I am American and I've got some Scottish heritage, so I'd always
wanted to explore the Highlands. I spent some time making my way
N from Edinburgh, staying in hostels and small bed and
breakfast along the way. By the time I reached the
Northern Highlands I was feeling pretty confident in my hiking
abilities. I'd done some challenging trails
and even wild camped a few times, so when I heard about
this remote trail that wasn't on most tourist maps, I thought why
not? It was supposed to lead to this
hidden lock that was supposedly one of the most beautiful spots
in all of Scotland. The trailhead was near this tiny
village. Honestly, it was more like a
handful of houses clustered around a pub.
I stopped in for a bite before heading out, figuring I'd stock
up on some energy for the hike. The pub was one of those old
cozy places with a low ceiling and a fire crackling in the
corner. It was pretty empty when I went
in, just a couple of old timers nursing pints at the bar.
I ordered some food and got to chatting with the bartender,
telling him about my plans to hike out to the Loch.
The change in atmosphere was noticeable.
The bartender got this weird look on his face.
He tried to play it off, saying something about the weather
being unpredictable this time of year, but I could tell there was
more to it. I pressed a bit, asking if there
was something I should know about the trail.
That's when one of the old timers spoke up, apparently
overhearing my conversation so far.
You don't want to be going out there, lad, He said.
That place is not right. I laughed at first, thinking
they were just trying to scare the tourist, but that old man
was dead serious. He told me that people had gone
missing on that trail over the years.
Not many, and not often, but enough to make the locals wary.
There's something out there, he said, his voice low.
Something old, something that doesn't like visitors.
Now, I'm not usually one for superstition, but the way he
said it sent a chill down my spine.
Still, I figured they were just being overprotective.
I thanked them for the warning, but said I was still planning to
go. The bartender sighed and said,
if you must go, at least take this.
He handed me a small smooth stone with some kind of symbol
carved onto it. Old protection, he said.
I pocketed the stone, more to be polite than anything else,
finished my meal and headed out. The trail started off easy
enough, winding through some beautiful pine forests, but as I
got further in, things started to change.
The trees got older, thick and overgrown.
The undergrowth thickened to, making the trail harder to
follow. Before long there was this
smell, kind of musty and sweet at the same time, like rotting
flowers. It wasn't strong, but it was
persistent. I'd been hiking for about 3
hours when I realized I should have reached the lock by now.
I checked my map, but had definitely made a wrong turn
somewhere. I wasn't seeing any of the
landmarks I was supposed to be seeing.
I tried to backtrack but didn't locate anything familiar.
Now get this, as I was walking, the forest was filled with the
sounds of nature and literally the next single step I took, the
moment my foot hit the ground, everything fell silent.
That was extremely disturbing. Not too long after that smell
got stronger, I was kind of freaked out and decided to set
up camp for the night right there and get my bearings in the
morning. I found a nice open space and
got my tent set up just as it was getting dark that night.
I still have nightmares about it.
I woke up because I was hearing a whispering sound.
At first I thought it was wind through the trees, but it kept
getting clearer until I could hear words.
Words that I couldn't clearly make out yet.
But it was very obviously multiple voices talking over
each other and they seemed to be getting closer.
I double checked my tent, making sure the zipper was all the way
up. I told myself to calm down, that
it's nothing out of the ordinary.
Then I saw shadows on the tent wall.
Thanks to it being a clear night with a bright moon, something
was moving around out there, and the shapes they cast were wrong.
Very tall, very thin, moving in ways that nothing should.
I was paralyzed, just frozen there, left to watch.
The whispers grew louder, and I could smell that sickly sweet
odor right outside the tent. Then something brushed up
against the side. I had to bite my lip to keep
from screaming. This went on for a few hours.
Sometimes the shadows would retreat and I would think it was
over, but then they'd come back even closer than before.
By the time dawn finally came, I was a wreck.
As soon as there was enough light out, I packed up my things
and started hiking again. This time I didn't care which
direction, I just wanted out. But no matter how far I walked,
I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being followed.
Around late afternoon, I could hear running water.
I pushed through some bushes and found myself on the shore of a
Loch. But this wasn't the beautiful,
peaceful place I've been told about.
The water here was dark, almost black, and there was a very
thick mist hanging over it. The trees around the shore were
twisted and wrong, their branches reaching out over the
water like grasping fingers. And there were stones, standing
stones, forming a rough circle near the water's edge.
They were covered in markings similar to the one on the stone
the bartender had given me. As I looked at them, I felt a
pressure building in my head, like right before a migraine.
I suddenly saw ripples forming on the water surface.
Something was moving around out there, something big, something
coming my way. Before I saw it emerge, I bolted
out of there. I don't remember much of what
happened next, just crashing through the underbrush, branches
whipping my face, that sickly sweet smell all around me.
I could hear something moving through the woods behind me too,
I swear, but I didn't dare look back.
Thank heavens I found my way out somehow.
Everything was really just a blur by the time I came out.
I was scratched up and babbling about monsters in the Loch.
The locals didn't seem surprised.
I went back to my hostel, got cleaned up and drank some strong
tea. When I finally settled myself
down, I went back to that pub to return the stone.
When I tried to give it to the old man, he shook his head.
Keep it, he said. You might need it again someday.
I left the Highlands the next day, taking some new lifelong
memories and scars with me. I was about halfway through my
trek along the Great Divide Trail in the Canadian Rockies.
It was late August, and the plan was to hike the entire route
from Waterton Lakes National Park up to Kakua Provincial
Park. It was a trip I'd been dreaming
about for years. I'm from Vancouver, but I'd
never really explored much of the wilderness in my own
backyard, always too busy with work and life and all that.
But I'd finally saved up enough vacation time and money to take
a couple of months off and just disappear into the mountains.
