I grew up hearing stories about running at night, stories from
my dad and uncles about pounding dirt roads under a vast sky
filled with stars. For Navajo people, running is
more than exercise. It's part of tradition,
identity, something deep rooted. My father said running brought
clarity, connecting you with something old and strong that
slept beneath the red desert earth.
I thought about those stories as I laced up my shoes, stepping
out onto my grandmother's porch near Chinley.
Winter break brought me back from ASU, where life had felt
hurried and disconnected. I missed the quiet of home.
It was late December, 2 days before Christmas.
The evening air was cold, heavy, the sun already dipping below
the mazes and painting the horizon red.
I zipped up my jacket, pulled my hoodie over my head, and took
off down the dirt Rd. toward Junction Overlook.
The first mile felt good. My lungs filled with sharp air,
the dirt crunching rhythmically under foot.
It was exactly what I needed. Solitude, familiar terrain, the
soothing rhythm of my stride. But then, as I crested the hill,
something broke my concentration.
A large coyote stood motionless on a dirt berm a short distance
ahead, watching me. Coyotes weren't uncommon,
especially at dusk, but this one was unsettling.
Its eyes glowed back at me, catching the fading sunlight,
steady and fixed. I slowed down, half expecting it
to dart off into the scrub. It didn't.
Its gaze remained locked onto me, unmoving.
Just a coyote, I whispered to myself, steadying my breath.
Still, unease crawled up my spine.
I ran past the animal, deliberately avoiding looking
its way again. My heart rate quickened, no
longer just from running. I tried to dismiss the feeling.
It's just nerves. Coyotes follow people all the
time. My dad always said animals were
more afraid of us than we were of them.
But something felt different now.
As the road curved, my eyes flicked to the berm again.
The coyote was keeping pace, sliding effortlessly along the
Ridge, matching my speed but making no sound at all.
I picked up my pace, hoping to shake the feeling of dread
building in my gut. Soon I reached the old water
tank where my dad had taught me to hunt rabbits years before,
and there it was again. The same coyote.
But now it stood directly ahead, perfectly still, staring at me.
Impossible. I hadn't seen or heard it past
me. I stopped, chest heaving,
feeling pinned beneath its unblinking stare.
Fear, cold and unfamiliar, prickled at my skin.
A sudden instinct told me to leave fast.
I turned sharply and started back toward my grandmother's,
abandoning the route to Junction Overlook all together.
Daniel. I froze mid step.
The voice was mine, clear as day, echoing strangely from the
desert around me. Not whispered, not carried by
the wind. It was my own voice, calm and
perfectly familiar. I ran.
My legs pumped furiously, adrenaline surging.
The cold air cut into my throat, but I didn't slow down.
Panic made me reckless, desperate to leave the road
behind. I glanced down briefly, and my
heart slammed against my ribs beside my own footprints.
Fresh marks mirrored my stride perfectly, 2 sets of identical
shoe prints moving side by side through the dust.
No, I gasped, pushing harder ahead.
Lights flickered faintly from a Hogan.
Ray Yazzy's place. My dad trusted Ray, called him a
medicine man who knew things. My legs burned as I raced toward
the small structure, lungs raw from the cold.
The lights seemed impossibly far away, never drawing closer.
The desert had fallen completely silent except for the harsh
scrape of my breath and the hammering of my footsteps.
I resisted the urge to look behind me, terrified I might
glimpse whatever had spoken my name, whatever had matched.
My stride 2nd stretched endlessly until finally I
reached Ray's Hogan. Ray was at the doorway, eyes
narrowed, his face serious. Inside now.
He said sharply, pulling me across the threshold.
He locked the heavy wooden door behind us, a strange thing for
Ray, whose doors were always open.
I stood there, trembling. Sweat soaked into my hoodie.
Despite the chill. My words came in ragged bursts.
Ray. I saw something, a coyote, but
not it ran with me. I heard it spoke.
It spoke in my voice. He silenced me with a raised
hand, already reaching for cedar and sweetgrass hanging from the
rafters. I watched as he began burning
the herbs, smoke filling the small room.
