Before we begin, I just wanted to mention that today's video is
something special. The first story is narrated by
the one and only Booze and Booze.
If you haven't heard his work yet, you're in for a dark, eerie
ride. His voice brings these stories
to life in the creepiest way possible.
Check out his show tagged below and give him a follow.
Now let's get into the stories. I've always been a guy who needs
to get outside to break away from the concrete and the noise
and just let the woods remind me what quiet really feels like.
I'm not really the type who does it for Instagram or tell people
that I escaped to nature on the weekends.
I need it like I need sleep. That's probably why I was all
ears when my buddy Tyler told me about a Creek on the backside of
a Ridge around 2 hours from where I live.
According to him, no one went back there anymore.
That old trail was basically erased when a service Rd. was
built a few years back and people just forgot about it,
which to me sounded like a gift from God.
So Tyler's the kind of guy who's always brimming with half baked
plans and back pocket shortcuts, so I had him lay it all out for
me. He promised if I followed his
directions exactly, I'd end up at the kind of fishing hole
people would Daydream about. Deep pools, overhanging willows,
shaded banks, no tourists, no hikers, no boot prints in the
mud. It would be me, the water, and
that kind of quad you only get in a place where the world's
overlooked. So I'd spent Friday night
packing up my gear, fishing rod, small tackle box, a couple of
sandwiches of water and a 45 that I carry when I'm inside
remote areas, and the rest of the standard odds and ends you
would need. I'm not a prepper or anything,
but I've done enough solo hikes to know you don't really mess
around with this kind of stuff. You got a plan for a good time,
but prepare for a bad one. Saturday morning came.
The sky was a kind of clear blue that practically begs you to hit
the road. The drive out there was pretty
uneventful though. Just me rolling through
Backcountry highways, an old barn sliding past me, the
occasional deer crossing sign of course, and just that gnawing
excitement that comes before a new adventure.
I hit that last turn off that Tyler had mentioned to me.
A gravel pull out near the edge of a tree line.
Sure enough, there was this old slow bleeding down.
No signs, no markers, just a faint depression of a trail that
have been there long before that road had.
I parked and did a quick check on my gear and started down it.
The sun was filtering through the Pines and long fingers that
kind of dance on your skin and make you forget for a second
that you're heading inside a place that doesn't really care
if you come back from. There's also this certain thrill
to it, sure, being out there where people don't go anymore,
where cell phone signal dies and the only sounds you hear are the
wind and the birds. But that's the point, isn't it?
No one to bother me. No one to bother with me,
either. The trail actually looked better
than I expected it to. It was narrow, sure, but packed
dirt and a few old switchbacks and a constant downhill grade
that lets you know you're leaving the familiar behind you.
I moved at a steady pace, art like a sharp somewhere below
that Creek waited for me like a secret.
I've been on the trail for maybe 45 minutes when I hit the first
switch back. The descent was steady, but
nothing too punishing. No need for trekking poles or
careful footwork. Pines flanked on both sides,
their needles softening the ground, the air nice and cool
and clean. Birds chattered overhead, and
for a while I let myself sink back into that rhythm. 1 boot
fall after another red tube gently knocking against my pack.
Now, around 2 miles in, things changed.
The trail curved left, hugging the side of the Ridge.
When I came to a fork that I hadn't been warned about.
Tyler's directions were usually pretty thorough, obsessive even.
He'd mentioned No fork, no deviation, just followed that
trail all the way down. But here it was, 2 narrow paths
splitting at a patch of brush, one angle to the left toward a
strand of sycamores. The other veered to the right,
steeper, rougher, cutting deeper into the Canyon.
I stood there for a moment, chewing on the inside of my
cheek, scanning the treetops as if the right answer might be
hanging there in front of me. The left trail looked like it
just wrapped around the Ridge, maybe skirted the Canyon.
But the right, the right hand dropped hard where the water
should inevitably be right. So I took the right, and at
first it didn't feel like the right call.
The trail narrowed but stayed visible, flanked by a rock
outcropping in a cluster of oaks.
But half a mile and it began choking down.
Shrubs and young saplings pressed in on me, branches
clawing at my sleeves. I had a duck under deadfall
twice, and the ground was getting wetter, mud slick under
my boots. I pushed on, still, though,
figuring it had to open up. And this is where I noticed the
silence around me. At first it was very subtle,
just the fading of a bird song, the way my boots sounded sharp
against the ground. But soon it was like the woods
had swallowed their own voice. I paused, hands on my hips,
catching my breath. Something about that stillness
just made the hairs on my neck rise up.
I turned back to look up the trail, and there I saw a figure,
just barely peeking from behind a tree, maybe 50 yards up.
It was a blink, a flicker of movement, there and gone.
Dark hair, pale skin, maybe a woman.
I froze. My heart began to hammer.
Logic now kicked in, telling me OK, it's just another hiker, or
maybe a local who knows the area better than you do.
But that trail was a complete mess.
Nobody in their right mind would come down this way unless they
were as stubborn or dumb as I was.
So I called out to them. Hey, are you?
Are you all right back there? Of course I got nothing in
response. No reply, no sound of any
footsteps. So I waited, counting in my head
123 but the woods in front of me remained dead quiet.
My skin began to crawl at the thoughts.
I shifted my pack and gave those woods another hard look, and
then turned back down trail. The trees began to thicken,
crowding the path until the trail just straight up vanished
ahead. It was nothing but undergrowth
and scattered boulders across this narrow ravine.
I almost missed It sat what looked like some kind of
makeshift camp. A tarp on low between 2 trees.
A pile of firewood stacked under an oak.
An old Coleman cooler tilted on its side.
Someone was, or had been living out here.
My stomach turned to the thought.
Maybe I hadn't imagined that figure after all.
Then that's when I did hear footsteps, soft, almost
thoughtfully, moving through the brush to my left.
I froze, ears straining, feeling my throat go dry.
Suddenly, I slid my phone from my pocket, not to call anybody,
There wasn't any bars out here, but to use the screen like a
mirror. I angled it over my shoulder,
and there, between the trees, maybe 30 feet back, was indeed a
woman. Then tangled, hair closed, dark
and baggy. She wasn't walking toward me, at
least not directly, but weaving through the trees, keeping pace,
eyes flicking between the ground and where I stood.
I didn't want to wait anymore. I turned and started back
uphill, keeping my pace steady, pretending not to notice her.
I didn't Sprint, not yet, just move fast enough to show that I
was leaving the area. My hands were itching for that
45 on my head, but drawing it now, it felt like this kind of
escalation that I wasn't quite ready for.
The trail then narrowed, pinched by this fallen tree, and I
jumped it, gasping and tasting copper on my tongue.
My mind spat half form plans out, loser at the fork, call out
if I saw anybody, fire a warning shot if I had to.
The sounds behind me grew sharper, more desperate.
Stick snapping, breathless hitches, the slap of souls
against her enough. I yanked that 45 from the
holster and fired two shots into the air.
The echo cracked in the trees like a whip, and for a heartbeat
the woods froze as well. And then, through the hush, the
unmistakable sound of retreat, footsteps pounding back the way
they come, I spun around and caught a quick glimpse of her.