That particular day had been rough.
I'd been pushing myself hard, trying to make up for lost time
after waiting out a nasty storm a few days back.
My legs were aching, my feet were blistered, and I was
starting to run low on supplies. I knew I'd have to detour off
the trail soon to resupply, but I was hoping to push on for one
more day. As evening started to set in, I
realized I'd miscalculated. I was nowhere near my planned
campsite, and the terrain was too steep and rocky to safely
set up camp From there. I spotted a faint light in the
distance, off to the east of the trail.
It had to be a farm, or maybe a Ranger station, I thought.
So I figured I'd head that way, see if I could camp on the edge
of their property for the night to be safe.
Worst case, maybe they let me refill my water.
It took me about an hour to reach the place.
As I got closer, I could make out the shape of a farmhouse,
one of those old two-story jobs that looked like it had been
there for generations. There was a barn off to one side
and I could see a few outlying buildings that I guessed were
sheds or workshops. The whole place was surrounded
by fields, with the forest pressing in close on all sides.
I was about to head up to the house when something made me
hesitate. I can't really explain it to be
honest. The hairs on the back of my neck
stood up and something just felt wrong.
You spend enough time in the wilderness, I guess you develop
a sort of 6th sense for danger. This felt like that, but
different, more unsettling somehow.
And then I saw it. Something that at first I
thought was a person. There was a figure standing by
one of the ground floor windows of the farmhouse.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized it was way too
big to be human, and the shape was all wrong.
It was tall, maybe seven or eight feet, covered in what
looked like shaggy dark fur, but it wasn't shaped like a bear.
It was standing on two legs, body hunched forward in a way
that looked unnatural. Its arms, if you could call them
that, were long and ended in what looked like huge, clawed
hands. I froze, afraid to move.
The creature had not seen or sensed me, yet.
It was completely focused on that window.
As I watched, it leaned in closer, pressing its face
against the glass. And then, God, I can barely
bring myself to describe it, it began to lick the window.
Long, slow strokes of its tongue against the glass.
The sound carried clearly in the still night air, this wet, raspy
noise that made my skin crawl. I'm not sure how long I stood
there, paralyzed with fear, before finally the creature
pulled back from the window. It turned its head, and for a
heart stopping moment I thought I'd been spotted.
It let out a low rumbling sound, not quite a growl, not quite a
whine, then loped off into the darkness of the surrounding
forest. I waited until I was sure it was
gone, then practically ran up to the farmhouse.
My hands were shaking so bad I could barely knock on the door.
A middle-aged man answered, looking understandably confused
to find a disheveled hiker on his doorstep at night.
I opened my mouth, ready to spill everything I'd just seen,
but the words caught in my throat.
How could I explain what I'd witnessed without sounding
completely insane? Instead, I forced a sheepish
smile and said. I'm so sorry to bother you this
late. I was hiking out here and got
myself completely turned around. Could you possibly point me in
the direction of the nearest town?
The man's confusion turned to concern.
You're pretty far from any marked trails, son.
Everything all right? I nodded, perhaps a bit too
eagerly. Yeah, just I took a wrong turn
somewhere, lost track of time. He studied me for a moment, then
glanced over his shoulder into the house.
Look, it's pitch black out there, and the terrain's
treacherous. If you don't know it, why don't
you come in for a bit? My wife just put on some coffee.
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to leave, to
put as much distance between myself and this place as
possible. But another part, well, I
couldn't just leave without saying something, could I?
And I really did need to get my bearings.
That's really kind of you, thank you.
I said, stepping inside. The warmth hit me immediately,
making me realize how cold I'd been.
The man introduced himself as John.
He led me to a cozy kitchen where his wife Sarah was indeed
brewing some coffee. She gave me a warm smile and set
about pouring me a cup. As I sat there, hands wrapped
around the steaming mug, I wrestled with what to say.
I couldn't tell them the exact truth, but I couldn't say
nothing either. I actually I saw something
before I came to your door. I started, my heart pounding.
I'm not sure how to say this, but, well, I think I saw a
strange man peering through one of your ground floor windows.
John and Sarah exchanged a look. It wasn't the reaction I
expected, not shock or fear, but more like resignation.
Which window? John asked, his voice low.
I pointed in the general direction.
Over there, I think on the side of the house.
Sarah's face paled. That's Emily's room, she
whispered. John stood up abruptly.
I'll go check on her and have a look around outside.
As he left, Sarah turned to me. Thank you for telling us, we've
had issues with trespassers before.
Not sure why, but this area attracts all sorts of strange
folk. I nodded, not trusting myself to
speak and now wondering if I counted as one of those strange
folk. I wanted to say more to her, to
warn her about what I'd really seen, but I just couldn't.
John came back a few minutes later.
Emily's fine. He said to Sarah, sleeping
soundly. Didn't see anyone outside, but
I'll do a more thorough check in the morning.
They offered to let me sleep in the spare bedroom next to their
bedroom so they could keep an eye on me.
John agreed to stay up anyway in case that man came back, but
also probably because he wanted to keep an eye on me too.
I gratefully accepted the offer, but truthfully, I spent most of
the night staying up and talking to John, discussing goings on in
the woods, what he does for a living, how life was out on the
farm. In the morning, John gave me
directions to the nearest town where I could resupply.
I thanked them for their hospitality and set off, glad to
put some distance between myself and whatever I'd seen the night
before. I wish I could say that was the
end of it, that I finished my hike and went back to a normal
life, chalking the whole thing up to dancing shadows in the
night, or maybe just a really Big Bear, But I still couldn't
shake it off. It nagged at me, demanded
answers. About six months later, I found
myself driving through that way and decided I would drop by the
farm to pay them a visit. I told myself I was just being
thorough, tying up loose ends before I wrote up my trail
journal. But deep down, I think I wanted
to make sure that everyone there was OK, and I was extremely
grateful for how kind they were. I don't think I could have
walked any further in those woods in the dark, knowing that
something like that lived out there.
