I'll never forget the summer of 2006.
I was a drifter, always looking for a place to crash and a good
time. What had started out as a great
year quickly turned into misfortune.
The guy I was seeing ditched me, literally leaving me behind for
another town. I had zero money, no job, and
only trouble on my mind. I couldn't tell you what brought
me to that little town up north, but I can tell you what made me
leave. I was living in Clemens, North
Carolina, hanging out at a local bar, nursing a whiskey on the
rocks. There was this art retreat I
tried to get into, but I failed and got denied.
I didn't even meet half the requirements.
Now I was drifting, sleeping on couches, and rapidly running out
of options. I wasn't planning on living in
Clemens forever, but it had a quaintness and the people had
their own vibe. I wasn't exactly racing to get
out of town or anything. I figured something would come
along eventually, just like it always does when you need it to.
That's when I met him. Pazuzu, or Pee as he liked to be
called, came in alone and totally caught my eye.
Tall and lean with dreadlocks and ink on every inch of his
body. His arms, face, and throat were
all marked up with something. He took a seat in total silence
and didn't seem to have a relationship with the bartender,
just ordered a straight whiskey. Needless to say, this guy had my
attention. I moved down the bar and he
started chatting me up right away.
He said he lived in town, his mom did too, and he'd been local
his whole life. He said he owns some properties
throughout the community, which once you get to the end of the
story you'll know is total crap. I think what he meant by
property was really bodies. He had bodies buried all over
the community. Obviously I didn't know this at
the time. All I saw was this mysterious,
edgy looking guy making eyes at me from the next barstool over.
He was charming in this twisted sort of way, with a wicked grin
and a glint in his eye. He invited me to stay with him
and his friends and I jumped at the chance.
I mean, who wouldn't want a free place to stay totally free?
I asked. He said everything in life
should be free. The only price we pay for
anything should be sin. I thought this was his attempt
at poetry, but I'd find out just how wrong I was.
We got to the house and it was a total dump.
I don't really know what I was expecting, but after the stories
I heard at the bar, I kind of thought he had money.
It was what looked like a double wide trailer set atop a brick
basement foundation, a dingy site built home, very common
throughout the Carolinas. He let us in through the ground
entrance where I discovered the ultimate bachelor pad, spray
paint on the walls, food in the sink, and empty beer cans
cluttered on every surface. It was a dump on the outside and
a putrid mess on the inside, even carrying its own moldy
smell, one I'd never really experienced before.
P didn't apologize or even address the level of filth he
lived in. He showed me a room that had
some semblance of normalcy, a mattress with an end table
pretty much empty otherwise. He said he rented this one out
periodically, usually when he needed the money, but I could
sleep there for free. For some reason, he lied to me
and wanted to take me under his wing.
At first, it was a party. We drank, we smoked, we laughed,
and we lived life on the edge. The first night he threw a
party, it was just for me. Literally painted a welcome
message for me on the wall, adorned with this quote about
how evil was the only way to live.
His friends were nuts too, but nowhere near the level of
depravity that P was on. They sat in circles, chanted,
did rituals with their own blood, and talked about the
craziest stuff that I've ever heard.
Not just about the occult, but what they wanted to happen to
the world. All the crazy messages painted
on the wall started to make sense to me.
These guys truly believed they were agents of evil, sent to
bring hate to the earth. I'll admit, P was fascinating.
His stories of Satanism and the occult intrigued and intimidated
me. But I wanted to fit in, so I
played along, pretending to be interested in his dark rituals
and sacrifices. Honestly, it wasn't that hard.
Like I said, he went out of his way to make me feel comfortable.
That first night, maybe even that whole first week, I was in
a perpetual state of drunkenness, getting fed a
steady dosage of pretty much whatever drug I wanted.
He had hookups and somehow had the leverage to make deals and
always score, whether it be booze or drugs.
He claimed it was the work he did for Satan.
He said the darkness would never let him go without what he
needed. That is a direct quote and he
meant it every time he said it. P truly believed there was an
evil spirit that looked out for him, paving the path anywhere he
went. Regardless, I paid it no mind
and enjoyed the free couch and the non-stop party.
But as the days went by, things began to get weird.
The house was a mess. The Dirty dishes piled up,
unwashed clothes scattered everywhere, holes in the wall.
It was like they didn't care about anything, least of all
hygiene. I was starting to hear P glowed
about his daily services for the devil.
He claimed he hadn't showered in three years and that by keeping
his body in that natural composition, Satan made it
impossible for him to get sick. Infection was a thing of the
past for him, hence the disgusting filth that he lived
in. P used the grime in grease as a
method of warding away the normal, the good, the decent.
It was a repellent for anyone who also didn't worship the
devil. P also said that he stopped
brushing his teeth, which I noticed he had personally
manipulated. I didn't see them in the bar,
but after a few nights together, I saw the brown rot.
But I also saw something else too.
He had literally filed his teeth into points.
He looked like he had the mouth of an animal or a demon.
He did everything in his power to make himself unapproachable,
and if you did approach him like I had, you would never be
comfortable around him. And then there were the animals.
P had all kinds of creatures, from snakes to spiders, and he
loved to torture them. I tried to ignore it, but it was
hard to stomach. He would torture them with
different tools like a lighter, or even put them in the freezer,
claiming that he was conducting a ritual to control the weather.
Satan had gifted him these animals to use to control the
world around him. If he set the spider's feet on
fire, it would be a warm day. If he put it in the freezer, it
would be a cold, dark day. Very strange simplistic thinking
but I will say this. It may have been the drugs or
just my method of nodding and smiling every time he spoke, but
it seemed like the weather actually followed his actions.
If he burned the spider I always remember the next day being a
God damn scorcher. Although he could have just been
checking the weather and pretending it was a magic trick.
Then there were the confessions. P would get drunk and start
talking about all the things he done.
At first I thought he was just bragging, trying to shock me,
but as the stories went on, I quickly realized that he was
telling the truth. He went on at length about the
piles of animals he'd killed for rituals and sacrifices.
Dogs, cats, rabbits, literally anything he could get his hands
on. There's nothing like taking a
bite out of a still beating heart, he said at the top of his
lungs one night. Better than any drug on earth.
It's pure ecstasy straight to the bloodstream.