The woman, hair flying, arms pumping, bolting back down the
trail like something feral, something that had been burned
by the sound of that gun. I holstered the pistol, wipe
sweat from my brow, and kept climbing.
No stopping now. No stopping until I saw my
truck. The climb out of that Canyon
felt twice as long on the way back.
My legs were burning, lung straining, every muscle wired
tightly, waiting for the slap of feet to return behind me.
But the woods had gone still again, almost too still, like
they were watching, holding their own breath.
I kept my head down and pushed up the trail, counting every
bend and switch back feeling. Sweat beat down my spine.
I told myself over and over. Do not look back.
Do not give her that satisfaction.
Do not show her that you're scared.
But every now and again, I couldn't help it.
I'd glance over my shoulder, eyes darting through the trees.
Nothing. Just shadows, just the wind
teasing the undergrowth. When I hit that fork again, I
barely slowed. I could see now how I've been
LED wrong. The overgrowth path that I had
taken was just subtle enough to pull somebody in without really
thinking. Tyler's directions have been
clear. No forks, no turns, which meant
the path shouldn't have existed. And my gut twisted at that
thought. The last mile was a complete
blur. The sky was starting to dim and
the sun was dipping behind the Ridge.
The woods were slipping into that blue Gray half light that
makes everything look wrong. Every sound around me was
amplified. The snap of twigs, the hush of
the wind, my own ragged breathing.
I kept my hand near that gun, listening for anything and
everything. By the time I saw the edge of
the trees in the shape of my truck parked in that gravel turn
out, it almost felt like a hallucination.
I have stumbled at that last stretch, boots slipping and
heart hammering like it wanted out of my chest.
I threw my gear in the backseat without any kind of ceremony,
climbed into the cab and locked the doors.
I sat there for a moment, hands on the wheel, forehead resting
against the rim, letting the tremors roll throughout me.
My mouth was dry, tongue sticking to the roof, and when I
finally started the engine, the sound nearly made me flinch.
That drive home was dead quiet for two hours.
No music, no podcast, just the hum of the tires and the
relentless replay of what I'd seen.
The woman's pale face between trees, the ragged clothes, the
way she sprinted when those shots rang out.
When I got home, I didn't even unpack.
I walked inside, sat on the couch, and rang Tyler.
He picked up on the second ring, voice easy and relaxed.
Yo, how was it catch anything good?
I swallowed. My throat was raw.
Hey, quick question, are you really sure about that trail?
You said no forks, right? Yeah, man, dead straight.
It's been a couple of years since I was down there though,
but it's a simple run. You paused.
Why do you get turned around or something?
There was a fork, though, about two miles in.
Took me off the main trail and down toward Ravine.
I benched the bridge in my nose. Tyler, Are you sure you're
remembering right? There was a pause on the line,
just enough to raise every hair in my arm.
Then his voice came back a little quieter.
Dude, no, there's no fork. There's never been one.
I closed my eyes and my skin felt cold all over, like the
sweat I'd worked up on the climb had now frozen in place.
I told him I'd fill him in later, hung up and just sat
there in the dark, listening to my house settle, every Creek and
pop sounding a little too sharp for my own comfort.
My mind would not let it go. The fork, the woman, the camp,
tucked away like an old scar in the landscape.
Sleep didn't come easy that night, and I'm sure you can
guess I never went back to that Canyon, not once, not even to
check out. The fork was actually still
there. Tyler tried to talk me into
another trip months later, but I turned him down straight up.
Whatever's down there or whoever's down there can keep
it. I needed to get away, badly.
The city had been chewing me up, bit by bit, day after relentless
day. Emails, deadlines, traffic that
never moved. All of it blended into a toxic
cocktail I could feel eroding me from the inside out.
A couple of nights in the woods, away from everything and
everyone seemed like exactly the kind of detox I needed.
I picked a place near Navajo Country, tucked away deep in
Northern Arizona. The trailhead was barely a
trailhead at all, just a rusted sign half hidden in weeds,
marking a path so faint it could have been mistaken for a deer
track. That suited me perfectly.
If it wasn't popular, I'd have real solitude, genuine peace.
I parked my old Subaru off to the side and grabbed my backpack
from the back seat. It was quiet, just the faint
whispering of Pines in the gentle morning breeze, and for
the first time in months, my shoulders felt lighter.
I checked my phone out of habit. 0 bars, no surprise there, But
even my GPS app flickered erratically, glitching between
coordinates. I shook my head, switched off
the device completely, and slid it into a pocket.
I wouldn't be needing it anyway. The hike started easy enough.
The trees, tall ponderosa Pines and dense green junipers,
created a welcome shade against the early sun.
The air was crisp, sharp with the scent of resin in earth.
For the first half hour, my tension unwound steadily with
each step, my mind clearing of the urban clutter I'd carried
with me. But as I walked deeper,
something subtle shifted in the air.
The sounds, the birds, insects, even the wind dropped away like
someone had dialed down the volume.
Silence took over, so dense it felt oppressive, pressing
against my ears until my own breathing seemed loud and alien.
I forced myself onward, convinced it was just my
imagination running wild. After all, the solitude was
exactly why I'd come. Yet I couldn't shake the feeling
of being observed, the sensation crawling up the back of my neck,
prickling the skin under my collar.
At first I thought maybe it was an animal, something curious yet
cautious, watching from a safe distance.
But animals didn't produce a silence like this, a total
absence of life. The further I went, the stranger
things became. Twigs were scattered oddly along
the sides of the trail, arranged in crude triangles, purposeful
shapes that set my teeth on edge.
Further along, the bark of a few large trees was shredded, scored
deep with long parallel gouges. They look too deliberate, too
high off the ground for any animal I knew.
I brushed my fingers across the wounds in the wood and felt a
shiver ripple down my spine. I reached what should have been
my campsite by mid afternoon, according to the map I'd
printed. But when I got there, the
clearing wasn't a clearing at all.
It was dense, wild brush, a twisted tangle of roots and
branches that seemed intent on denying me entry.
I checked my map again, confused.
The coordinates lined up perfectly, yet nothing matched
what I was seeing. I sighed and decided to
backtrack slightly, figuring I'd made a simple mistake.
But when I turned around, the path behind me had shifted.
Somehow, the Pines I just passed through had closed in tighter,
forming a different route than I remembered.
My pulse quickened. I could have sworn I'd come
straight through those two large trees, but now there were three
clustered too close to have allowed my passage.
You're just tired. I whispered, the words barely
audible in the thick silence. You're seeing things.
I made camp anyway, clearing space among the roots and fallen
pine needles. Darkness crept in quickly, far
faster than I'd anticipated. The forest grew even quieter,
the oppressive stillness deepening until it felt like a
tangible presence around me. I built a small fire, the flames
crackling reassuringly, casting flickering shadows on the trees
around me. Eventually, fatigue one out over
paranoia, I crawled into my tent and zipped myself inside.
Sleep came uneasily in fits and starts, fractured by dreams,
filled with long limbed shadows creeping along my tent walls.
Then, sometime after midnight, I woke abruptly.
My eyes shot open, ears straining into the darkness.
Footsteps circled outside my tent, Slow, deliberate, barefoot
on dry pine needles. My heart hammered painfully,
adrenaline sharpening my senses to an unbearable edge.
