away, to run
back to the safety of the camper and lock the door behind me, but
something primal feared what might happen if I broke this
mutual gaze. Babe.
I finally managed to whisper, my voice hoarse and trembling.
There was a moment's delay, then Eric's concerned face appeared
at the camper door. Yeah.
His voice was sleepy, confused. There's something out here, I
said, barely louder than a breath, afraid any louder might
provoke this, this, whatever it was.
What? Eric rubbed his eyes, squinting
into the darkness. I don't know.
Some kind of animal? I'm not sure.
But I'm afraid to move. My voice broke on the last word,
the fear I felt slicing through the cold.
It's just watching me. I murmured, more to myself than
to him. A desperate attempt to make
sense of the situation. Eric, sensing the urgency now,
fetched the flashlight from inside the camper.
He flicked it on, casting a bright swath of light into the
darkness. The beam sliced through the
night, landing on the spot where the creature had been.
But there was nothing there. Just the empty night and the
trees whispering secrets to the wind.
He moved the light around, searching, but still nothing.
There's nothing here, Anna. Are you sure you.
I saw it, Eric. My voice was sharp with panic.
I was looking right at it. It didn't move.
It didn't leave. How could it not be there?
He looked at me, the flashlight in his hand casting eerie
shadows across his face, his eyes full of concern.
Let's get you inside. It's freezing out here.
I let him lead me back into the camper, my mind a whirl of
confusion and fear. I knew what I had seen.
I wasn't imagining things. I wasn't.
As the door shut behind us, the sound seemed to echo a firm full
stop to a sentence I didn't understand, leaving us wrapped
in a heavy blanket of silence and unanswered questions.
As I cross the threshold of our Old Town.
The flat, expansive landscape of Huron region greeted me like an
old friend. The three hour drive from
Toronto had left my back aching and my mind adrift in memories
of high school escapades and late night confessions.
The stark contrast between my bustling city life and the still
cold air of Ontario's countryside was as sharp as
ever, but the familiarity was comforting, like slipping into a
well worn jacket that had been tucked away waiting for winter.
I parked outside the coffee shop where we'd all agreed to meet.
It was the same old spot where we'd spent countless hours
plotting our small town adventures.
Pushing the door open, the bell chimed and a wave of warmth
scented with coffee and baked goods welcomed me.
I scanned the room and there they were.
My high school friends clustered around our old table, looking a
bit older, but just as I remembered them.
Hey, look who decided to show up?
Mark called out, his voice carrying over the chatter.
The group's laughter and cheers filled the tiny space as I made
my way over. Handshakes and hearty Pats on
the back were exchanged, and I felt the years of absence melt
away. We were teenagers again, if only
for the moment. After catching up and reliving
old stories, the conversation took a turn towards the more
mysterious lore of our town. You remember Mr. Lob's stories
about the Bush, right? Jenny asked, her eyes wide with
a mix of fear and excitement. Mr. Lob, Our high school
geography teacher, was a hardened skeptic who, despite
his disbelief, could never quite explain the eerie experiences
he'd had in Lob's Bush. Named after some distant
relative of his, the Bush was infamous around these parts.
Even the most rational minds couldn't dismiss the odd
happenings there without a shudder.
On a whim, fuelled by nostalgia and a shared curiosity, we
decided to visit Lob's Bush ourselves.
The idea was met with enthusiasm, tinged with a hint
of the fear we felt as kids daring each other into the
unknown. We piled into Mark's old beater,
the same one we driven back in high school.
The car groaned and rattled as we made our way out of town, the
stereo playing tracks we used to think we're cool.
Our laughter filled the car, mixing with the sound of
crunching snow under tires. The entrance to Lob's Bush was
just as I remembered, foreboding with twisted trees that arched
over the narrow path, forming a dark tunnel.
As we stepped into the Bush, a palpable shift in the atmosphere
washed over us. It was as if the air grew
denser, heavier, pressing against my chest.