The farm looked different in the daytime, peaceful and ordinary.
John seemed surprised to see me, but he invited me in for coffee.
We chatted for a bit about nothing in particular, the
weather, how my hike had gone, that sort of thing.
At a certain point I asked how Emily was doing.
John got real quiet. He looked out the window for a
long moment. Emily was a sickly child.
Weak lungs, the doctor said. To be frank with you, she passed
away in her sleep only a week after you were here.
I was taken aback, didn't know what to say.
My God, I'm so sorry. I managed to finally say it felt
inadequate. The thing is, John continued,
his voice barely above a whisper.
Do you mind if I share something strange?
John asked. I nodded.
The night before she died, Emily told us she'd been having
dreams. Said John.
Said there was a big dog that would come to her window at
night, said it would lick the glass and tell her not to be
afraid. I only want to bring it up
because it reminds me of the man you saw at her window that
night. I felt the hairs on my arms
stand up. John continued.
She said it spoke to her in her dreams, told her it would take
her somewhere she wouldn't be sick anymore.
He looked at me, his eyes starting to shine with unshed
tears. I've been wondering if it was
the fever talking. I think about it a lot lately,
that maybe these dreams she had helped her to pass on.
We sat in silence for a long while after that.
What could I even say? Eventually I made my excuses,
thanked him profusely again for the coffee and for the kindness
his family showed me that night, then left.
As I drove away, I couldn't shake the image of that creature
at the window. Had it really been there for
Emily, despite how disturbing it looked?
Was it some kind of spirit guide?
Or was it something darker, something that caused the girl
to die? I've turned it over in my mind
1000 times since then and I still don't know, but I've had
plenty of nightmares about it ever since.
I'm asking anyone and everyone who hears this story or reads
it, what do you think? It could have been a benign
creature or spirit trying to help the little girl knowing
that she was about to pass, or some sort of evil monster that
cursed the girl to die. I had gone backpacking through
northern Michigan after graduating from college, wanting
to do a solo trip to clear my head before starting my job
hunt. Originally from the suburbs of
Chicago, I wasn't exactly an experienced outdoorsman.
Though I had done some camping as a kid, I figured I could
handle a week long trek through the Hiawatha National Forest.
Looking back, I was pretty naive and underprepared.
I had decent gear, a good backpack, tent, sleeping bag,
etcetera, but I had never really done any serious Backcountry
hiking before. I plotted out a route that would
take me on a big loop through some of the more remote parts of
the forest, figuring I'd cover about 10 miles a day.
In retrospect, that was way too ambitious for my skill level.
The first couple of days were actually great.
The weather was perfect, with clear skies and temperatures in
the low 70s. I was making decent time and
really enjoying the solitude. There's something magical about
being alone in nature, surrounded by nothing but trees
and birdsong. I would stop occasionally to
filter water from streams or take photos of particularly
scenic spots. At night, I would make camp, eat
some trail mix or dehydrated meals, and fall asleep to the
gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze.
It was on the third night that things started to get weird.
I had hiked a little farther than usual that day, pushing
myself to reach a small lake I had marked on my map as a good
campsite. By the time I got there, the sun
was already dipping below the tree line.
I quickly set up my tent and got a small fire going, wanting to
eat and get settled before dark really set in.
As I sat by the fire, heating up some soup, I had the sudden
feeling of being watched. You know that prickly sensation
at the back of your neck. But this was more intense.
I looked around, scanning the trees at the edge of my little
clearing, but I didn't see anything out of the ordinary.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling.
I tried to tell myself it was just my imagination.
Being alone in the woods can play tricks on your mind.
But as the night wore on, the feeling only intensified.
I kept catching glimpses of movement out of the corner of my
eye, only to turn and see nothing there.
The forest's sound seemed to change, too.
The usual nighttime chorus of crickets and frogs went quiet,
replaced by an eerie stillness. Which was only broken by the
occasional snapping of a twig in the dark.
I didn't sleep much that night. Every time I'd start to drift
off, I would jerk awake, convinced I'd heard footsteps or
breathing just outside my tent. By the time dawn broke, I was
exhausted and on edge. Part of me wanted to pack up and
hightail it back to civilization, but I told myself
I was just being paranoid. I'd come out here for an
adventure, after all. So I shouldered my pack and
pressed on. The next day was odd.
I couldn't quite put my finger on why, but something felt off
about the forest. The trees seemed denser, the
shadows deeper. I'd check my maps and compass,
only to find that I didn't seem to be making much progress.
Not as much as I should. The landmarks I was looking for
never seemed to materialize. It was as if the landscape
itself was subtly shifting around me.
By late afternoon, I had to admit I was lost.
None of the terrain matched my map anymore.
I thought about trying to backtrack, but I couldn't even
be sure which direction I'd come from.
The sun was hidden behind a thick canopy and my compass was
spinning wildly, the needle swinging in circles.
As I began to panic, I stumbled into another clearing.
That's when I saw it for the first time.
It was. I don't even know how to
describe it right, but I'll do my best.
It was a figure standing at the edge of the clearing, impossibly
tall, about 8 feet or more. It was thin, like a shadow,
given 3D form. It didn't seem to have distinct
features, just a vague humanoid shape that hurt my eyes to look
at directly. I froze, my heart pounding in my
chest. The figure didn't move, didn't
make a sound. It just watched.
I don't know how I knew that, since I couldn't see any eyes,
but I swear I felt its gaze boring into me.
After a while, I backed away slowly.