I lay motionless, barely daring to breathe.
The footsteps stopped right outside the thin nylon barrier.
A low sound reached me, breathing slow and deliberate.
A soft exhale brushed the fabric of my tent, as if something on
the other side were sniffing, taking in my scent.
Fear coiled in my stomach, heavy and sharp.
Gathering every ounce of courage, I unzipped the tent
flap just enough to peer into the darkness, shining my
flashlight. In a sudden burst of defiance,
the beam swept over empty space. The breathing ceased instantly.
Heart pounding, I leaned forward slightly, angling the flashlight
down toward the ground. Fresh footprints stood stark
against the dry soil. Elongated toes, narrow arches.
Not quite human, but not entirely animal either.
I jerked the flashlight beam around the clearing, sweeping it
between tree trunks, but saw nothing but shadows dancing
mockingly on the bark. I retreated back inside, hands
shaking violently as I zipped the tent shut.
Sleep never returned. I huddled there until dawn
broke, faint and cold, promising safety it couldn't possibly
deliver. When morning came, the silence
remained thick and stifling as ever.
Whatever had been outside my tent hadn't truly left.
It lingered in the trees, watching, waiting, and I knew
with grim certainty the forest wasn't going to let me leave,
Not without a fight. The morning sun was a sickly
muted glow behind the trees, offering little warmth and even
less comfort. I staggered out of my tent,
joints stiff from hours spent tense and unmoving, every muscle
coiled tight from the previous night's terror.
My campsite was exactly as I'd left it, but the footprints, the
long, twisted impressions of bare feet, circled relentlessly,
a chilling reminder of the unseen presence that stalked the
shadows. I packed up my gear hastily,
eyes constantly scanning the surrounding woods.
Logic screamed at me that whatever it was had to have
moved on, had to have lost interest, but instinct whispered
darker truths. It was still here, waiting,
watching. With no clear path and nowhere
else to go. I started moving downhill,
hoping the small Creek I'd seen yesterday would lead me to
safety. Maybe a road or an open
clearing, anything other than this claustrophobic maze of
trees. But the landscape mocked my
optimism, looping cruelly. The Creek twisted and bent in
impossible patterns, doubling back on itself until I found
myself standing, breathless, exactly where I'd started hours
ago. I stopped and stood still,
fighting a rising wave of panic. The silence was deafening.
No wind, no rustle of leaves, no chirping birds.
My breath echoed harshly, painfully loud in my own ears.
Every instinct screamed that this silence was unnatural,
predatory. It was then I heard it.
A low clicking sound, rhythmic and deliberate, echoing faintly
from somewhere behind me. My pulse spiked, adrenaline
racing. I turned slowly, eyes straining
into the gloom. The forest seemed empty,
motionless. Yet the clicking persisted, dry
and brittle, like bones being tapped together.
Hello. My voice cracked, hollow and
uncertain, disappearing into the oppressive silence.
In response, the clicking abruptly stopped.
Seconds dragged on painfully. Just as I turned back, a faint
whisper broke through the stillness, carrying softly
through the trees. Hello.
My heart lurched violently. The voice, It sounded exactly
like mine. The inflection, the slight
uncertainty, the pitch perfectly mimicked.
I spun around, frantic eyes darting between trees, but saw
nothing but endless trunks and shadows.
What the hell? I whispered, backing up slowly.
This wasn't possible. Was I losing my mind already?
Another whisper drifted closer, echoing my panic again in my own
voice. What the hell?
I bolted. Panic surged through my limbs,
driving me blindly through the underbrush.
Branches tore at my skin. Sharp rocks hidden beneath Moss
threatened to twist my ankles, but I ran until my lungs burned
and vision blurred. Finally stumbling over a fallen
log, I collapsed to my knees, gasping for breath.
The forest around me seemed to close tighter, the trees looming
above me like silent judges. Blood trickled down my face from
a cut above my eye. I blinked away, sweat and blood,
scanning the shadows. My heart nearly stopped when I
caught sight of it for the first time.
It stood motionless among the trees, tall, emaciated, and
horribly twisted. Its body was humanoid yet wrong,
elongated limbs covered in uneven patches of coarse fur and
sickly pale skin. It's face was even worse, a
distorted pale imitation of human features stretched
awkwardly, as though wearing someone else's skin.
It's eyes shone faintly, reflecting the dim sunlight like
those of an animal, yet it stood erect, completely still.
I froze, my throat too tight to scream.
The thing tilted its head slowly to one side, studying me, it's
mouth open slightly, revealing teeth, too sharp, too numerous,
packed into a jaw not meant to hold them.
Slowly, deliberately, it took one step toward me.
I stumbled backwards, scrambling away, eyes locked on its
unnatural gait. It moved in jerks and twitches,
almost as though it was mimicking human movement from
memory, poorly and grotesquely. I broke eye contact for just a
second, and when I looked up again, the thing was closer, far
closer than it should have been. Its limbs bent at strange
angles, its body twisted grotesquely around a tree,
peering at me from behind the trunk, still silently observing.
Stay back, I shouted, voice trembling.
It simply stared, its eyes empty of comprehension or mercy.
Desperation pushed me to my feet.
I grabbed a stone from the ground and hurled it toward the
creature. It struck the trunk next to it
with a loud crack, sending splinters flying.
But the thing didn't flinch. It merely shifted, vanishing
momentarily behind the tree trunk, emerging again, Closer,
far too close now. I turned and sprinted again,
this time in sheer animal panic. My feet pounded the forest floor
in a chaotic rhythm, my chest aching from exertion and terror.
Behind me, the forest erupted into a cacophony of horrific
sounds. Voices overlapping, distorted
screams, animal cries merging into a terrifying chorus.
Each voice was unmistakably mine, yet twisted, tortured,
mocking. The creature wasn't chasing me,
not exactly. It was playing, toying with its
prey. Eventually, I collapsed against
a broad tree trunk, gasping, dizzy with fear and exhaustion.
The voices had stopped, leaving only the oppressive silence.
Again. I was utterly, completely alone,
trapped in a nightmare from which I couldn't wake.
Hours passed. Darkness began to close in
again. I gathered the remains of my
shattered courage and built a small, trembling fire, desperate
for any source of comfort. I sat huddled by the flickering
flames, knife clenched tightly, afraid to even blink.
When the voices began again, they came softly, almost
soothingly this time. Familiar voices from my past, my
mother's gentle tone, called to me from just beyond the
firelight, inviting me closer, urging me to step into the
darkness. My own voice echoed hers, calm,
reassuring, telling me that the danger had passed.
My mind wavered, momentarily, drawn toward the comforting
illusion. But beneath the soft words, I
heard the dry clicking return, sharper this time, closer.
The illusion shattered. I gripped the knife harder,
knuckles white. It was out there, watching me,
whispering lies and voices stolen from my memories, waiting
patiently for me to falter, to trust, to let my guard down even
for a moment. Shivering violently despite the
fire, I realized I was already losing my sanity.
I needed to escape soon, or I'd never leave these woods alive.
And as the clicking drew closer, I understood with cold clarity.
I was being hunted, and dawn might not come fast enough.