And it's even better if the animal dies while you're eating
it. Talk about a rush.
It's hard to take something like that seriously when you hear it
in real life, but it's even harder when you're living with
the person. I think I was overwhelmed with
denial that this guy couldn't be as crazy as he seemed.
That second week really turned the tables as he was in a
constant state of blackout drunkenness but then would
randomly recover and seem coherent.
Well spoken. He said it was because demons
were in and out of his body, helping him get things done.
Those confessions got worse to the point of being outright
heinous. P said he killed a number of sex
workers over the last couple of years.
He said they were the easiest and no one was looking for them.
By society standards, they were already missing, so P just did
the work of the darkness and brought them suffering of a
different caliber. It wasn't just that he was
claiming to be a murderer. P said that he ate their
corpses, feasted on them for multiple days before burning
their bodies and disposing of the remains in the rivers and
forests outside of town. Killing them brought terror to
the world, and eating them brought power to the underworld.
Opening the doorway for just a moment as he said.
I remember we exchanged a look, and I think P could tell that I
didn't believe him. He just nodded and said you'll
see. You'll see the fires.
By the third week, things had really escalated.
I woke up and it was like I was in a totally different house.
The smell was worse, the wasteland of trash was worse,
everything was worse. I could see that P was getting
more and more strung out on the drugs and alcohol, teetering on
violent and manic. I found him one morning painting
the walls with blood. I asked him what he was doing
and he answered as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
He said he needed protection soon.
I wanted to ask protection from what, but decided to ask where
he got that blood from. He pointed to the backyard and
said he spent the morning butchering an animal and
draining every drop of fluid from it.
Killing animals in the backyard was one thing, but by the next
day there were literal pieces of these animals strung up on
fishing line, dangling from the ceiling.
Legs, paws, ears, eyes. What wasn't suspended from the
ceiling was stored in a cooler by the fridge, and P would
ritualistically eat the raw, rotting flesh.
This was when the fly started to build up, and I'm talking
hundreds, if not thousands. The house was disgusting when I
arrived, but it turned into something else during that last
week, and P did not care. He liked it, felt like it gave
him power. It was a House of horrors, and
for some reason I was voluntarily living there.
It was a hub for outcasts and misfits of all kinds, as was the
company that P kept with the Spiral, though it didn't feel
safe anymore, especially not for women.
I returned back to his house one night as he'd left for the
woods, and I didn't want to go. When I got back, I heard weird
sounds coming from the basement. When I entered, I found a group
of strangers engaging in twisted rituals.
Obviously I recognize P and a couple of his friends, but the
rest were unknown to me, half of them women.
They were painted in what looked like blood, partaking in some of
the strangest, scariest sex that I've ever seen.
Masks, open wounds, and lots of drugs.
P gave me this gross, distant, menacing stare before beckoning
me over. I didn't go, simply turned and
barreled back out into the cool night air.
Better believe I kept running. I knew I would be leaving this
house soon. I was living in a complete
nightmare and I didn't know how to wake up from it.
I'd been so scared to leave before, but now I was too scared
to stay. What the hell had I gotten
myself into? It occurred to me that
everything he told me could be true, that I could end up with
my throat cut deep in the Carolina wilderness, getting
danced around and spit on by people using me for what they
believed was magic. Finally, after weeks of living
in terror, I found the courage to leave.
I wish I could say it was more dramatic, but I simply bided my
time until he was out of the house, then made my move.
I packed my bag and slipped out of the house, unnoticed and
unseen. I didn't stop running until I
was out of that town, eventually out of the state and far away
from Pazuzu Algorad. I never looked back, and I never
spoke about those weeks again. At least not until his case
broke national headlines. It turned out a lot of us
passing through Clemens had stayed with this lunatic.
I was very fortunate to get out when I did.
As I read he openly murdered more people later in life.
Those memories haunt me still to this day.
I know I'll never be the same. I've seen some terrible things
in my time as a detective, but the case of Pazuzu Algarad was
something completely else. This guy has a rap sheet, quite
a colorful history, and it's always bothered me a bit.
I feel like we should have had a lot more data on this guy, but
the reality is he terrified everyone that he came in contact
with. The people that knew him and
lived around him avoided that guy at all costs, and for good
reason. Not only was he disgusting as a
person, but he was very violent, very unpredictable.
Everything about his persona screamed isolation, mental
illness, and this open disdain for not just authority, but
mankind in general. This guy was out to have a bad
day every day, and he didn't make that a secret.
It started from a tip from a local resident who reported a
strange smell coming from the house in town, a house we all
knew well. When we arrived, we found two
bodies buried in the backyard. The house was literally covered
in blood and filth. To this day, it goes down as the
most disturbing case that I've ever witnessed.
The home itself was a pigsty. An unbelievable amount of filth
on every surface, including human waste.
As we dug deeper, we discovered that Pazuzu was a
self-proclaimed Satanist who had a fascination with the occult
and a history of animal cruelty. He had a group of followers who
were just as twisted as he was, and together they had committed
some of the most heinous crimes I've ever seen.
Followers might be a strong word.
A ragtag group of losers is more appropriate.
But they were all loyal to Pee. They never ratted on him, didn't
give up the game they were playing regardless of the rules
or the stakes, they would just go along with whatever insane,
deranged plans this guy made and laugh with him about it later.
He even managed to keep girlfriends and a couple of
fiancees throughout his stint. Honestly, he kind of reminded me
of Charles Manson. Cunning, clever, but pure evil
at his core. The difference, though, between
Manson and P was that P was the one who wanted to do the
stabbing and the killing. He didn't send in his followers.
He was first in line to draw blood or drink it.
He didn't want to just talk about it.
His victims were mostly prostitutes and Drifters, people
who wouldn't be missed. Pazuzu would lure them into his
house, where he would torture and kill them, then burn their
remains in the woods. It was this sickening ritual,
and one that he seemed to enjoy. As we investigated, we found
evidence of Pazuzu's crimes everywhere.
There were blood stains on the walls, bones in the backyard,
and a collection of satanic artifacts that would make your
skin crawl. It was like he wanted us to know
what he done, like he was proud of all of his crimes.
The most disturbing thing was the way he seemed to manipulate
people. He had this charm, a charisma
that drew people in, made them do his bidding.