The figure remained motionless. As soon as I reached the tree
line, I turned and ran. I crashed through the
underbrush, branches whipping at my face, my lungs burning.
I ran until I couldn't run anymore, collapsing in a heap on
the forest floor. As I lay there gasping for
breath, the shadows lengthened around me.
Night was falling again, and I was nowhere near any state to
make camp. I knew I should get up, find
water, set up a tent, but I was paralyzed by fear, exhaustion,
and confusion. That's when I heard it.
A chittering sound, high pitched and insectile, that seemed to
come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
And underneath it, a deeper sound, a rhythmic thumping, like
massive footsteps getting closer.
I scrambled to my feet, all fatigue forgotten in a fresh
wave of adrenaline. I picked a direction at random
and ran again, quieter this time, trying to listen for
pursuit over the sound of my own ragged breathing.
I'm not sure how long I fled through the darkening forest.
Time seemed to lose all meaning. The trees began to look twisted
into unnatural shapes. The ground beneath my feet felt
spongy and uneven. At some point, I became aware
that the chittering had stopped. The forest was once more deathly
quiet. I slowed to a walk, straining my
ears for any sign of danger. And then I saw the lights.
Ahead of me, weaving between the trees, were tiny points of
bluish white light. They moved like fireflies on a
mission. Despite every instinct screaming
at me to run the other way, I found myself drawn towards them.
As I got closer, I realized the lights were coming from small,
ethereal figures flitting through the air.
They seemed to take notice of me.
They began to circle around, and unbelievably, they seemed to
form a path through the woods. Some part of me knew I shouldn't
follow, but I was beyond rational thought at that point.
I stumbled after the lights, pushed onwards by equal parts
curiosity and desperation. I was led into a Meadow, where
the trees began to have these strange symbols carved into
their bark. I stopped for a moment, reaching
out to touch one of the symbols. As my fingers brushed the rough
bark, the world seemed to shift, or maybe I just blacked out.
The next thing I remember was opening my eyes and the lights
were gone and everything felt, well, normal again.
In fact, my surroundings had changed.
In the distance I saw lights. Different lights.
These were man made the outskirts of a small town that
was not there before. I made my way there in a hurry,
finding the nearest St. People were looking at me
strangely. I'm assuming my appearance
didn't help. I had to have been filthy,
scratched up and wild eyed. I found a convenience store and
went inside. I went right up to the counter
and asked. Excuse me, My voice sounding
hoarse. Can you tell me where I am?
He gave me the name of a town I'd never heard of, in a state
hundreds of miles from where I'd started my hike.
What day is it? I asked.
I dreaded the answer when he told me my knees felt weak.
Somehow, impossibly, over two weeks had passed since I had
entered that forest. Two weeks that I had no memory
of. The convenience store let me use
the phone, and I called my parents.
They were hysterical. Apparently I'd been reported
missing after failing to return from my trip on schedule.
Search parties had combed the area where I was supposed to be
hiking, but found no trace of me.
I never did come up with a satisfactory explanation for
what happened. The official story is that I got
lost in the woods and wandered in a delusional state for two
weeks before finding my way back to civilization.
I know that's not true, but it's easier than trying to explain
the unexplainable. I've since gone hiking again.
I still do go hiking on occasion, but I don't go alone
anymore and I never go in too deep nowadays.
No matter what, I feel like I'm always catching a glimpse of
something out of the corner of my eye, something darting
between the trees, and I wonder if that's PTSD from my
experience. The moment I step foot into
woods anywhere I always feel watched.
It's funny how some memories from childhood stick with you.
Most of the time I can barely remember what I had for
breakfast yesterday, but this one night from when I was 11 is
burned into my brain like it happened last night.
This was back in 92. I was in the 5th grade.
My best friends were Tommy and Jesse.
Tommy lived on the edge of town where the suburbs gave way to
farmland. His house backed up to this big
open field that led to a hill we called The Mound.
It wasn't much of A hill, really, but when you're a kid,
everything seems bigger. It was a Friday night, and we
were having a sleepover at Tommy's place.
But this wasn't going to be any ordinary sleepover.
No, we had big plans. We were going to be real
adventurers. Tommy's parents had finally
agreed to let us camp out on top of the Mound.
Well, sort of. We could go up there with our
sleeping bags and backpacks, hang out until 9:00 PM, then
come back to sleep in the house. It wasn't exactly roughing it in
the wilderness, but to us it was the height of adventure.
We've been planning this for weeks.
Our school backpacks were stuffed with all the essentials.
Flashlights, comic books, enough snacks to feed a small army, and
of course, our trusty Swiss Army knives.
We felt like real explorers, ready to tame the wild half mile
between Tommy's back porch and the top of the mound.
Tommy's mom made us sandwiches for dinner, reminding us for the
100th time to be careful and stay together.
We nodded impatiently, eager to get started on our grand
expedition. As soon as we finished eating,
we were out the door, our backpacks weighing us down as we
set off across the field. The sun was just starting to set
as we began our trek. The mound loomed ahead of us,
awaiting us under a darkened sky.
Jesse was the warrior of the group.
He kept glancing back at Tommy's house, which was growing smaller
behind us. You're not scared, are you?
I teased. Jesse puffed up.
No way, I was just making sure we're going the right direction.
Tommy laughed. It's a straight line, dummy, we
can't get lost. We continued on the tall grass
of the field giving way to the steeper, rockier slope of the
mound. It wasn't a difficult climb, but
we took our time anyway, pretending we were scaling some
great mountain peak. When we finally reached the top,
we were out of breath, but grinning from ear to ear.
We made it. Tommy crowed, dropping his
backpack and raising his arms in victory.
We've conquered the mound. Jesse and I cheered along with
him. Caught up in the moment.
We felt like kings of the world, looking down at the twinkling
lights of our small town spread out below us.