At dawn, the forest was drenched in a ghostly fog, blurring the
trees into dark, looming shapes. I hadn't slept, hadn't dared
close my eyes, but the faint Gray light was enough of a
signal that it was time to move. My hands trembled as I hurriedly
packed my gear, leaving behind everything non essential,
desperate to shed weight. The thing was out there, close,
patient, waiting for the smallest slip up.
I stood at the edge of my dying fire, breathing shallow and
quick. Silence surrounded me, but it
wasn't the comforting silence of solitude.
It was oppressive, suffocating, waiting for something.
Every nerve in my body screamed at me to run, and this time I
didn't resist. I picked a direction at random
and bolted through the trees. My lungs burned immediately,
legs aching with fatigue, but adrenaline pushed me forward.
The underbrush tore viciously at my skin, thorns leaving thin
Crimson trails along my arms and face.
But I couldn't slow down, not now.
Behind me, the silence fractured.
Voices erupted, layered screams interwoven with guttural,
animalistic growls. My own voice was loudest,
echoing mockingly through the trees.
Wait, come back, don't leave me. I risked a glance over my
shoulder, my blood freezing at the sight.
It was there, flashing between trees, moving in an impossible
blur. Its elongated limbs twisted
grotesquely as it sprinted, each step unnatural yet terrifyingly
swift. Its eyes glowed in the dim
morning light, fixed unwaveringly on me.
Terror gave way to blind panic, my feet barely touching the
ground as I hurtled downhill, nearly tumbling headlong into a
shallow Creek bed. I scrambled to my feet, heart
hammering, and froze at the site in front of me, a deer carcass
sprawled grotesquely across smooth stones.
Its antlers had been brutally snapped, eyes hollowed out,
mouth locked open in a permanent, silent scream.
Blood still seeped slowly into the Creek, staining the
Clearwater deep red. Before I could process the
horror, I felt a presence behind me, impossibly close.
I whipped around, breath catching in my throat.
The thing stood mere yards away, motionless, head tilted at a
nauseating angle. As though curious.
It opened its mouth slowly, exposing rows of jagged teeth,
lips pulling back into a grotesque mockery of a smile.
Please. My voice was barely audible, a
pathetic whisper. The creature took a slow step
forward, its body shifting and twisting, bones cracking audibly
beneath. Skin stretched thin and pallid.
Instinct seized control, and I lunged blindly toward a fist
sized rock at my feet. I hurled it toward the creature
with all the strength I had left.
It missed, narrowly smashing against a nearby tree and
sending a shower of splinters through the air.
The creature didn't flinch, its head merely tilted in amusement.
I ran again, forcing my battered body forward.
Branches whipped past me, vision blurring with tears and sweat.
Behind me I could hear it now, clearly pursuing, moving with
fluid, predatory ease, whispering words stolen from my
mind. Ahead, through the haze of
desperation, I saw something. A gap in the trees, open sky
beyond. Hope surged.
With a final burst of strength, I stumbled forward, bursting
suddenly into an area of burnt ground, a wide, blackened scar
left by some past wildfire. Ash and charcoal crunched
beneath my boots as I staggered into the open, collapsing to my
knees, lungs screaming for air. I twisted around frantically,
expecting to see the creature bearing down on me, but it had
stopped abruptly at the edge of the burnt ground, pacing
restlessly, its body tense. It growled softly, frustrated,
refusing to cross the threshold into the charred earth.
Relief came, sharp and painful, mingling with raw exhaustion.
Whatever this place was, whatever its significance, it
was safe, at least momentarily. I forced myself up, following
the burnt scar, eyes locked on the thing, watching me silently
from the shadows. I followed the scorched earth
until it merged with an old, forgotten Rd.
Overgrown, barely recognizable, but unmistakably human made.
My heart leaped. Civilization.
Safety might actually exist beyond this nightmare.
My legs felt like lead, but I pushed myself forward, forcing 1
foot in front of the other. Hours later, exhausted and half
delirious, I stumbled onto a decrepit hunting cabin, rotting
wooden walls half hidden by thick vegetation.
The door swung inward easily, hinges rusted and crumbling.
I staggered inside, collapsing onto the floor, shaking
uncontrollably, and waited for whatever came next.
Through a crack in the door, I glimpsed movement in the
distance. It was there, standing silently
at the tree line, staring, its form blurred and wavering in the
shadows. Eventually, it faded back into
the forest, leaving me alone. When I opened my eyes again,
sunlight streamed through gaps in the cabin walls.
Warm and reassuring voices echoed outside, real human
voices calling my name. My rescue had arrived.
They'd been searching for days, Alerted by my abandoned car and
the frantic voicemail I'd managed to leave days earlier.
They found me bloody, dehydrated, barely coherent.
Days later, from the sterile comfort of a hospital bed, I
tried to explain everything I'd seen.
They nodded politely, spoke quietly among themselves, and
attributed my ramblings to trauma and exposure.
But an old Navajo nurse tending to my wounds looked me dead in
the eye and quietly said, You wandered where people aren't
meant to go. You're lucky it let you out at
all. After recovering, I returned
briefly to the trailhead, compelled by some desperate need
to understand. But there was no trail, only
impenetrable trees and thick brush, as though the forest
itself had closed like a wound. Behind me, a local elder stopped
me before I went any further, shaking his head gravely.
You survived once. Don't test fate twice.
I listened. I had no intention of ever
stepping into those woods again. But even now, months later, in
my quiet apartment back in the city, I still hear it sometimes.
Soft footsteps circling outside my window late at night.
Quiet whispers in a voice far too much like my own.
I know now that the forest never truly let me go.
It's just waiting patiently for me to slip back into its reach.
I talked my best friend Ethan into a spring deer spotting trip
in central Idaho. We drove N from Boise all day,
the truck buzzing along empty roads rimmed with snow.
By dusk, we rolled into the tiny town of McCall.
A single gas station and a short gravel runway sat by a frozen
lake. Early the next morning, a Bush
pilot met us beside his battered Beaver float plane.
He loaded our packs, rifles and a week of beef jerky, then
punched the throttle. The plane climbed over endless
ridges until the forests below looked like green fir. 45
minutes later, we dropped into Big Creek airstrip, A narrow
ribbon of dirt tucked between steep Canyon walls.
The pilot waved once and took off again, leaving us alone with
a hard quiet that rang in my ears.
We hiked N on a thin trail beside Monumental Creek.
Patches of old snow still clung to the shady banks.
After lunch we left the path and pushed into an unnamed draw
young lodge pole. Pines crowded so tight we had to
twist sideways to pass. That was when I saw the first
mark. A finger thick sapling stood
just inches from my face. Halfway up the trunk was a
perfect V shaped bite, as if someone had pressed a giant dog
tooth into the bark. I glanced around.
Every single sapling had the same wound.
One bite, always at knee height, never more.
Hundreds of trees, all scarred the same way.
Wolves. Ethan guessed, but his voice
sounded thin. I shrugged, pretending it made
sense. We reached a small Meadow on
higher ground and set up camp. Cold fog crept in as the sun
slid behind dead Mule Ridge. We roasted jerky over a tiny
stove and tried to joke about our strange tooth forest, but
the jokes fell flat. That night, inside the tent, I
woke to a low sound drifting through the trees.