His followers were brainwashed, completely under his control.
They would do anything that he asked.
One of his close friends had this to say about him.
He had this twisted sort of charisma.
It's the kind of charisma that isn't going to appeal to
everyone, but certain minds are going to be drawn in by it.
The misfits, the outcasts, people living on the edge, or
people who wanted to live on the edge.
Here's the crazy part. We had reports from his friends
that were beyond outlandish. We'd collect some of these
people that were connected to pee, jam them up pretty hard
just to get some info to help build the case.
They told us about crazy sex, orgies, animal killing, but they
also told us something that we hadn't heard yet.
P would throw parties where in all the attendees would use the
same knife to cut themselves open.
Then P would drink everything that came out.
We're talking quarts of blood in this guy's stomach.
Absolutely disgusting next level stuff.
Like I said before, this guy had been on our radar for a long
time, but it wasn't until 2010 that it all started to close in
around him. He took in a friend who had shot
and killed a man in the woodland outside of town, and when his
body was discovered the next day, authorities had pieced the
crime together pretty quickly. By that, I mean we were looking
for a named suspect. When we approached Pee, he lied,
misdirected us, muddied the waters of the investigation.
Only later did we realize the suspect was being harbored at
Pee's house, so we arrested him as an accessory, gifted him some
charges that would be on his record forever.
Once he was on the radar, it wasn't long before we had a
warrant for his property. The neighbors were already
calling in for the smells, strange sightings, threats, all
kinds of stuff. On top of that, authorities had
their own pile of questions and evidence that could only be
answered by taking P and walking his property.
When the officers arrived, 1/2 moved inside to situate the
Satanist, make sure he couldn't run or grab a weapon or conceal
anything else. The other half of the officers
patrolled the front and backyards, quickly finding what
we were looking for. Two shallow graves very near one
another, housing the brutalized remains of two different people,
Tommy Welsh and Josh Wetzler, both of whom had been missing
since 2009. The handcuffs came out and we
arrested both P and his fiance at the time, a woman named Amber
Birch, who was complicit in essentially everything.
Both men had been shot and killed, but there was evidence
of further desecration of their corpses, as well as possible
cannibalism. We locked them up, as well as a
few other accomplices, and the rest is pretty much history.
The town bulldoze that hell hole of a house, deemed it unlivable
after they discovered what was going on within it, only to
never let it see another sunrise.
P went on to kill himself almost exactly one year later in
prison. Or at least that's the story.
For some reason I just can't believe that prick would commit
suicide. He was too proud, too much of A
narcissist to ever do something like that.
If it wasn't obvious from his behavior, the guy was desperate
for attention. Now he was on the world stage
behind bars. Part of me thinks some kind of
shady justice got dealt to him. North Carolina is a heavily
Christian state, especially Clemens.
It wouldn't surprise me if a couple of correction officers or
even someone higher up made sure P stopped breathing that night.
I can't even imagine how much he annoyed the guards in prison.
This guy was constantly talking crap and giving any kind of
attitude. But even now I can't shake that
feeling of unease that this case has left me with.
Pazuzu Algorad was a monster, true evil, and I'm just glad
that he's dead and can't harm anyone else.
I've lived in this neighborhood for over 20 years and I've seen
a lot of things. But nothing could have ever
prepared me for the terror that was Pazuzu Algarod.
That was the name that came later though.
I originally knew him as a boy named John Lawson and his mother
Cynthia. They moved in when John was
still a boy, but that didn't mean he was normal or anything
like that. He was just about the angriest
kid on the block, always blowing up and yelling threats at
people. We'd see him or hear him
screaming insults at his mother at least once a week, either
inside the house or even in the front yard.
She seemed to be a woman at her wits end and I could see why.
John made everything difficult and honestly, he seemed like he
enjoyed doing it. It was absolutely no surprise
when we would later learn he called himself a Satanist.
All the clothes, piercings, tattoos, it all started to add
up whenever we saw a pentagram painted on a sign or a brick
wall. We assumed it was him and his
stupid friends. At first.
He was just a kid, always getting into trouble.
I'd see the cops bringing him home or stopping by for a chat
at odd hours, his mom always apologizing, always making
excuses for his behavior. But I knew there was something
off about him, even back then. As he got older, things only got
worse. He started hanging out with a
rough crowd. I'd see them gathered around his
house, smoking and drinking. I'd hear strange noises coming
from inside, like chanting and screaming.
I tried my best to stay out of it, but it was hard to ignore.
We lived right there. This was right around the time
that he actually changed his name.
We started hearing Pazuzu up and down the block.
Now, I myself am a God fearing man.
I've gone to church every week for 40 years.
I recognize the name that he gave himself from the movie The
Exorcist. Again, I'm a Christian, but I
enjoy a good scare. I remember hearing that name in
the flick, so I decided to look it up for myself.
It turned out that the name Pazuzu was a real demon.
In Mesopotamian culture. He was considered the king of
all demons. His surname in the full right
means the Lord of the Locust in Arabic.
A truly frightening title for a kid who lives up the street from
you. But at this point he was
starting to turn into a man. He was a legal adult.
He could change his name. I only know his surname because
it was spray painted in the parks.
The guy was a problem throughout the community, but no one had
the brass to approach him. The cops had been involved in
his life since he moved to the neighborhood, but for whatever
reason, nothing ever really stuck.
They'd come, ask questions, then leave, then do it all again the
next month. The same song and dance.
I'm sure P and his followers said it was due to Satan and
their sacrifices. Satan was protecting them from
recourse, and who knows, that could have been true.
It didn't last very long, as I'll never forget the afternoon
the cops flooded our neighborhood, patrols up and
down the block and a group going to knock on the door.
The patrols were just in case he tried to flee.
I suspect running never really seemed his style.
P liked conflict, liked confrontation, and anyone in our
neighborhood would definitely agree with me.
But again, after a bit of questioning, they left again,
this time only for a week or so. The police would later come
back, much more subtly this time, and ran what was going to
be a full raid on his house. He ended up stepping out and
giving himself up. I'm almost positive they were
prepared to kick in his door and everything.
P caught his charge as an accessory to murder and served a
short stint as I remember him appearing back just a few months
later, maybe a year at most at this point.