I didn't mention it, not wanting to ruin the mood, but I noticed
Jenny clutching her coat a bit tighter, her smile fading
slightly. We hadn't walked far when the
sky, clear just moments before, began to fill with the heavy
grey of an impending storm. We should head back, I
suggested, my voice almost lost to the wind that started to howl
through the trees. The calm of the night was gone,
replaced by the wild swinging of branches and the biting sting of
snowflakes whipped up by the wind.
We turned back, hurrying towards the car as the first heavy
flakes began to fall. The drive back was tense, the
weather worsening with each passing minute.
Then, just as we rounded what we called the halfway turn, Mark
cursed loudly. The car had hit a patch of ice
and slid, slow and unstoppable, into a ditch.
Stranded, we huddled in the car, waiting.
It was during those long hours, with the wind howling like a
banshee outside, that we really began to talk about what had
drawn us there, the feeling of being watched, the oppressive
atmosphere. It wasn't just our imagination.
And as we each confessed our fears, the legend of Lob's Bush
grew all the more real in the dim light of the car's interior.
The winter had loosened its grip by the time we ventured back to
Lob's Bush. The snow that had once blanketed
the earth in thick, quiet layers was now just a memory, replaced
by the budding signs of an early spring.
The moon hung like a silver coin in the clear sky, casting a soft
glow that made our flashlights almost unnecessary.
It was a perfect night for a walk.
So perfect, in fact, that it almost seemed like the Bush was
welcoming us back, a stark contrast to our last visit.
We parked the car at the same spot as before, the ground
firmer, under foot, no longer slick with ice and snow.
The woods felt different this time.
Less foreboding, more like the woods I'd played in as a kid.
We joked and laughed as we walked, the familiar path now
more inviting under the soft moonlight, but our carefree
spirits were still tinged with an undercurrent of excitement
and, admittedly, a bit of dread. After all, this was still Lob's
Bush, and the stories we'd grown up with didn't just fade away in
the night air. Halfway through our trek, Annie
broke the lull in conversation. Yo, I forgot I've got a Roman
candle, she exclaimed, her voice a mix of mischief and thrill.
Before any of us could protest, she had already flicked her
lighter to life and touched it to the fuse.
The first burst of color shot through the air, a bright star
against the dark canvas of the night.
She aimed it toward the open field, the sparks arching
beautifully into the air. We all watched, mesmerized by
the display, our previous concerns momentarily forgotten.
Then, as if guided by an unseen hand, Annie turned the Roman
candle toward the woods. The flare spiraled off into the
trees, a streak of light darting into the darkness.
We held our breath, half expecting a fire to start, but
instead of the crackle of flames, a chilling scream
shattered the silence. It was a sound so raw, so
terrifying, that it seemed to freeze the blood in my veins, a
scream that didn't belong to any creature I'd ever known.
Panic set in almost instantly. The festive air was gone,
replaced by a palpable fear that clawed at my chest.
Run, Mark, yelled the 1st. To recover from the shock, we
didn't need any more urging. We bolted down the path, the
scream echoing behind us, relentless and unnerving.
As we ran, the scream morphed into a growl, a sound so deep
and so fierce it felt like the earth itself was angry.
The underbrush rustled violently, as if something
enormous was moving through it, coming fast on our heels.
My heart hammered in my chest as I pushed my legs to move faster,
the cold air burning my lungs. Finally, the screaming stopped,
but the silence that followed was even more terrifying.
We didn't stop running until we emerge from the cover of the
trees spilling out into the open field, gasping for breath.
We stood there for a moment, looking back at the dark outline
of the forest. The moonlight seemed dimmer now.
Or perhaps it was just the shadow of what we'd heard that
made everything seem darker. We didn't speak, each of us lost
in our own thoughts, our own fears.
What had been an adventure was now a shared nightmare, a
reminder that some places are better left alone.
After that night, the weight of what we'd heard and what might
have been lurking just beyond where we could see settled over
us like a thick fog. None of us said much as we made
our way back to the car. The usual banter that filled our
drives was absent, replaced by a heavy silence punctuated only by
the occasional gravel crunching under the tires.