We then set about making our camp, which mostly consisted of
laying out our sleeping bags in a rough circle, piling up our
snacks in the middle. Tommy had brought a small
battery powered Lantern which we placed in the center of the
circle. It cast a warm glow over our
little campsite. As the last traces of daylight
faded from the sky, we broke into our snacks and started to
tell ghost stories. The usual stuff kids tell around
a campfire, like hook handed killers and vengeful spirits.
Jesse was in the middle of a particularly creepy tale about a
babysitter and a killer hiding upstairs when Tommy went still.
Guys, he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Look up there. We followed his gaze up to the
night sky. At first I didn't see anything
unusual, just stars twinkling like they always did.
But then I saw it. A light brighter than any star,
moving slowly across the sky. It's just a plane, Jesse said,
but he didn't sound convinced. The light was moving too slowly
to be a plane, and it was getting bigger, brighter, much
brighter. Maybe it's a meteor?
I suggested, my voice shaking a bit.
But it wasn't like any meteor I'd ever seen or read about.
The light kept growing from a pinprick to the size of a dime,
then 1/4. It was so bright it was hard to
look at directly, but we couldn't take our eyes off it.
That's when things got fuzzy. I remember the light getting so
bright it seemed to fill the whole sky.
I remember a humming sound so low I felt it more than heard
it, and I remember feeling very, very sleepy all of a sudden.
The next thing I knew, someone was shaking me awake.
I opened my eyes to find Tommy's dad leaning over me, looking
worried. You OK?
He asked, helping me sit up. We'd been calling for you for
about an hour. I looked around, disoriented.
Tommy and Jesse were just waking up too, looking as confused as I
felt. Our campsite was a mess,
sleeping bags twisted, snacks scattered everywhere.
The Lantern was off, its batteries apparently dead.
What happened? Tommy asked, his voice groggy.
His dad sighed. No idea.
You had us worried sick. Why didn't you come back at 9
like we agreed? We looked at each other,
baffled. How could it already be past 9?
It felt like we just laid down in our sleeping bags.
Only a few minutes ago. We must have fallen asleep.
Jesse said, but he didn't sound sure.
Tommy's dad helped us pack up our things and let us back down
the mound. As we walked, I was trying to
piece together what had happened.
The ghost stories, the light in the sky, and then nothing.
It was like someone had just erased a few hours of my memory.
When we got back to Tommy's house, his mom was waiting for
us on the porch. She looked mad at first, then
relief washed over her face when she saw us.
She hugged each of us in turn, then sent us off to get ready
for bed. As I was brushing my teeth, I
caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror and froze.
There, just behind my ear, was a small, perfectly round bruise.
I hadn't noticed it before, and I had no idea how I'd gotten it.
When I asked Tommy and Jesse later, they both found similar
marks on themselves, Tommy on his neck, Jesse on his shoulder.
We tried to talk about what happened, but none of us could
make sense of it. We agreed to keep it to
ourselves. Who was going to believe us?
The next morning, Tommy's parents seemed to have chalked
up the whole incident to us being irresponsible kids who
fell asleep and lost track of time.
We didn't correct them. How could we explain something
we didn't understand ourselves? Life went on, and for a while we
didn't talk about that night on the mound.
But things had changed. We had changed.
Jesse suddenly became obsessed with UF OS and aliens, spending
hours in the library reading every book he could find on the
topic. Tommy, on the other hand,
refused to even look at the mound.
He kept his bedroom curtains closed at night and would change
the channel if anything about aliens came on TV.
As for me, I found myself watching the sky more often,
especially at night. I'd wake up sometimes, heart
racing, convinced I'd seen a bright light outside my window.
But it was always just the moon or a street light, or me waking
from a dream. About a month after our camping
trip, Tommy called me in the middle of the night.
He was whispering, his voice shaking.
It's back, he said. The light.
It's over the mound right now. I rushed to my window, peering
out into the darkness. I couldn't see the mound from my
house, but the sky in that direction did seem brighter than
it was supposed to be. What do we do?
I asked. Nothing, Tommy replied.
We pretend we never saw it. We never talk about this again.
OK? I agreed, wondering why he even
called me then, but I couldn't help feeling like we were making
a mistake, like we were ignoring something important.
The years went by, and we grew up.
During high school, Jesse moved away, His family relocated for
his dad's job. Tommy and I drifted apart, as
childhood friends sometimes do. Every now and then, I might run
into Tommy during one of my college breaks whenever I heard
from Jesse again. He was still very much into UF
OS, but in a more academic way. He was studying astronomy, he
told me, hoping to work for SETI one day.
Tommy though, well, Tommy never got over that night.
He joined the military right out of high school, saying he wanted
to be as far from the mound as possible.
Eventually he got his wish and I stopped seeing him during those
college breaks. I guessed he made it somewhere
overseas or to a different state for training.
I tried to put it all behind me. I told myself it was simply a
weird childhood experience, one possibly fueled by too many
sci-fi movies and wild imaginations.
Even so, I wonder. I can't help but feel I'm lying
to myself. I've never gone back to the
mound, not sure I could even if I wanted to.
Last I heard, they built a subdivision there, turning our
childhood adventure spot into a cluster of cookie cutter houses.
But part of me is glad at least kids won't be camping up there
anymore, risking, well, whatever it was we encountered.
But it also feels like I lost something important.
It feels like there was a mystery there, something bigger
than us, and we just walked away from it.
Maybe we were made to walk away from it.
I don't know. Maybe I should finally give it a
rest. Stop thinking about it.
Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved after all.
I'll leave you with this. Sometimes I still check behind
my ear, half expecting to see that perfectly round bruise
again. And whenever I look up at the
night sky, I feel like something might be looking back.