It wasn't wind. It wasn't an animal call.
It was a humming, slow and steady, like someone singing
without words. The note rose and dipped,
weaving between the trees. Ethan's breath hitched in the
dark. Did it just say my name?
He whispered. I didn't answer because I
thought I'd heard it too. My hand tightened on the rifle
beside my sleeping bag. The humming went on for what
felt like hours, then stopped so suddenly The silence made my
ears ring. A single twig snapped right
outside the tent. Ethan held his breath, I held
mine. Nothing else moved.
Somehow, we fell back asleep as dawn crept in.
When first light painted the tent walls orange, Ethan
unzipped the door. He froze.
Dude, look. All our gear had been moved.
Our two rifles, the ammo belts, even the food bags were arranged
in a perfect ring 6 feet across, circling the tent like a strange
fence. Inside the ring the dirt was
swept clean. No prints, no drag marks.
A neat row of fresh sticks lay at the edge of the ring.
Each stick was smooth, green and carried that same single tooth
notch. The sticks pointed E straight up
the Ridge. Ethan's face was pale.
This is a message, he whispered. I wanted to pack up and head
straight back to the airstrip, but something ugly twisted in my
gut. Anger, fear, and the need to
know who or what thought they could toy with us.
We follow the trail, I said, loading my rifle.
We find whoever did this and make them stop.
Ethan didn't argue. We left the tent and most of our
supplies behind, shoulders tight, eyes on the 1st notched
stick behind us. The fog swallowed our little
camp and the quiet woods waited for what came next.
We stepped into the fog, following the row of notched
sticks that pointed uphill. Every couple 100 steps we found
another branch, the bite mark still oozing SAP.
The air smelled sour, like old meat left in the sun.
Soon thick clouds rolled over the Ridge.
Sleet rattled our hoods and the trees turn to Gray shadows.
I kept my rifle ready, but my hands shook with the cold and
with nerves I didn't want to admit.
At the 5th marker, Ethan stopped.
Hear that? I held my breath.
A long, raspy inhale drifted through the trees.
Then a slow exhale, rough as sandpaper.
It was beneath us, not around us.
We pushed forward until Ethan's boot punched through the ground
with a crack. He yelped and scrambled back.
The mossy floor had hidden a hole bigger than a cabin, its
rim marked with pale rock. Fog spilled over the edge like
steam. We crept to the lip and aimed
our lights. My beam hit a jumble of bones,
jaw bones, piled knee high around the sinkhole.
Deer, elk, bear. Some were giant double hinged
things I'd never seen in any guidebook.
Each one was missing a single canine tooth.
My stomach flipped. Who would do this?
I whispered. From deep inside the pit.
Came the breathing, slow, labored and wet.
I shone my light down. Far below, something Gray and
slick shifted, as if a huge back rolled against the stone.
Then my flashlight fizzed and died.
I grabbed Ethan's sleeve. Run, we turn.
Just as a thunderous scrape echoed from the hole.
Bones tumbled as something heavy surged upward.
Trees shook. I felt the ground tremble under
my boots. We sprinted down slope.
Sleet stung our faces and branches whipped like whips.
Behind us, trunks snapped, crack, boom, closer and closer.
I risked a glance back and saw only waving trees, but the
crashing sound chased us like an invisible train.
A fallen log blocked the narrow saddle ahead.
Ethan slipped on the wet bark and slid sideways.
I hauled him over. My pack tore, spilling survival
gear across the trail. We left it and kept running.
The Ridge ended in a loose rock chute.
We skidded down, shoes scraping sparks, and burst onto the banks
of Monumental Creek. Snow melt.
Water roared waist deep, icy enough to bite.
With no time to think, we splashed in the cold, stole my
breath, but the crashing above us stopped.
Whatever haunted us did not follow.
Past the tree line. Shaking from the cold, we
slogged 3 miles along the creek's edge until the dirt
runway of Big Creek Airstrip appeared through the mist.
A Forest Service pilot warming up his little plane spotted us.
He wrapped us in blankets, shoved heat packs into our
gloves and radioed the Ranger station for help.
In the clinic in Riggins that night, a deputy listened to our
story with raised eyebrows. Plenty of wolves up there, he
said. Like that explained everything,
but on my smashed GoPro card, 1 frame survived.
It shows Ethan and me asleep in our tent at dawn.
Just outside the ring of rifles stands a tall, thin shadow with
five long fingers. In its hand is a fresh stick,
still green, still bleeding SAP, ready to plant behind our heads.
Ethan keeps asking if we should go back for proof.
I tell him Idaho's mountains can keep their secrets.
Every time I hear a low hum in the wind, I remember that breath
from the dark and I know I will never climb Dead Mule Ridge
again. I used to love the way the
Colorado timber smelled at night.
Sharp pine, cold stone, and a hint of wood smoke that lingered
even after the fire died. That first night near Trappers
Lake, though, every familiar scent felt layered with
something sour and electric, as if the forest itself had turned
uneasy. Dad picked the campsite for its
quiet. We were miles from the nearest
trailhead, tucked against a ragged tree line just below the
timberline. No highway hum, no glow from
cabins or RV lots. Only the lake breathing in the
dark and a million tight constellations overhead.
We spent the evening the way we always did, stringing up tarps,
hanging food, swapping the same stories until the jokes felt
fresh again. By the time the last ember
winked out, Lisa was yawning, Sean was halfway through a
bourbon mumbled anecdote, and Dad was already hurting them
toward their tent. I wasn't tired, not yet.
I claimed it was because of the altitude, but the truth was
simpler. Silence like that feels
addictive. I sat alone beside the fire ring
until the coals grade and the sky turned the color of blue
steel. My watch read 117 when I finally
crawled into my little Dome a dozen strides from camp.
The nylon crackled as I zipped the door shut, rolled onto my
back, and listened. At first, there was only wind
rattling spruce branches. Steady, polite, predictable. 10,
maybe 15 minutes later, a new sound braided through the
breeze, a deliberate inhale, wet and heavy, right at ground
level. It travelled along the back wall
of my tent, pausing then continuing, as if whatever was
outside wanted to memorize my scent.
I pictured a black bear tilting its snout, testing for food, and
my muscles locked so tight my knees ached against the sleeping
pad foam. The sniffing drifted away, but
the forest didn't relax. I heard a crunch by the cold
fire pit, followed by a measured scrape wood on gravel.
Slow, unhurried, the drag circled wide around Dad's tent,
then Lisa and Sean's, and finally mine, tracing a ring
through pine needles and dust. My brain spun excuses.
Maybe an elk rubbing antlers, maybe wind tipping a loose pole.
Each theory collapsed when the footsteps resumed, by pedal and
uneven, stopping inches from my door.
The night burst white, a camera flash close enough that my
shadow jumped against the inner walls, crisp and black.
I squeezed my eyes shut, disoriented, waiting for
retreating steps, for any proof the photographer existed.
Nothing moved. The air felt vacuum still.
Then the tent fabric deformed beside my hips, pushed inward by
a slow, deliberate weight. Not a paw too broad, too
precise. Whoever it was settled down,
exhaling A shallow breath that warmed the nylon between us.
Seconds ticked until they felt like minutes.