There was a girl with him all the time, always in and out of
the house. She was nowhere near as scary as
Pee was, but she had a mean face and a bad attitude.
She never really had anything kind to say.
We avoided her just as much as we did her boyfriend.
There would be parties, loud music, sometimes dozens of
people showing up to do drugs or whatever else they were up to.
The rumors themselves were horrific.
Sex cults, drug overdoses, abduct and kill animals from the
neighborhood, all that usual Satanic panic kind of stuff.
We avoided the house at all costs, but even if there was any
kind of racket, no one ever left their house.
Music blasting, people screaming, all that going on at
2:00 in the morning. What do you do?
Go over to the psychotic Satanist house and risk being
murdered? Not a chance.
We'd call the police and they usually wouldn't even bother
showing up. P controlled the neighborhood
back in those days. It's a mark of shame for all of
us who live there. But then 2014 came along and the
real story broke. It was much the same though.
Cops crawling up and down the street.
But this time they actually went in the house.
Lots of them. The rest paraded into the front
and backyards outfitted with metal detectors and cadaver
dogs. It wasn't long until we heard
barking and a whole lot of shouting.
Then we heard it again. Two hits I suspected and later
confirmed by a voice shouting to the others.
Get the commander on the line. We've got bodies back here.
It was a gruesome thing. Two men had been buried back
there for as long as five years. They've been missing since 2009.
Local boys. They'd likely run with groups
somehow affiliated with Pazuzu. Either someone spoke out of
line, a drug deal went bad, or something occurred for Pee to
kill them. Until we learned that his
girlfriend had actually killed the 2nd.
A real duo made in hell, if you will.
It was a huge relief to the community when both he and her
were arrested and never seen in town again.
By April of the next year, after the case closed and all the
charges were properly filed, the city came in to demolish the
house. It was a bittersweet day.
Many of us were happy to see it go, especially after the police
went through it. The building itself was full of
blood, carcasses and human excrement.
The amount of work required to make it livable again would have
been ungodly, and after so many crimes throughout so many years,
it was just time to bury it. Literally the whole block came
out to watch it get pushed over and loaded up into the back of a
big dump truck. By the 2nd day there was nothing
left but the rubble of the foundation.
It was relieving and still is to this day.
P and his cronies disappeared and apparently the guy offed
himself not long after being arrested.
So much for the Lord of the Locust.
Although I must confess, part of me was still drawn to the whole
thing. I couldn't believe how close to
my life all of this had gone down.
I found myself thinking about the evil that lurked just across
the street. I wondered if it would linger.
One night I found myself curious enough to walk over to the empty
lot and just look at it. I needed to see that there
weren't ghosts dancing under the moonlight or corpses crawling up
out of the dirt. I got over there and found
nothing, just random leftover debris from the demo.
The only thing unpleasant that lingered was a smell, and
honestly it took a couple of weeks to dissipate.
That level of death and decay doesn't just go away even if you
destroy every scrap of the home. It's literally in the earth at
that point. The only other thing that
remained was just a heavy presence.
When I crossed the street, I felt a weight just come down on
my shoulders, like I didn't want to be over there, but I needed
to see it for myself. There was nothing.
I turned back after 10 or 15 minutes of studying the area.
When I did, I heard something. A voice.
I don't know what it said, but it was unmistakable.
It sounded like pee. I'd heard that kid yelling up
and down the street for more than a decade at that point, so
I knew his voice. For many others it sounded like
a laugh but also sounded like words.
Dumb ass old man is what my brain piece together.
But here I am 10 years later, still unsure to this day, but I
can tell you there's nobody over there.
I think it was just a fragment of my imagination.
Years of terror have been put to rest but my brain still thought
he could be around. He wasn't.
He died in a cell not long after that night.
I don't hear him anymore, and the air on my street smells
better than it ever has. I left Colorado at the crack of
dawn, the air already hinting at the scorching heat of the day to
come. I had packed everything the
night before, taking extra care to leave enough food and water
for my cat, Morris. He watched me with those
piercing green eyes, as if he knew I was off on some grand
adventure without him. Don't give me that look, I told
him, scratching behind his ears one last time.
I'll be back before you know it. I'll even leave the TV on your
favorite channel. By 530, AMI was on the road, the
sky just beginning to lighten. There's something about the
early morning hours that I love. The world feels fresh,
untouched. I adjusted my mirrors, set the
GPS, and glanced at the map spread out on the passenger
seat. I felt like Kit Carson preparing
for a trek into unknown territory.
California was a long way off, and I knew I'd have to stop for
the night somewhere before hitting the Rockies.
The drive was uneventful at first.
I hopped onto the Interstate, the miles ticking by as the
radio played softly in the background.
The scenery changed from the lush greens of Colorado to the
arid open spaces of Nevada. As the day wore on, the heat
intensified, but the promise of a new destination kept me going.
By the time the sun began to set, fatigue was setting in.
I consulted the map again and decided to stop in a small town
in northern Nevada. Or at least that's what I
thought it was. As I approached, it became clear
that town was a generous description.
The GPS directed me off the main road and onto a dark, narrow
path. I drove slowly, my headlights
cutting through the inky blackness.
The town, if you could call it that, consisted of an old gas
station and a rundown motel. There were no other cars,
Insight, no lights, no signs of life.
This doesn't look like an incorporated area, I muttered to
myself. I pulled over, peering into the
darkness, hoping to find something more promising up
ahead, but the map confirmed it. There was nowhere else to stay
the night until after the Rockies.
I glanced at the gas station. It was clearly abandoned, the
windows broken and the pumps covered in rust.
The motel, set back about 200 feet from the road, wasn't much
better. It looked like it hadn't seen a
guest in years. Still, the thought of driving
any further, half asleep at the wheel, wasn't appealing.
As I debated my next move, I saw a flicker of movement near the
motel. A dark figure slipped behind the
building, vanishing into the shadows.
Maybe it was the motel owner. I got out of the car and called
out. Hey, can I get a room?
Where's the office? My voice echoed in the
stillness, but there was no reply.
Curiosity got the better of me. I walked around to where I'd
seen the figure disappear, finding a door that looked like
it led to a cellar. For a moment, I thought I heard
a faint moaning sound. I shook it off.