I had always been drawn to the obscure and forgotten tales that
linger in the shadows of the world where the modern age has
yet to fully cast its light. Romania, with its rich tapestry
of history and mystery, seemed like the perfect canvas for an
eager anthropology student like myself.
The idea of spending a summer trekking through its remote
villages to unearth ancient folklore was romantic, almost
like stepping into the pages of a storybook.
As the plain descended into Bucharest, the panorama below
shifted from sprawling cityscapes to the rolling hills
and dense forests that characterize much of the
country's landscape. The transition was like watching
the past and present collide, a reminder of why I had chosen
this place. I felt a mix of exhilaration and
nervous anticipation stirring in my chest as I collected my
backpack from the overhead compartment.
The first few days were spent navigating through well trodden
paths in cities like Brasov, where Gothic Spires and medieval
fortresses spoke of centuries past.
I conversed with local historians and gathered
narratives that, while rich, felt polished by frequent
retelling. What I sought was something roar
tales that were woven into the fabric of smaller communities,
those not found in tourist guides or history books.
Driven by this desire, I rented a car and headed towards the
Carpathian Mountains. The drive was scenic, with each
winding turn offering vistas of valleys bathed in the golden
light of the late June sun. Yet as the day waned, the
shadows seem to stretch across the road, almost as if they were
reaching out from the dense Woodlands that flanked my path.
I arrived at the village just before dusk.
It was the kind of place you might miss if you blinked.
A handful of weathered houses clustered around a time worn
church, its steeple piercing the sky.
There was no hotel, only a small store that doubled as a post
office, its windows displaying an eclectic mix of goods.
The villagers eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and
wariness as I parked the car and stretched my legs.
Their gaze followed me as I approached the store, their
whispers barely audible over the Creek of the sign swaying gently
in the evening breeze. Inside, I asked the storekeeper
about a place to stay. With a cautious glance, she
directed me to a house on the outskirts of the village where
an elderly woman rented out a room to the occasional wanderer.
Her home was a quaint Ivy clad cottage, the garden blooming
with wildflowers that release their fragrance into the cooling
air. The woman, Missus Popescu,
greeted me with a nod and a cautious smile, her English
broken but sufficient through a combination of my patchy
Romanian and expressive gestures.
We agreed on a price and she showed me to my room.
The room was simple, a single bed with a hand knitted quilt, a
wooden chair and an old wardrobe that looked as if it could tell
stories of its own. The window offered a view of the
forest. Trees standing like silent
Sentinels against the sky. I remember thinking how peaceful
it looked, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the
cities I had left behind. That night, as I lay in bed, the
excitement of the day gave way to the silence of the village.
It was a silence so profound it almost had a presence of its
own. Just as I was drifting off to
sleep, a faint sound teased the edges of my consciousness.
It was a soft, insistent scratching, like nails gently
scraping against glass. Heart pounding, I sat up and
looked towards the window. For a moment I thought I saw
something, A face, perhaps, pale and distorted by the glass.
I blinked and it was gone, leaving only the whisper of
leaves outside. I told myself it was nothing,
just the remnants of a dream or the trickery of shadows, but as
I lay back down, a small part of me couldn't shake the feeling
that something was very different here, and perhaps I
had ventured further into the unknown than I had intended.
The morning brought with it a mist that clung to the village
like a shroud, muting the colors of the wildflowers and casting
the houses in a ghostly pallor. I woke early, restless from the
previous night's eerie interruption, and decided to
immerse myself in the village life, hoping to glean some of
the stories hidden within its quiet boundaries.
I started with a walk, the dew soaked grass whispering under my
boots as I moved through the village.
The sun, struggling to Pierce the fog, cast long thin shadows
that seemed to flicker with my passing.
The villagers were already up, tending to gardens or heading
off to fields with tools slung over their shoulders.
They nodded as I passed, their smiles guarded and their eyes
holding stories that their lips seemed reluctant to tell.
I found my way to the small store again, where the elderly
storekeeper was arranging bread and other staples on worn wooden
shelves. Good morning.
I greeted her in my faltering Romanian, which brought a
surprise chuckle from her. Her response was warm but
cautious, and when I ventured to ask about the village's history,
she paused, her expression turning thoughtful, almost
pensive. We are a simple people, she
said, finally bound by tradition in the land.
Perhaps the church's priest could tell you more.
She seemed relieved to divert my inquiries elsewhere.
Thanking her, I headed towards the church, it's steeple looming
ominously against the slowly clearing sky.
The priest, a stooped figure with a face as cragged as the
Carpathian landscape, was sweeping the front steps.
He regarded me with a deep, set, discerning gaze as I approached.
You are the visitor staying with Missus Popescu?
He stated more than asked, his voice deep and resonant.
Yes, I'm studying anthropology. I'm interested in the folklore
of places like this, stories that are perhaps not known
outside these mountains. The priest set his broom aside,
folding his hands. Folklore.
Yes, we have plenty, but not all tales are foretelling.
He sighed, the sound seeming to carry a weight of resignation.
But if stories you seek, then you must learn of our story.
As he spoke of the story, his voice dropped to a whisper, as
if the mere mention might invoke their presence.
They are spirits of the dead, restless and roaming.
They prey on the unwary, those who do not respect the old ways.
His eyes flicked to the forest and a chill ran down my spine as
I remembered the face at the window.
Why tell me this? I asked, my curiosity peaked
despite my unease. Because knowledge can be a
Lantern in the dark. He replied cryptically.
Be wary, young lady, not all spirits are bound by story
alone. The rest of the day I spent
wandering the edges of the village, my mind spinning with
the priest's words. I tried to speak with others,
but it was as if the mention of the story had erected a wall of
silence around me. As the sun began to set, casting
long shadows across the village, I felt a growing sense of dread.