I lay paralyzed, counting heartbeats, everyone hammering
louder than the wind. Fingers, light, almost curious,
began to toy with the tense lower seam, tugging at the
corners as if testing the material.
Plastic teeth clinked as the zipper pull lifted a single
notch. My lungs finally rebelled.
Hey, who's out there? The shout cracked in my throat
but shattered the silence like a rifle shot.
For a heartbeat, everything stayed frozen.
Then Dad's voice cut through the dark.
Caleb, you OK? A zipper rasped.
Boot soles thudded across the clearing, and a flashlight beam
Lance between the trees. The pressure vanished.
No rustle, no scramble. Just gone.
I fumble for my own zipper, tumbled out into the flashlights
glare and nearly collided with Dad's outstretched arm.
Behind him, Lisa and Sean blinked in their tent doorway,
half awake, while their border collie watched us with bored
eyes, tail thumping lazily. We searched under logs, behind
boulders, up every faint game trail, finding only * silver
trunks in our own overlapping prints.
No claw marks, no boot tracks, not even the branch I'd been
certain I heard dragging. After an hour.
Dad convinced me nothing else would happen tonight.
I agreed, but my body refused the tent.
I unrolled my sleeping bag in the truck bed, locked the
canopy, and lay staring through the window until the eastern
ridgeline bled Gray. Somewhere beyond the glass, the
forest kept its secrets, and I tried to pretend I hadn't just
felt it breathe against my skin. I did not sleep so much as hover
half awake in the truck bed, eyes fixed on the treetops that
fenced the sky. Now and then the wind shouldered
a branch and my heart jerked, sure I would see that blinding
white flash again, sure a stranger's face would be staring
through the glass. Dawn finally diluted the stars,
painting the ridgeline Gray. Dad rapped on the canopy, coffee
steaming in one hand, flashlight in the other.
We walked the site before breakfast, toes chafing cold
inside our boots. The ring of disturbed soil I'd
imagined around the tents was real, a faint groove arcing
through pine needles and gravel wide enough for a walking stick.
Yet we never found the branch that made it.
Beside my flattened tent wall lay 2 perfect depressions, like
someone had knelt there, one knee then the other, leaving
Prince too shallow to keep their shape.
Lisa tried to laugh the fear off, saying coyotes sometimes
nose tents, but she kept glancing at the shadowed
timberline as if expecting shutters to close behind the
trees. Sean poured bourbon into his mug
instead of Creamer and whistled for the dog.
She ignored him and pressed against Lisa's calf.
I rolled my bag back into the truck, telling everyone I
preferred the pads firmness, but Dad knew.
He only nodded and double checked the lock on the
tailgate. The day passed in forced
normalcy. We fished below the outlet dam,
hauled in two brookies, and pretended the world was simple
again. Yet even the lake felt weird,
too glassy, as though the water was too still.
On the hike back, I spotted a single boot print in a patch of
damp soil along the stream, smaller than mine heel bisected
by a smooth crack, the way older Vibram souls split.
No one else saw it, and I did not point it out.
That night the fire burned longer.
Flames chased the dark to the edge of camp, but I still heard
the forest, thinking. Every so often Lisa's collie
would lift her head, ears swiveling.
Then nothing. No bark, no growl, just a
puzzled whine, as if she smelled a sound her brain refused to
translate. We waited until midnight and
doused the coals together. Dad offered his truck bed.
I accepted. He shut the canopy from outside,
gave it a firm shake and said Wake me if anything changes.
His voice told me he didn't expect rest himself.
Hours crawled. Spruce needles clicked against
the aluminum shell, a harmless but relentless reminder that
skin thin walls separated me from everything beyond.
Once, maybe 2:00 in the morning, the dog yipped twice, sharp and
confused. Footsteps followed Dad's,
crunching toward the tree line and back.
He did not wake me. After morning opened clear and
cruelly bright. We decided to leave a day early.
Nobody argued. While Sean collapsed his tent, I
coiled the guidelines from mine. I had shaken out most of the
dust when something white flipped over near the roots of a
fir, a Polaroid, edges wavering like wet bark.
I picked it up carefully, thumb gripping only a corner.
The image was dark but distinct, our three tents framed by trees,
moonlight catching the silvery rain fly on mine.
The camera angle came from inside the woods, 30 or 40 yards
back, telephoto close. A smudge of red digits stamped
the bottom. 1:43 AM. My breath stuttered.
That was when I had been frozen, listening to the zipper rasp.
I turned the photo over. Ink had bled in the damp, but
the shapes were clear enough. A round :) wide eyes and beneath
it, three neat words that looked freshly written.
I see you. For a moment, I could not hear
anything but my pulse. Dad's voice finally tunneled
through, asking if I found a stake.
I slipped the Polaroid into a zip pocket and walked it over
instead. Sean and Lisa crowded close.
The collie tucked her tail. We threw camp into the truck bed
with none of yesterday's tidy folding.
On the drive down the switchbacks, Lisa kept checking
the side mirror. Sean clicked off the safety on
the pistol Dad kept between the seats.
No one spoke until the Ranger station.
The Ranger studied the photo, logged our coordinates and
promised a patrol would hike in. Probably a prank, she said.
Yet her knuckles whitened when she handed the picture back
inside a plastic evidence sleeve.
Home was 10 hours of asphalt away.
I stared out the window and tried not to blink, afraid the
next flash I saw would not be lightning or sun on Chrome, but
the same cold burst of white, the one that turned my tent into
a photograph from inside the dark.
I sold that tent two days later. The buyer asked why I was giving
up a good model so cheap. I told him Backcountry nights
had lost their magic for me. He laughed and said the woods
were the only place he ever felt safe.
I hope he never camps near Timberline.
I never imagined that our anniversary trip would lead us
somewhere so terrifying. My husband Jacob and I had
always been drawn to forgotten places, abandoned cemeteries,
ghost towns, and trails that barely existed anymore.
That's exactly why we chose Cherokee, NC for our first
wedding anniversary getaway. The idea was to explore the
quieter side of the Smokies, away from tourist packed trails
and souvenir shops. For a week now, we've been
comfortably tucked away in our camper near the Ocana Lufte
River, adventuring out daily and coming back tired but happy.
On our last full day, we plan to visit a place we'd found online
called Connor Cemetery. It wasn't on any official maps,
and the few scattered references we found online described it as
hidden near Couches Creek, roughly 2 miles from the visitor
center. I had scribbled vague directions
from half abandoned message boards into my notebook, excited
by the mystery of it all. Jacob laughed at my obsession
with documenting everything, but he understood.
It was part of our shared excitement, the thrill of
exploring forgotten places. We pulled off at an unmarked
shoulder along New Found Gap Rd. The forest rose darkly around
us, thick and heavy with old growth trees.
It felt untouched, forgotten. I led the way, scanning the
ground carefully for snakes, holes, anything we might step
on. Jacob walked behind, quieter
than usual. The forest felt strangely silent
as we left the pavement behind. There were no birds, no rustling
leaves, just the faint crunching sound of our footsteps.
After about 15 minutes, the path became narrower and the woods
closed in, branches scraping softly against our shoulders.
As we passed, the air grew strangely warm, almost stifling.
I found myself glancing back at Jacob more than usual, catching
his eyes as he quietly looked around.