Probably just the wind. I headed back to the front of
the motel and pushed open the door.
Inside, it was pitch black. I fumble for my flashlight, the
beam cutting through the gloom. The air was stale, filled with
the scent of decay and disuse. As I moved further inside, I
heard a faint crackling sound, like a radio tuned to static.
It was coming from behind a door at the end of the hall.
A shiver ran down my spine. Something about this place
wasn't right. I decided it was better to push
on through the night than stay here.
But as I turned to leave, I caught sight of the dark figure
again, this time standing just outside the window, watching me.
My heart pounded in my chest. I couldn't see their face
clearly, but there was something unsettling about the way they
stood, unmoving, staring. I had to get out of there.
I bolted for the door, my footsteps echoing in the empty
motel. As I reached my car, I glanced
back one last time. The figure was still there, now
standing in the doorway, their silhouette framed by the dim
light of my headlights. I didn't wait to find out what
they wanted. I jumped into the car, started
the engine, and drove off into the night, my heart racing, The
eerie image of the figure burned into my mind.
The motel room was a step above a cave.
The bed was old, the mattress sagging in the middle like a
tired old horse. But it was a bed, and after the
day I'd had, that was enough. I locked the door behind me,
bolted it for good measure, and dropped my bag on the floor.
I tore open a pack of jerky and a loaf of bread, the meager
dinner doing little to settle my nerves.
I tried to shake off the encounter with the dark figure,
convincing myself that fatigue was playing tricks on me.
I looked around the room, my eyes settling on a vent at the
base of the wall. Strange, given there was no
visible air conditioning or heating system, just one more
oddity in a place full of them. I lay down on the bed, staring
at the vent, trying to dismiss the eerie feeling creeping over
me. The mattress was uncomfortable,
but exhaustion eventually pulled me under.
I woke to a sound, faint but persistent.
I lay still, listening intently. It was coming from the vent, the
same wheezing breath I'd heard from the creature earlier.
My heart pounded in my chest, each beat louder than the last.
I stayed motionless, trying to control my breathing, hoping the
sound would stop. But it continued, steady and
relentless. Hello.
I whispered, my voice trembling. The wheezing stopped abruptly.
The silence was worse, an oppressive void filled with my
rising panic. I sat up slowly, every muscle
tense. I had to get out of there.
I grabbed my phone and sent a quick text to my parents, hoping
they'd see it when they woke up. Hey dad and mom, I'm at a motel
in northern Nevada. Creepy place.
Saw a weird guy, heard moaning from a seller.
There's wheezing coming from a vent.
Leaving as soon as possible. No sooner had I sent the message
than my phone buzzed with a reply.
My parents must have had their phones nearby.
Son, your mother and I just saw a report on the news.
A missing person was reported in that area.
Multiple disappearances linked to an abandoned motel.
Get out now. The words hit me like a punch to
the gut. My breath came in short, rapid
gasps. The vent wheezed again, louder
this time, almost like it was mocking me.
I grabbed my keys and shoved my phone into my pocket.
I couldn't stay here another second.
I crept to the window and peered out into the darkness.
The car was right where I left it, and there was no sign of the
figure. I tried to steady my nerves and
unbolted the door as quietly as I could.
The wheezing from the vent grew more insistent, a garbled noise
mingling with the breath, as if the creature was trying to
speak. I yanked the door open and
bolted for the car. Behind me, I heard a guttural
scream, a sound that froze my blood.
The creature was right behind me, its deformed face contorted
with rage. I fumble with the keys, finally
managing to unlock the car and jump inside.
I started the engine, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I
speed away. I saw the creature in my rear
view mirror, its mouth flopping around, emitting that horrible
wheezing noise. I drove into the darkness, the
headlights cutting through the night, my heart racing with fear
and adrenaline. By the time I reached my parents
house, I was beyond exhausted but too wired to sleep.
I told them everything, my words tumbling out in a frantic rush.
My father called the police, and soon the FBI was involved.
It was then that I learned the motel's dark history, decades of
disappearances never solved. I had narrowly escaped becoming
another victim. The memory of that night stayed
with me, a shadow that never quite faded, a reminder of the
horrors lurking just beyond the edge of the familiar world.
I've lived in this remote cabin for five years now, surrounded
by nothing but trees and snow as far as the eye can see.
It's a place where winter reigns supreme, and the storms that
roll in can be catastrophic. I've learned to prepare for
them, stockpiling firewood and food and making sure my
generator is in good working order.
This isn't where I live all the time.
I inherited the cabin from a relative after he passed and
honor the memory of the family traditions built there.
I try to spend a few months out of my year residing in this
cabin to maintain many of its more delicate features as well
as escape the droning hum of city life.
I came here seeking solitude, a place to escape the hustle and
bustle of city life. I was a writer, or at least I
tried to be, but the constant noise and distractions made it
almost impossible for me to focus out.
Here I can work on my craft without interruption, and the
silence is almost palpable. I feel like I am connected to my
family being in that cabin, and I also feel connected to myself.
I rekindled my old hobby, started making progress in a
number of different projects, most notably a novel that I
still haven't finished yet. My days out there are fairly
simple. I wake up early, tend to my
fire, and then spend some time writing.
After that I usually take a walk in the woods, exploring the
trails and streams that crisscross the forest.
It's amazing how much beauty there is in a desolate
landscape. When I'm not doing the fun
stuff, I spend an incredible amount of time splitting wood
fire, wising the property, fixing the multitude of creaky
step boards, or splitting window sills.
The back and forth of extreme seasons is really hard on the
cabin exterior and if it isn't addressed each year it becomes a
bigger problem very quickly. My uncle left the roof
unattended for two years and had a leak not long after.
It's just the name of the game, living in a structure that your
grandpa made with his bare hands.
That is to say, it isn't winter all the time here.
Spring comes and everything is wet for two months, absolutely
saturated to the point of flooding the last month's break,
and suddenly a heat wave comes in, dries everything out and
even threatens a drought. Fall brings those whipping winds
that blow away the last rays of summer.
Then it's dark, dreary, and snow packed once again.