Back at Jenny's place, where we decided to crash, we huddled in
the living room, nursing cups of coffee that were more for
comfort than wakefulness. It was there, in the quiet
companionship of old friends, that we finally began to speak.
Could it have been an animal? Mark asked, though his tone
suggested he knew better. No animal makes a sound like
that, Annie murmured, her eyes wide and distant.
It was otherworldly. It was then I suggested what had
been gnawing at my thoughts. Do you think?
Could it have been a skinwalker? The room fell silent, The term
hung in the air, heavy and ominous.
I had read about them, creatures from Native American lore known
to take on the forms and sounds of various animals, But this
seemed different, more sinister. The next day, driven by a mix of
fear and a need for answers, we visited a local elder known for
her knowledge of Indigenous folklore.
Her small, cluttered living room was warm, the air filled with
the scent of sage. She listened intently as we
recounted our experience, her expression unreadable.
When we finished, she nodded slowly.
Yes, it sounds much like a skinwalker.
They are not just stories. They are warnings, she said
solemnly. Warnings.
Jenny repeated her voice, a whisper for those who disrespect
the land, who take lightly the spirits that dwell within it.
The elder explained. She told us of other encounters
similar to ours, where the presence of something
unexplainable left its mark on those who experienced it.
We left her home with more questions than answers, but with
a newfound respect for the stories we had grown up
dismissing as just tales to scare children.
The weeks that followed were a time of reflection for me.
The encounter in Lob's Bush had shaken my skepticism, had made
me reconsider the boundaries of what I believed possible.
I started reading more about the paranormal, about skinwalkers,
about the spiritual beliefs of the indigenous peoples of the
area. Each story, each piece of lore I
uncovered felt like a small piece of a much larger puzzle.
Months passed, and life slowly returned to its usual pace, but
the memory of that night lingered.
We talked less about it as time went on, yet it was always
there, an unspoken bond that tied us together.
Now, as I walk other paths, other woods, I do so with a
deeper awareness. I respect the silence, the
rustle of the leaves, the distant call of a night bird.
And I remember the elder's words, a reminder not only of
what might be out there, but of our place within it.
The story of that night in Lob's Bush has become a part of who I
am, a reminder of the thin veil between our world and the
unknown. And I've learned that sometimes
the most profound truths are those we can neither explain nor
escape. My girlfriend Emily, and I had
just settled into my shed for a movie night.
I'd kitted it out with a comfy sofa, a decent sound system, and
an old but reliable TV. It was our little escape pod,
right in the backyard of my Tennessee home.
Outside, the night was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes a
small town feel even smaller. Emily was flipping through the
new releases, excited about a horror flick that just came out.
This one's supposed to be super creepy, she said with a grin
that told me sleep might not come easy tonight.
I didn't mind. Horror was our thing, As usual,
I had left the back door open. It's not something you do in a
big city, but around here, everyone knows everyone and
nothing ever happens. Plus, it made it easier to hear
if my old dog Bella needed to go out.
Bella was a tiny Yorkie Shih tzu mix, old, nearly blind, and
mostly deaf. She spent her nights wandering
the house, bumping into things more often than not.
We figured it was some mix of confusion and old age.
The movie was intense, and by the time the credits rolled we
were both a little on edge, joking about every little sound
being a ghost or a monster. Laughing, we headed back to the
house. That's when I noticed it.
Silence. No little claws tapping over the
kitchen tiles. No whimpers from getting stuck
behind a door. Just silence Bella, I called out
as I flipped on the lights. No response.
Not unusual, given her hearing, but she always showed up,
eventually sniffing my leg or bumping into it.
Emily and I split up, checking under the sofas behind doors.
Even in the small spaces you wouldn't think a napkin could
fit, let alone a dog. Nothing.
She was nowhere inside. We met back in the kitchen,
confusion wrinkling our foreheads.