Something felt different here, heavier somehow.
He must have felt it too, but neither of us said anything.
We had walked a little further when Jacob suddenly stopped
behind me. I turned to face him, ready to
ask what was wrong, when he quietly whispered.
Babe, look at that statue. My gaze instinctively moved
toward the direction of his pointing finger, half expecting
to see an old, weathered Angel, the kind you'd see in forgotten
cemeteries. But instead, what loomed between
the distant trees sent a sudden chill down my spine.
Standing silently, disturbingly still, was a strange figure,
about 15 feet tall, partially concealed by dark trees and
thick foliage. At first it looked like a
statue, maybe some strange local art, but the longer I stared,
the more I realized it didn't resemble anything artistic.
Its limbs were thin and unnaturally long COVID in what
appeared to be tight, leathery skin stretch taut over a
framework of bones or wood. It had a form, vaguely deer
like, but twisted horribly out of proportion.
Its face made my skin crawl. The skull looked malformed,
blending features of a deer and camel, lacking a proper snout.
Instead, the mouth hung slightly open, and its eyes were large,
glassy, and disturbingly reflective, catching what little
sunlight broke through the trees.
It didn't move, but there was a terrifying realism to it, as
though it might suddenly step forward.
What the hell is that? Jacob whispered again, voice
barely audible, tense with fear. I don't know, I breathed, unable
to look away. Then, ever so subtly, the thing
moved. It's right ear, grotesquely
elongated, slowly rotated a full circle, smooth and unnatural, as
though listening carefully in every direction.
A faint clicking sound drifted through the silence as it turned
and almost mechanical noise. My stomach tightened into knots.
Jacob took a shaky breath. Beside me.
It blinked. Emma.
He said quietly, his voice breaking slightly with disbelief
and dread. The damn thing blinked.
My heartbeat quickened painfully, a sudden wave of
nausea hitting me. I hadn't seen the blink, but I
didn't doubt Jacob. Nothing about this felt right.
Without needing words, we both took a cautious step backward,
then another, never daring to turn our backs completely.
The forest remained unnaturally still as we retreated, every
rustle beneath our feet amplified in the oppressive
silence. I felt as though something
watched us. No, something definitely watched
us. It felt like eyes boring into
the back of my neck, cold and inhuman, following our every
step. When our feet finally hit the
solid pavement of the road again, sounds seem to rush back
into the world. The distant rush of cars,
birdsong, wind, rustling leaves overhead, as if we had exited a
bubble, leaving behind something ancient and wrong.
Back at our camper, Jacob didn't say a word for almost an hour,
staring blankly at the floor. I felt shaken, unable to process
what we just encountered. My hands trembled as I tried
searching for answers online, but there was nothing.
No folklore, no reports, no obscure artist claiming
responsibility. It was as though the place and
whatever we'd seen didn't exist at all.
That night, lying awake in the camper, I stared Into Darkness,
terrified of sleep. Jacob tossed restlessly beside
me, murmuring softly under his breath, his dreams clearly
troubled. When sleep finally came, I found
myself alone on that same narrow trail.
It was dark, colder now, the path harder to follow.
Behind me, just out of sight, I heard the soft clicking sound of
something slowly rotating in the darkness, listening, waiting,
watching. The morning sunlight filtered
weakly through the thin curtains of our camper, bathing
everything in a strange, grayish glow.
Neither Jacob nor I had slept much after yesterday's
encounter, and the little rest we managed was interrupted by
unsettling dreams and the constant sensation of being
watched. We sat quietly at the small
kitchenette table, sipping lukewarm coffee, neither of us
ready to talk about what we'd experienced.
Eventually, Jacob broke the heavy silence.
We can't be the only people who've ever seen it, he said
quietly, staring into his mug. Someone local must know
something. I nodded, remembering the little
Native American bookstore we'd visited earlier in the week, run
by an older Cherokee woman named Louise.
She'd been friendly, knowledgeable about the region,
and it encouraged us to visit lesser known spots.
I hoped she'd have answers, or at least a clue.
The drive into town felt longer than before, every turn along
the winding roads making me jumpy.
Trees pressed close to the road, casting flickering shadows that
danced across the windshield, reminding me too much of that
twisted figure in the woods. The small bell above the shop
door jingled softly as we stepped inside, the air thick
with the comforting aroma of old books and incense.
Louise greeted us warmly, but the smile quickly faded from her
face when she saw our expressions.
What happened? She asked gently, concerned,
deepening the lines around her eyes.
As calmly as we could, Jacob and I described everything, finding
the trail, the silence, the disturbing figure.
It's impossible proportions, it's unnatural movements.
Louise's expression shifted from curiosity to something more
guarded as we spoke, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
She remained silent for several seconds after we'd finished
studying us carefully. Then, without a word, she moved
to the front door, flipping the open sign to closed, locking the
door behind her. Come with me, she said, her
voice quiet and firm. She LED us into a backroom
filled with shelves of older, more fragile books, artifacts,
and handmade crafts. Sitting us down at a worn wooden
table, she took a deep breath, as though considering her words
carefully. You've stumbled onto something
that most people here don't talk about openly.
She began slowly. There are old things in these
mountains, things that existed long before people arrived.
Spirits, watchers, beings whose names were never meant to be
spoken aloud. A chill prickled the back of my
neck, and Jacob shifted nervously in his chair.
What you saw, it's known, but rarely talked about, She
continued. My grandmother warned me about
them when I was a child. She called them guardians or
watchers, ancient spirits tied to the land.
They reveal themselves only when they choose to.
What does it want? Jacob asked softly, his voice
strained. Louise shook her head slightly,
her eyes sad but resolute. It could be a warning, it could
be a test, or it could be hunting.
The last word lingered ominously in the air, heavy and
inescapable. I swallowed hard, my throat dry.
What do we do now? Her eyes fixed intensely on
mine. Leave.
Forget you saw it. And whatever you do, don't go
back. These beings, they're like
hooks. The more attention you pay them,
the deeper they dig into you. But even as Louise spoke, I felt
something inside me resist her advice.
A quiet voice whispered that I needed to go back, needed proof,
something tangible to ground me in reality.
Beside me, Jacob's restless fingers tapped anxiously on the
table. I wondered if he felt the same
inexplicable draw. We thanked Louise quietly,
promising we'd consider her words carefully.
As we left, she caught my arm gently, looking directly into my
eyes. Emma, Jacob, please be careful.
Sometimes the more you search, the harder it becomes to escape.
Back at the camper, the sun began to set, washing the trees
in shades of deep orange and purple.
Jacob stared distractedly at nothing, clearly still unsettled
by Louise's words. The sense of unease had only
deepened rather than faded. As darkness settled around us.
The oppressive quiet of the night grew heavier.
Jacob paced nervously, checking and rechecking the door locks.
I found myself staring out the camper window, watching shadows
creep slowly through the trees. Something felt very wrong about
tonight. The silence wasn't peaceful.
It felt like it was waiting, holding its breath.
Then the tapping began. At first I thought it was
branches brushing against the campers metal siding, but
quickly realized it was too rhythmic, too deliberate.
Tap, tap, tap. A slow, patient sound.
Jacob froze mid step, eyes wide. Did you hear that?