Winter changes everything. The storms can last for days and
the snow drifts can reach up to the windows of my cabin,
sometimes well beyond that. It's a time of quiet and
contemplation, and the only sound is the howling wind and
the creaking of the trees. Sometimes the wolves will call
up to the moon, but things like that don't really frighten me.
They never have. What frightens me is people.
This is the story from my family cabin that happened in 2001.
After one particularly bad storm, I noticed something
strange Footprints in the snow, wandering around my property and
out into the woods. They were light, as if whoever
made them was trying not to leave a trace.
This is weird because there aren't any other cabins out here
for at least 25 miles. This was deep in the National
Forest, prime backpacker and hunting territory, but there
were about a dozen of us that had property scattered around
the mountainside. Parcels of land without running
water, just walls and a roof. Footprints in my area might not
be the strangest thing, as there was a lake further up the
mountain, but for the most part, the cabin properties were tucked
away and done so on purpose. Usually, if someone accidentally
came upon my property, they would quickly turn around,
perhaps wave if we saw each other, then go back the way they
came. These footprints, however, seem
to circle around the outskirts of my property over and over
again. I counted at least five laps,
which took me nearly 30 minutes to complete.
Whoever was walking around out there had some sort of agenda.
I kept an eye out for anyone hanging around the woods, but as
the snow melted, the Prince slowly disappeared too.
I never saw anyone, I just assumed it was a distant hiker
passing through. The laps around my cabin were
weird, but I chalked it up to being something logical, like
maybe he was looking for service or something.
Thought maybe my cabin would have better luck getting a
signal. I looked to see what direction
he may have gone after wandering off, but the overlapping nature
of the tracks made it really hard to tell.
Three or four days went by and I didn't see anyone else, but
periodically there would be Fresh Prince in the snow.
There were these little dustings coming through, replenishing the
melted snowfall on the ground. Every single time it snowed,
there would be a new set of tracks somewhere outside that
same weird boot print. By the end of the week, I was
getting uncomfortable with this situation as I was totally alone
out there. There wasn't a quick way for the
sheriff's to get to me. Then one morning, I actually saw
him. I was fixing a cup of coffee and
stocking the fire when I caught sight of something outside the
window. A figure lurking at the edge of
the forest, dressed in these tattered clothes with these
hypereratic movements. My gut immediately told me that
something was off. This person should not be here.
I tried to get a better look, but they vanished into the trees
before I even could. This shook me up so much that I
didn't know what to do Obviously I wanted to barrel out of the
door and chase after him, but something in my gut told me I
would never find him. He was poking around but doing
everything in his power not to be discovered.
I realized I've been thinking about this person and situation
non-stop for the better part of six days.
Then it came to me. This was a perfect thing to
write about. The following is a real piece
that I wrote the morning after seeing that stranger.
I've seen him now, getting closer and closer to my cabin
and barn. I know it's him, the stranger
from the woods. I don't know what he wants, but
I know I don't want him here. Why would he walk around here
for so long, And in the middle of the night no less?
The light is fading now. The shadows are growing
sinister. I can feel a presence out there,
watching me, waiting for its moment to strike.
I'll keep my rifle close and my eyes open, but I know I'm still
unprepared. What could he want?
What has he seen? The days blend together in a
haze of snow and darkness. I've taken to keeping my rifle
by my side at all Times Now, even when I'm inside the cabin.
I've seen the strangers footprints every day now, always
getting closer, always circling around my property like some
sort of predator stalking its prey.
I feel like a rabbit before a wolf, trembling and desperate.
I should go outside and empty the clip of my rifle in the air,
just to remind both him and me that I'm not a rabbit, but a
man. I've tried to stay alert, to
keep watch for any sign of him. The isolation is starting to get
to me. I'm jumpy.
Every little creak and groan of the cabin makes me spin around,
expecting to see him just standing there, his eyes fixed
on me, lips poised to speak. I wonder what he would say to me
in that moment. A threat.
What would the last words I'd ever hear be?
I've tried to distract myself with my writing, but the words
won't come. My mind is a jumble of fear and
paranoia. I can't focus on anything except
the stranger and his intentions. I've taken to pacing back and
forth in front of the windows, scanning the trees for any signs
of movement. The snow is deep and untouched,
a pristine expanse of white that stretches out to the horizon.
But I know he's out there, watching me, waiting for his
moment to strike. And then one night, I see him.
He's standing at the edge of the forest, his eyes fixed on me
with an unblinking stare. I raise my rifle, my heart
racing, and take aim. He doesn't move, doesn't even
flinch, just keep staring, his eyes boring into my soul like a
cold, dead weight. I hold my breath, my finger
trembling on the trigger. Then suddenly he's gone,
vanished into thin air, leaving me shaken and confused.
I tried to tell myself it was just a hallucination, a trick of
the light in the shadows, but deep down I know it was him, and
I know he'll be back. The next day I saw his
footprints again, closer than ever before.
They were right up against the cabin, as if he was trying to
taunt me, show me that he can come and go as he pleases.
I knew I had to do something, but I didn't know what.
I was literally trapped here, alone and vulnerable, with no
way to call for help. All I could do is wait and watch
and hope he didn't come for me. I made a vow that if I spotted
him again, I would go straight to my neighbors and tell them
what was going on. As the days passed, the snow
began to melt and the footprints vanished as well.
I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the stranger had
finally moved on. It was possible that he was a
backpacker, lost between cabins, maybe a friend on the
mountainside. The woods were treacherous and
very easy to get turned around in.
I was telling myself all manner of stories to keep the denial
going. A day went by, then another.
Soon I was coasting back to normality, but my peace was very
short lived. One morning I woke up to find a
fresh pair of boot prints leading straight into my
property. My heart sank as I followed them
around my home and barn, watching as they circled each
window as if the stranger was searching for something.
This was the exact kind of thing that I didn't want to find, and
I knew I was no longer safe. Whoever this was was a complete
whack job. All my denial went down the
drain. The tracks wound back into the
trees, then meandered into the barn.
I can't tell you how nauseating it was seeing them stomp into
the darkness of that old building one step at a time.
There wasn't even any electricity in there, so I
couldn't just peek in and see what was going on.
I needed a flashlight and I needed to actually enter the
structure. I did a full circle of the
building and paused. There were no exit tracks.