Ray didn't speak again, only drew a careful line of ash
across the threshold and whispered softly, his face
tense, determined. I sank onto a chair near the
stove, heart still racing, breath gradually slowing.
Outside, the desert remained silent, the sky dark and
unforgiving. I stared at the locked door,
unable to shake the feeling that something out there still waited
patiently in the shadows, watching and listening.
And for the first time in my life, I understood clearly why
some roads were never meant to be run at night.
Inside the Hogan, the air was thick with cedar smoke and
something else. A heavy silence.
Ray moved quickly, deliberately. He laid more sweet grass onto
the smoldering bundle, it's scent mingling sharply with the
cedar. The smoke was dense enough to
make my eyes water. I started to speak, but Ray
shook his head once sharply. Quiet, he murmured.
Don't speak about it, not yet. Ray was older than my father by
at least a decade, with deep lines carved into his skin by
years of sun and wind. He wore his long Gray hair tied
back, strands escaping and framing his tired eyes.
He moved with an urgency I'd never seen before, his usual
calm replaced by something sharper.
I stared at the locked door, heart still thumping painfully
in my chest. Outside, nothing stirred, as
though the entire landscape was holding its breath.
I wanted desperately to ask questions, to understand, but
the look on Ray's face kept me silent.
He knelt at the door, placing a thin line of ash along the
threshold, his fingers trembling slightly.
Beside it, he carefully laid a smooth Blackstone.
Only then did he look back at me.
You ran on that old road, past the water tank.
He said quietly. It wasn't a question.
I nodded slowly, swallowing hard.
Yes. Ray closed his eyes briefly, a
flicker of something passing across his face.
I told your father a long time ago never to run there after
sundown. He listened.
He glanced at me, shaking his head slowly.
He should have told you. A sharp wind slammed against the
Hogan suddenly, rattling the door in walls.
I jumped, every muscle in my body tightening at once.
Ray didn't flinch. Instead, he reached for a
leather pouch hanging on the wall, untying the drawstring
carefully. What was it?
I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't look up. Instead, he continued
methodically working, fingers moving deftly as he carefully
removed herbs and small objects from the pouch, placing them
onto the worn wooden table. Something old.
He finally said, softly, but clearly.
Something that's been there much longer than us.
It wanted you to notice it. I did notice it.
I whispered hoarsely. It called my name in my own
voice. How could it do that?
Ray paused, meeting my eyes again.
It's not human, Daniel. Never was.
It borrows voices, uses them to get attention.
His jaw tightened slightly, and he turned away.
But it can't come inside, not tonight, not with this.
He began chanting softly in Navajo words I could recognize
but couldn't fully understand, each syllable deliberate and
clear. Outside, the wind howled louder,
dust pelting the walls. The entire Hogan seemed to
shudder under the force of the wind, yet Ray's voice remained
steady, firm, protective. For hours, I sat stiffly in that
wooden chair, not daring to move or speak.
Every muscle ached, my body exhausted but wired with
tension. The windows were darkened by
nightfall, and the shadows inside the Hogan felt heavier as
Ray continued his quiet chant. I must have drifted in and out
of sleep, because when I snapped awake, the wind had stopped,
replaced by a deep, unsettling silence.
My eyes darted toward Ray. He sat still, cross legged on a
woven rug, watching me. His gaze was steady and serious.
It's gone. I whispered hopefully.
Ray shook his head slowly. It's patient, waiting.
He rose, stretching his stiff joints carefully, and went to
peer out the small window beside the door.
His shoulders relaxed only slightly.
But it's nearly dawn now. It won't stay when the sun
rises. Why me?
I asked, voice cracking. Why to night?
Ray turned from the window, eyes grave.
It sensed something, maybe loneliness, maybe something
missing. Whatever it was, you caught its
attention. But it won't take you if you
don't let it. I shuddered, pulling my hoodie
tighter. What does that mean?
Ray's voice dropped even lower. Never answer when it calls.
Never acknowledge it. It has no power if you ignore
it. But if you speak back, if you
show fear. He stopped, turning away
abruptly. He didn't finish, but I
understood. The first faint glow of morning
crept under the door, breaking the long darkness.