What had I stirred by my probing that night?
The scratching returned, more insistent than before.
As I lay in my bed, listening to the unsettling sound, I realized
that the villages stories were not just remnants of the past,
but living, breathing truths that watched from the dark woods
and whispered with the wind. And now they were aware of me.
The shadows lengthened into evening as a silence settled
over the village, deeper and more complete than any night
before. My heartbeat with a heightened
awareness of every small sound, the distant bark of a dog, the
whisper of the wind through the trees, and the soft, eerie
scratching at the window that now seemed like a sinister
serenade meant just for me. I lay in bed, frozen, the covers
pulled up to my chin. The memory of the priest's
warning echoed in my mind, a solemn reminder that I had
ventured too far into the dark heart of folklore I so naively
sought to explore. The scratching continued,
persistent and methodical, as if whatever lurked outside knew I
was just beyond the thin pane of glass.
Let me in, a voice whispered, so faint I thought I might have
imagined it. I'm so cold out here.
The voice was soft, almost pitiful, but behind its plea I
sensed a trap. It was the story, I was sure of
it, using its cunning to seek an invitation.
Every tale I had ever read about spirits and their machinations
swirled through my mind, paralyzing me with fear.
I was a stranger here, an outsider, exactly the sort of
person the old man had said the story preyed upon.
I didn't dare move towards the window.
I didn't even dare to breathe loudly.
My room felt like a cell, and the walls seemed to press in
with the cold dampness of the night.
Hours dragged by, marked only by the relentless scratching and
the occasional whisper. Each plea more desperate than
the last. Let me in.
But I didn't respond. I couldn't.
Instead, I lay there, a silent Sentinel in my own besieged
fortress, praying for the first light of dawn.
The night was a battle of wills, my fear against the cunning of
an ancient evil lurking just outside.
As the darkness began to thin with the approach of dawn, the
scratching faded, the voice dissipated, and a profound
stillness took over. When the sun finally broke the
horizon, its light felt like a cleansing fire, banishing the
night's horrors back into the depths of the forest.
I rose from my bed, my body stiff from hours of immobility,
my spirit wearied from the ordeal.
I didn't bother packing my belongings properly, I just
stuffed what I could into my backpack, my hands trembling
with the rush to leave. I left some money on the table
for Missus Popescu, enough to cover my stay and perhaps a bit
more, a silent apology for any trouble I might have brought to
her door. Without a backward glance, I
fled the house, my feet carrying me swiftly to the village
square, where I caught the first bus heading anywhere but there.
As the village receded in the distance, a part of me mourned
the loss of innocence, the harsh lesson learned about the reality
of the stories I had so eagerly pursued.
I spent the remaining weeks of my trip in cities, surrounded by
the comforting anonymity of crowds and the constant hum of
urban life. Yet even amidst the bustle of
civilization, I kept my curtains tightly drawn, each night a
barrier against the dark. I told myself it was just a
precaution, a silly habit borne from a single terrifying
encounter. But sometimes, in the quiet
moments just before sleep, I would hear a whisper carried on
the wind, a chill reminder that some doors, once opened, can
never be fully closed again. I had always dreamed of
exploring the great mountains, and finally my chance had come.
With my backpack ready and my spirits high, I set off for a
solo trek across the magnificent French and Swiss Alps.
It was going to be a three-week adventure and I had everything
planned perfectly, or so I thought.
The first nine days were like a dream.
I hiked through breathtaking landscapes, took pictures of the
sunrise, and even saw a few mountain goats.
I was alone, but I felt a thrilling connection to nature.
Each night I camped under the stars, feeling a little chilly,
but mostly excited about the days ahead.
But on the 10th day, everything changed.
The sky grew dark and the wind began to howl as I crossed over
into Switzerland. Soon it wasn't just windy, it
was a full blown storm. The rain poured down so hard it
felt like buckets of cold water were being dumped on me.
I struggled against the wind, which seemed determined to knock
me off my feet. My waterproof jacket and pants
were no match for this storm. As I trudge through the muddy
path, my boots squelching and my fingers numb with cold, I
spotted a small Hut in the distance.
It looked old and a bit worn out, but right then it seemed
like the coziest place on earth. Pushing against the wind, I made
my way to the Hut, hoping to find shelter and maybe a place
to dry off. When I reached the Hut, I was
surprised to find that I wasn't alone.
Inside there was an old man sitting calmly by a fire,
smoking a pipe. He looked like he had jumped out
of a history book with his wool trousers, suspenders and a
strange old fashioned hat. Despite his odd appearance, the
warm glow of the fire made him look friendly enough.
The old man didn't seem surprised to see me at all.
He just nodded slightly and gestured for me to come in.
I didn't need to be asked twice. I stepped into the Hut, grateful
to escape the relentless rain. Hello.
I managed to say, shivering as the warmth began to seep into my
bones. The old man just nodded again.
I'm Klaus. He said in a voice that sounded
like it was used to the quiet of the mountains more than the
chatter of people. I introduced myself, trying not
to stare at his old timey clothes as I hung my wet jacket
near the fire. Klaus resumed his spot by the
flames. I pulled up a chair, glad for
the heat and the company, even if it was a bit unusual.
We sat in silence for a bit, just listening to the crackle of
the fire and the storm raging outside.
Then, as if deciding that I was OK, Klaus began to talk.
He told me stories about the Alps, tales of adventurers and
explorers from long ago. His stories were interesting,
but what really got my attention were the legends he shared.
Stories about creatures that lived in the mountains,
mysterious beings that were part human and part beast.
As the wind howled like a banshee outside, Klaus's tails
grew stranger and scarier. He spoke of echo spirits, eerie
creatures that could mimic any sound, even human voices.