Whoever entered my barn was still inside there, despite the
chill in the air. My body turned to absolute ice
when I realized he was probably looking out at me through the
boards. I grabbed my rifle and
flashlight, mind racing with the worst case scenario as I entered
the barn. I followed the muddy, snowy
tracks, the stalls and bales, my heart pounding in my chest.
Whoever this was, they did a pretty thorough job exploring.
I followed the tracks all over and saw all the stuff they had
touched. This was a pretty decent sized
barn, a few 100 square feet. Grandpa kept animals on the
property during his day, so this is where they stayed throughout
the winter. Now it just housed extra
equipment, stuff to make repairs, and apparently some
drifting lunatic hiding somewhere inside the dark.
Then I saw him, a dingy homeless man with fire red hair hiding
behind the boards and hoses in the back.
He looked up at me with this crazy glint in his eye and I
knew I was in trouble. Hey Mr. He said in this monotone
voice. I didn't respond to him, I just
watched the cold clouds of our breath reach out and meet one
another. I confronted him with the rifle,
forcing him outside into the daylight.
He was wearing ripped jeans and a dirty old poncho, had this
Placid look on his face as if this were a typical Monday
morning for him. The clothing he had was
seriously dated. I could tell he'd been wearing
the same outfit for years. His boots were all but blown out
and now I understand why those tracks look so funny.
They had absolutely no tread on them.
It was long worn to nothing. I kept a healthy distance and
the barrel trained right on him. None of this even bothered the
guy at all, though. We got out into the yard and I
continued questioning him, but he just gave me these nonsense
answers, his words tumbling out in a mad stream.
I realized he was mentally unwell, and my fear quickly
turned into pity. He was tall and skinny, almost
emaciated. His hands looked severely
injured, as if he'd broken them before and they never properly
healed. His red hair was frizzy and
long, tucked under a beanie cap. He had a red bushy beard like a
caveman. He was covered in freckles and
said his name was Adam. Honestly, now that I saw him, I
wanted to ask him some questions, but I knew it would
lead to nowhere. I'd never find out where he came
from or what his story was. Instead, I just told him to
leave my property, giving him loose directions back to town.
He nodded, but I could see the madness in his eyes.
As he turned to leave, he produced this red BIC lighter
from his pocket. Would you take this?
He asked. For what?
I countered. Anything.
I'm not supposed to have it, he explained.
I might use it. What are you asking me?
I tried to clarify. A drink.
Anything, he said. I eyed the lighter warily, but
refused. Just leave, I said, my voice
firm. I didn't want to get tied up
with this guy any more than I already was.
You can drink some snow melt, but you can't stay here.
I'm sorry, but you need to go, man.
He wandered off into the freezing woodland, never looking
back. The last thing I heard was him
just talking to himself, his words a dark, dreadful litany of
crazy, insane things. It almost sounded like he
thought he was in school or something.
He referred to me as Mr. Schooner, and I could hear him
referring to other Mr. and Misses Underneath his breath.
He was having flashbacks of some kind and I have no idea where he
actually was. I watched him go, feeling a mix
of relief and unease. I knew I had to tell the local
sheriff deputies about the stranger and those strange
occurrences on my property. As I turned back to my cabin, I
couldn't shake the feeling that I had just encountered something
dangerous, something that lurked beyond just the edge of
insanity. As I settled back into my
routine, I couldn't help but wonder if I had really seen the
last of that red headed stranger, or if he would return,
his madness burning brighter than ever.
I wondered a lot about that lighter and what he was trying
to communicate to me. He wasn't allowed to have it.
What did that mean? Weird stuff, but I guess that
guy was crazy after all. 2 days of calm had passed since that
red headed stranger's departure. I almost convinced myself that
the encounter was just a strange anomaly, a blip on the radar of
my isolated life. But then I saw it.
A smokestack rising in the distance in an area where no
houses stood. The black smoke rolling away was
a dead giveaway wildfire. My heart racing, I radioed in,
only to find out that it had already been reported and
responders were on the way. But I couldn't shake the feeling
of unease. The memory of The Dirty lighter
that the stranger had offered me lingered in my mind like a
shadow. He hadn't just entered my barn,
but my very psyche. He lurked in the great folds of
my brain too. Curious, I hopped in my truck
and drove toward the fire, arriving just as the first
wildland firefighters were pulling up as well.
And then I saw him, that red headed stranger, shirtless,
waving a smoking branch around as he ran between the trees.
I approached the firefighters, explaining the situation with
Adam, and they quickly radioed for law enforcement support.
Soon the police arrived, the fire was doused, and the
stranger was arrested. I watched gratefully as the
chaos was brought under control. Adam didn't try to resist at
all, simply surrendering to the law the moment they asked him
to. As I drove back to my cabin, I
couldn't help but wonder if the strangers madness had been the
spark that set that fire. I also knew I'd come very close
to disaster, my property almost burned to the ground by the
whims of a madman. He turned out to be a wackadoo
from the next state over, had quite the reputation for getting
himself into trouble, usually in the depths of winter.
He was a roadside drifter, heavily addicted to hard drugs,
which further exacerbated whatever underlying mental
illness he already struggled with.
Deputies got him to a clinic for treatment and evaluation, and I
didn't hear much more after that.
What I do know is this. I think I'm very fortunate not
to have fallen victim to that guy.
I don't think he was actually capable of killing me, but he
definitely could have set my house and my barn on fire.
That was definitely a year I'll never forget.
I settled into the passenger seat, the worn leather creaking
beneath me as I adjusted my position.
The familiar scent of the car, a mix of old coffee, Max's
Cologne, and the faint smell of gasoline, wrapped around me like
a comforting blanket. Max, my boyfriend of five years,
flashed me a tired smile. His dark eyes held a mix of
exhaustion and excitement as he turned the key in the ignition.
The engine roared to life, and I felt a thrill of anticipation
wash over me. We were finally heading home.
The sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow over the campus
as we pulled out of the parking lot.
We had spent the last few hours scrambling to pack our
belongings, saying goodbye to friends, and grabbing a quick
dinner before hitting the road. It had been a whirlwind, and we
were both fried, but the prospect of surprising our
families for the holiday weekend kept us going.
They had no idea we were coming, and the thought of their
reactions filled me with a giddy excitement.