Could she have gone outside? Emily asked, peeking toward the
still open back door. Maybe, but she's never done that
before, I replied. But a part of me doubted my own
words. It was possible, wasn't it?
The door was open, after all. We grabbed flashlights and
started outside. The cool night air felt sharp
After the warmth of the shed. We checked the porch first.
It was raised a good four feet off the ground, too high for a
dog that could barely see her paw in front of her face, let
alone make a jump like that. Let's just make sure, I said.
More to calm my own nerves than out of hope.
We circled the house, calling her name, shining our lights
into every corner and under every Bush.
Still nothing. No Bella, no signs of a
struggle, no yelps or wines. It was like the earth had just
swallowed her up. Maybe she went into the woods.
Emily's voice was hesitant. The woods at night are
different, darker, deeper, almost alive.
But Bella was part of the family, and if there was any
chance she was out there, we had to look.
With only our flashlights and each other, we headed toward the
small patch of trees behind my house.
The beams from our lights cut through the darkness, making the
shadows jump. Every rustle of leaves had us
jumpy. Every snap of a twig had us
tightening our grips on each other's hands.
We didn't know it yet, but our ordinary night was about to turn
into something we'd never forget.
The woods at night are a different beast.
Branches that look friendly in daylight transform into gnarled
claws under the moon's gaze. I kept my flashlights steady as
Emily and I ventured deeper, calling out for Bella with a mix
of hope and dread. Do you think she could have
gotten far? Emily's voice was shaky, barely
above a whisper. I don't know, I admitted, but we
have to check. Every crunch of dry leaves under
foot seemed amplified. I swept my flashlight from left
to right, half expecting to see Bella's small form shivering in
the underbrush. Instead, each beam revealed
nothing but more darkness and the endless dance of tree
shadows. Then suddenly, there it was, a
rustle distinct from our movements.
My heart leaped, Bella. My voice cracked in the quiet of
the night, but when I pointed my flashlight toward the sound, it
wasn't Bella that caught the light.
About 20 feet away stood a figure, hooded and still as if
carved from the shadows themselves.
I froze, my hand tightening around the flashlight.
Who's there? Emily's voice was a mix of fear
and defiance. The figure didn't move or
respond. It just stood there, watching.
Or at least it felt like it was watching.
I swallowed hard, trying to muster courage.
We should go back, I murmured to Emily.
But as I took a step backward, the leaves crunched again,
louder this time. Curiosity overcame fear.
I shone the light again toward the figure.
In the split second before the light landed, the figure
shifted. It was no longer a man in a
hood, but something else, a tall, skinny Gray figure that
seemed almost fluid in its movement.
It darted to the left so fast it was barely more than a blur.
What the? I couldn't even finish my
sentence. A wave of cold chills slammed
into me, racing from my head down to my toes.
It was as if the temperature had plummeted 20° in a heartbeat.
We need to get out of here, I said, voice trembling.
We turned and ran, stumbling over roots and rocks, not daring
to look back. The sound of our own panicked
breaths filled our ears, along with the distant haunting echo
of whatever that thing was moving through the woods when we
finally burst through the tree line and into the backyard.
The safety of the house seemed like a fortress.
We slammed the door behind us, panting, and leaned against it,
as if that thin barrier could protect us from what lay
outside. What was that?
Emily gasped, her eyes wide with fear.
I don't know, I replied, my mind racing.
Could that thing have taken Bella?
Was it watching the house? Questions spiraled in my head,
each more unsettling than the last.
We didn't sleep that night. Instead, we talked, speculating
wildly about what we'd seen. The next day, we ventured out
again, this time in daylight. We searched the woods, looking
for any sign of Bella or the mysterious figure, but found
nothing. Days turned into weeks, and life
slowly returned to normal, or at least as normal as it could.
But every time I looked out toward the woods, a chill would
run down my spine, and I'd wonder about that night.
What had we seen? And was it still out there?
As for Bella, she never did come home and the whole her absence
left in our hearts was as palpable as the mystery that
surrounded that chilling encounter.