When the echo calls your name, that's when you run.
He said, looking straight at me with a serious glint in his
eyes. I tried to laugh it off.
Echo spirits, huh? That sounds spooky, but it's
just a legend, right? I wasn't so sure anymore, not
with the storm making strange noises outside.
Klaus didn't answer, he just stared into the fire, his face
flickering with the flames, leaving me to wonder if some
legends might be real after all. That night, even though I was
tucked away inside the little mountain Hut, sleep didn't come
easy. Every sound the storm made
seemed louder and scarier thanks to the creepy stories Klaus had
told me about echo spirits. I kept telling myself they were
just old legends, nothing more, but every creak of the Hut and
howl of the wind made me think twice.
The fire eventually burned down to just glowing embers, casting
eerie shadows on the walls. I wrapped my sleeping bag
tighter around me, trying to shake off the chill and the
spooky feelings. I must have finally fallen
asleep because the next thing I knew, everything was strangely
silent. Morning light was peeking
through the small window when I opened my eyes.
I sat up, expecting to hear Klaus tending the fire, or maybe
humming an old tune, but there was nothing.
No sound of footsteps, no crackling fire.
No Klaus. I scrambled out of my sleeping
bag and looked around. The Hut was exactly as small and
rustic as when I'd entered, but there was no sign of the old
man. The chair where he had sat the
night before was empty, without even an indent in the cushion.
His pipe, his hat, everything was gone.
It was as if he had never been there at all.
This can't be right, I muttered to myself, my heart starting to
race. I stepped outside, hoping maybe
Klaus was just outside gathering more wood, but the area around
the Hut was deserted. The storm had passed, leaving
behind a quiet, crisp morning that made the night's fears seem
distant and silly. Still, a part of me couldn't
shake off the unease. I packed up my gear quickly,
eager to leave the Hut and its mysteries behind.
As I set out on the trail again, the fresh air and bright
sunshine helped lift my spirits. It was just a weird night, I
told myself, trying to focus on the beautiful views and the
adventure ahead. The path wound through lush
green meadows and over sparkling streams, and I started to relax
and enjoy my hike again. The mountains were peaceful,
with only the sounds of birds and the occasional distant
rumble of a waterfall. It was easy to believe that the
scary stories from the night before were just that, stories.
But then, just as I was getting comfortable, my name echoed
across the valley. At first, I thought I was
imagining things. Hello.
I called out, half expecting no reply.
But then it came again, my name clearer this time.
It sounded just like Klaus's voice.
My heart skipped a beat. This has to be a joke, I
thought, looking around nervously.
There was no one insight. The echo of my name seemed to
bounce off the mountains surrounding me.
I remembered Klaus's words. When the echo calls your name,
that's when you run. I wasn't about to run, not yet.
I was curious, maybe a bit scared too, but I needed to know
what was happening. The echo seemed to be coming
from a cave nearby. I hesitated for a moment, then
walk towards it. Hello.
I called again as I approached The Cave entrance.
The echo that came back was chilling.
It was my voice, but underneath it there were other voices, like
a dozen whispers tangled together.
It felt wrong, deep in my bones. That was the moment I knew I
should have listened to Klaus. Whatever was in that cave wasn't
just an echo, it was something else, something that knew my
name. Standing at the entrance of The
Cave, my heart pounded in my chest.
The voices echoing back at me weren't just echoes, they were
something more, something eerie. I knew I should run, just like
Klaus had warned, but my feet felt like they were glued to the
ground. The whispers mixed with my name
sent chills down my spine. It sounded like the voices were
calling me, trying to lure me deeper into The Cave.
I remembered all the legends Klaus had told me, stories meant
to scare, but maybe they were true.
I took a deep breath, and against every instinct screaming
inside me, I stepped back from The Cave.
Time to leave. I muttered to myself, turning
away from the dark opening in the mountain.
But as soon as I started to walk away, the voices grew louder,
and I could hear my name being called out again, this time more
urgently. It felt as if the mountain
itself was speaking to me. I broke into a run, my legs
finally responding. The path was rocky, and I
stumbled a few times, but fear pushed me forward.
The echoes followed me, bouncing off the valley walls.
It was like a wave of sound chasing me, growing louder with
every step I took. The thought of looking back
terrified me, so I kept my eyes fixed on the path ahead.
My breath came in short gasps and my muscles ached, but I
didn't dare stop. The whispers seemed to be just
behind me, always calling my name mixed with those strange,
otherworldly voices. After what felt like hours, but
was probably only a few minutes, I reached a river.
The water rushed loudly, and for a moment I hesitated.
The river was wide, and the water looked cold and deep, but
the voices were still behind me, closer than ever.
Without another thought, I jumped into the river.
The cold water hit me like a wall, shocking me back to
reality. I gasped for air, struggling
against the current. The cold seemed to seep into my
bones, but as I reached the other side and pulled myself
onto the bank, I realized the voices had stopped.
The sound of the rushing water had drowned them out.
I lay there on the riverbank, panting and shivering, but
relieved. Looking back across the water,
the other side seems so distant now, as if it was another world
where the echoes couldn't reach me.
I knew I couldn't go back the same way I came.
Finally regaining my strength, I stood up and started walking
again, this time towards the nearest town.
I was done with the mountains and their secrets for now.
The thought of spending another night out there with those
voices possibly finding me again was too much.
When I reached the town, I told people I had gotten spooked by
the storm and decided to cut my trip short.
I didn't mention the echoes or The Cave.
Who would believe such a story? They'd think I was just a scared
kid with too much imagination. I've since read up on the
legends and talked to other hikers online.
Some have heard similar things, which makes me wonder.
But now I stick to group hikes where there's safety in numbers,
and whenever the wind howls, I never listen too closely just in
case it's not just the wind.