Max merged onto the highway, and the darkness seemed to swallow
us whole. The only sound was the hum of
the engine and the soft murmur of the radio playing some
obscure indie station that Max was obsessed with.
I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes and letting the
rhythmic thrum of the wheels on the pavement lull me into a
state of relaxation. Don't die on me now.
Max said, his hand resting on my thigh.
I'm just resting my eyes. I replied, smiling.
Max chuckled and tickled the inside of my leg, causing me to
jerk upright and laugh. He always knew how to get me.
We had already put an hour or two of driving behind us and Max
was holding up like a champ. We had been together since
freshman year in high school, so this wasn't our first time
driving home together. We were both thrilled to be
escaping the chaos of campus life, even if only for a few
days. Our families would be ecstatic
to see us. I couldn't wait to indulge in
some home cooked meals and quality time with them.
Max was excited to get back and wrestle with his little brother
on the mat. Hey, check it out, we got a road
buddy. I said, peering into the rear
view mirror. A pair of headlights came up the
Interstate, not so fast that it was alarming, but enough to
catch my attention. Once they got maybe 1/4 of a
mile behind us, they slowed to a more neutral speed and just
coasted along. For some reason, I always
preferred having cars on the road when driving late at night.
It helped me feel like I wasn't completely out there alone.
As the miles flew by, the landscape outside my window
transformed from suburbs and forests to rolling Badlands,
hills, scrub brush, and even cactus.
The GPS announced our progress in a soothing voice, the screen
glowing with an ethereal light. Max and I chatted sporadically,
our conversations punctuated by comfortable silences where we
would just jam to whatever song was on.
The night wore on, the stars twinkling above like diamonds
scattered across the sky. At some point I dozed off, my
head lolling against the window as Max continued driving, his
eyes fixed on the road ahead. The music had changed to some
soft rock station, the melodies blending together in a soothing
haze. Soon I drifted off to sleep, a
temporary one that would come and go for the rest of the
night. The hum of the engine, the soft
glow of the dashboard lights, and Max's presence beside me
created a cocoon of safety. Little did I know this drive
home would be anything but ordinary.
As I drifted in and out of sleep, the darkness outside our
windows deepened and an eerie sense of foreboding began to
creep into my dreams. I woke up with a start, the
eerie silence of the highway broken by a sudden sharp sound.
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I looked around, disoriented.
The headlights behind us were closer now, almost too close.
My heart began to race as I tried to shake off the remnants
of sleep. What's going on?
I asked, my voice thick with drowsiness.
Max's jaw was tight, his hands gripping the steering wheel with
white knuckled intensity. I don't know, but they're
driving weird. I'm going to let them pass.
The vehicle behind us didn't seem to want to pass though.
Instead, it stayed right on our tail, its headlights glaring
through our rear window. My stomach tightened with
unease. Why are they doing this?
I muttered, more to myself than to Max.
The car behind us suddenly killed, its headlights plunging
the road behind us Into Darkness.
My pulse quickened. What the hell?
Max's voice was strained as he tried to maintain control.
The vehicle swerved into the other lane, then back again,
edging closer to our bumper. Panic bubbled up inside me as I
clutched the edge of my seat. In an instant, the vehicle
rammed into US, sending our car skidding off the road.
Max struggled with the wheel, but it was too late.
We careened through brush and rocks before coming to a jarring
halt in a ditch. The world spun around me and
everything went black. When I came to, the first thing
I noticed was the taste of blood in my mouth.
My head throbbed, and I could hear the same soft rock song
from before now playing through the car's broken speakers.
There was a breeze in the car, and I realized one of the
windows must have shattered. Kendall, Oh my God, are you OK?
Max's voice was a panicked whisper.
I nodded, still trying to process what had just happened.
Our car was stuck in the ditch, the engine sputtering.
The dashboard lights flickered, casting an eerie glow over our
surroundings. That's when I saw them.
Two men emerging from the darkness, their faces twisted
into cruel grins. They stumbled toward us, their
boots crunching on the gravel. I could see the beat up truck
they had come from in the red light of our brake lights.
Well, well, well, what do we have here?
One of them sneered, leering at me through the window.
A couple of lovebirds, all alone.
The other man laughed, planting a boot against the side of our
car. The whole vehicle rocked, and I
felt the shattered glass from the windshield dig into my lap.
I wasn't wearing my seat belt, and the impact had thrown me
forward. Max locked the doors, his hands
shaking as he fumble for his phone call for help.
I croaked, my voice barely audible.
The men began to circle our car, their footsteps echoing through
the night. Y'all a long way from home,
ain't you? One of the men asked, his voice
like a rusty gate. Shouldn't be out here all alone.
Leave us alone. Max shouted, his voice cracking
with fear. The man laughed again, a harsh,
grating sound. Now that ain't very nice.
He said, then smashed his first against Max's window.
The glass held, but the thump was so loud I yelped.
Max and I exchanged a terrified glance.
We were trapped, with no way to escape.
The men outside were drunk and unpredictable, and I could see a
knife glinting in the moonlight. We're going to teach you all
some manners, one of them said, dragging the knife along the
side of our car with a screech. The other man laughed and turned
back to their truck, saying something about getting a
shotgun. Max's grip tightened on the
wheel. We can't just sit here, he
whispered. We have to do something.
Panic surged through me as the man with the knife pressed his
face against my window, grinning.
Oh honey, I like it when you're scared, he said.
Max looked at me, determination hardening his features.
Stay down, he said, and then he flung open his door, launching
himself at the man with the knife.
Chaos erupted. Max tackled the man to the
ground and they struggled in the dirt.
The other man turned, shotgun in hand, and I screamed as he aimed
it at Max. Time seemed too slow as Max
wrestled the knife away and the shotgun fired, the blast echoing
in the night. The next few moments were a blur
of movement and noise, and when it was over Max was standing,
bloodied but triumphant, and the men were retreating, their faces
pale with fear. I sagged back in my seat,
shaking with adrenaline. Max climbed back into the car,
breathing hard. Let's get out of here, he said,
and I nodded, my heart still racing.
As we drove away, I couldn't shake the feeling that we had
just narrowly escaped something far worse than a simple car
accident. The night was still dark, the
road still long, but we were alive, and that was all that
mattered.