He whispered. Before I could answer, the
tapping shifted around the camper, methodically moving from
window to window. Whatever it was circled us
slowly, as though testing for weaknesses.
Neither of us dared to move. After several minutes, the
tapping stopped. For a brief moment, relief
flooded through me until Jacob cautiously opened the door,
flashlight shaking in his grip, and stepped outside.
Jacob. I hissed, following him
anxiously. He stopped abruptly, flashlight
beam trembling as it illuminated the ground outside our camper.
Clearly visible in the soft earth were prints, small, deep
hoofed tracks. But they weren't animal tracks,
not completely. They looked like they'd been
made by something standing upright, like a human with
hooves. My breath caught painfully in my
throat. Jacob pointed the flashlight
upwards, slowly illuminating the side of the camper.
There, caught in the window screen, was a tangled clump of
coarse Gray hair. My chest tightened painfully.
It's been here. Jacob nodded silently, face
pale. He took my hand firmly, guiding
me back into the camper. We locked the door securely,
though it suddenly seemed painfully inadequate against
whatever lurked outside. We sat awake the rest of the
night, every noise amplified by our fear.
At some point, Jacob whispered to me about a dream he'd had,
how he'd been walking through the forest behind the creature,
following obediently, feeling strangely calm, almost safe.
The sky began to lighten, and as dawn approached, I knew we'd
both made our decision. Despite every warning, despite
Louise's plea we would return to those woods, something inside us
was already pulling us back, hooked deeply, inescapably, and
I knew with absolute certainty whatever had found us wasn't
done with us yet. I couldn't shake the dread that
gripped me as we parked once more by the unmarked pull off
along New Found Gap Rd. The air felt heavier this
morning, oppressive, thick with humidity and something else,
something darker and more sinister.
Jacob hesitated beside me, his hand gripping the revolver
tightly. We had come prepared, carrying
bear spray, knives, a borrowed gun, and my digital camera, yet
none of it felt reassuring anymore.
The trailhead was harder to find this time, as though the forest
itself had shifted overnight, branches now blocking the
entrance more aggressively. Leaves brushed coldly against my
face as we stepped onto the hidden path.
Immediately, that unnatural silence descended again,
pressing around us. The comforting noises of birds
and wind vanished, replaced by the faint sound of our own
breathing, tense and strained. Every step forward felt forced.
Jacob's hand trembled slightly as he moved branches aside,
clearing the path ahead. After a short distance, he
stopped abruptly, pointing to the ground.
My stomach dropped as I noticed fresh marks scarring the forest
floor. Long drag marks, as if something
large and heavy had recently been pulled through the
underbrush. They moved it.
Jacob murmured, his voice unsteady.
He didn't say who they were, but I understood this wasn't random.
It felt intentional, deliberate. I raised my camera, snapping
quick pictures, desperate for some tangible proof.
The camera's shutter sounded unnaturally loud in the silence,
a mechanical click, click, click that echoed between the trees.
After a few photos, I glanced at the screen.
My heart stuttered. The images were distorted,
corrupted, blurred beyond recognition, like something
didn't want to be seen. A few steps further we came to a
clearing ringed by towering, twisted trees.
Something immediately felt wrong here.
My gaze dropped to the ground and I froze in horror.
Arranged in a perfect circle on the leaf covered earth were
dozens of dead birds. Robins, crows, sparrows, all
facing inward, wings neatly folded, eyes carefully removed,
empty sockets staring blankly upwards.
No flies buzzed, no ants crawled, as if nature itself
refused to touch whatever had happened here.
Oh my God, Jacob breathed, stepping back.
I lifted my camera again, forcing myself to document it,
but the second I pressed the button, the battery symbol
flashed red and the screen flickered dark.
The camera was dead. Emma.
Jacob whispered urgently, gripping my arm painfully.
We need to go now. I opened my mouth to reply, but
before I could speak, a soft, sickeningly familiar clicking
sound reached my ears. It was slow, rhythmic, the
gentle rotation of something terrible behind us.
We turned simultaneously, dread flooding me as I recognized the
shape hidden just beyond the ring of trees.
The creature stood perfectly still, watching us with those
wide, reflective eyes. Sunlight filtered through
branches, highlighting its grotesque features clearly.
The stretch skin, the 2 long limbs, that horrific face
without a snout. It blinked once, deliberately.
Jacob raised the revolver, but his hand shook violently, unable
to steady it. His breathing grew erratic,
shallow. I grabbed his arm, terrified.
Jacob, snap out of it. I pleaded desperately, but his
gaze was locked, unfocused, pupils wide, transfixed on the
creature. His arm dropped limply to his
side, the revolver useless in his grip.
Jacob. I shouted, voice breaking,
shaking him roughly. His eyes snapped back into
clarity and he gasped, stumbling backward.
Run. I screamed, grabbing his wrist
and pulling him away from the clearing behind us.
The clicking sound grew louder, faster, as the thing began
moving closer, weaving silently between the trees.
We ran, crashing blindly through thick underbrush.
Branches whipped painfully against my face, leaves tangled
in my hair. Suddenly, my foot caught on a
hidden root and I fell hard, tumbling down a short slope.
Pain shot through my ankle. My vision blurring momentarily.
I rolled onto my back, heart pounding, eyes darting wildly
upward. At the Ridge above, the creature
stood silently, watching. It tilted its head slightly, ear
rotating slowly, deliberately, as if listening to my rapid,
panicked breathing. It's empty gaze held mine for
what felt like an eternity. It didn't move closer, it merely
observed curious. Emma.
Jacob shouted from somewhere ahead.
Panic thicken his voice. I struggled to my feet,
adrenaline numbing, the throbbing pain scrambling
upwards toward his voice. We burst through the brush onto
the paved Rd. collapsing together, gasping for breath,
faces streaked with dirt and tears.
Neither of us spoke as we drove frantically away, the forest
looming ominously in the rear view mirror.
We went straight to the visitor center, desperate to report what
we'd seen, but the park Ranger behind the counter listened
skeptically, gently informing us there was no record of a Connor
cemetery anywhere near Couch's Creek, and no one had reported
anything like what we described. He smiled politely, suggesting
we might be mistaken. Numb and exhausted, we returned
to the bookstore, hoping Louise could help make sense of it.
But the shop stood dark and empty, a small for lease sign
taped to the inside of the locked window.
Louise was gone, and the comforting familiarity of her
presence was now just a memory. We drove home in stunned
silence, barely sleeping in the days that followed, haunted by
nightmares, unexplained tapping sounds, and the constant feeling
of being watched. Life settled into a strange new
normal, shadowed by what we'd encountered.
Nearly a month passed before my phone buzzed suddenly one
afternoon, alerting me to a notification from my cloud
storage. My chest tightened as I opened
it, breathing shallow, hands trembling.
One of the corrupted photos from the woods had mysteriously
repaired itself. I stared at the image in horror.
The circle of birds lay clearly visible, grotesque and
unnatural. But worse was the figure in the
shadows behind them. The creature stood partially
hidden, it's horrific face illuminated in perfect clarity,
staring directly into the camera.
I knew deep down it hadn't let us go.
It was only waiting, still watching, still listening,
somewhere just beyond sight.