Ray finally moved toward the door and unlocked it, the metal
latch sounding strangely loud. He swung it open, allowing cool
morning air to seep into the Hogan.
Everything outside was silent, as though nothing unusual had
happened at all. Ray motioned for me to follow,
and I stood shakily, my legs stiff and sore.
The sun was rising, chasing the shadows away, but it couldn't
erase the dread still coiled tight in my chest.
We stepped out onto the road together, Ray scanning the dirt
carefully. Come, he said.
We need to go back. You have to see.
He started walking, and reluctantly, I followed.
The morning air was sharp, clean and painfully bright, making
last night seem even more surreal.
Ray walked silently beside me down the dirt Rd. eyes focused
intently on the ground ahead. Neither of us spoke much.
The stillness between us felt necessary, as if words might
disturb something fragile. The road stretched ahead,
familiar yet now deeply unsettling.
My footprints were clear in the dusty earth from my frantic run
the night before. Seeing them again brought a rush
of panic quickening my pulse. Each step closer to the spot
near the water tank felt heavier.
Ray stopped suddenly, kneeling down in the road, running his
fingers over something etched clearly in the dirt.
My stomach clenched painfully. What?
I asked, cautiously, stepping closer.
What do you see? Ray didn't answer immediately.
He stayed quiet, studying the marks carefully.
I moved beside him, looking down.
At first the Prince appeared normal, my shoes clear and deep
from running. But as I stared, a second set of
prints became obvious, narrow, split down the middle,
unmistakably cloven. What is that?
My voice was barely audible, almost lost in the desert
silence. Hooves.
Ray answered quietly, his voice measured.
Not deer, not livestock. These prints move exactly with
yours. Perfectly matched stride for
stride. My throat tightened painfully,
and I forced myself to breathe slowly.
How is that possible? Ray stood, dusting his palms on
his jeans. He scanned the surrounding
brush, eyes narrowing, lips pressed together tightly.
It ran next to you, He said, voice calm but firm.
Not behind you, not in front of you, next to you.
He walked further up the road, following the strange tracks.
They remained consistent alongside mine, the spacing
precise and unnatural. I felt sick, imagining whatever
had been beside me in the darkness, silent, unnoticed.
Ray stopped again, gazing out toward the empty, rolling
desert. He reached into his pocket and
took out a small pouch, pulling ash from it.
Carefully, he sprinkled ash over the hoof prints, murmuring
softly under his breath. His movements were calm,
purposeful. When he finished, Ray turned
back toward me, his face set with determination.
It wasn't chasing you, Daniel, he said firmly.
It mirrored you. It wanted you to look, to see it
clearly, to acknowledge it. If you had.
He paused, eyes meeting mine. Seriously, you might not have
come back. I swallowed hard.
Did it want to hurt me? Ray shook his head slowly.
Not the way you think. It doesn't care about hurting
you physically. It wants your attention, your
fear. It takes something deeper than
skin or bone. We stood quietly for a long
moment, staring down at those impossible prints.
The sun continued its slow climb, heating the air around
us. In the daylight, the marks
seemed even more unnatural, like they belong somewhere else
entirely. Can we stop it?
I finally asked. Ray sighed heavily.
You stopped it already by running to my door.
It can't cross Ash and Cedar easily, but it can wait
patiently, hoping you slip up again.
So you can't ever run here, not alone, not at night.
I nodded numbly, accepting his words completely.
After last night, I didn't need convincing.
I didn't want to be on this road alone ever again.
Ray put a gentle hand on my shoulder, squeezing once firmly.
You'll be all right, Daniel. You know now you understand It
doesn't get another chance. We walked back slowly, leaving
the Prince behind. As we approached my
grandmother's trailer, I saw her standing outside, arms crossed
tightly, waiting for me. Her face held the same knowing
seriousness as Ray's grandma. I'm sorry, I began, but she
raised a hand to silence me. I dreamed last night, she said
firmly, coyotes outside the windows, circling and watching.
It was a sign clear enough. We're moving closer to town.
Relief washed over me. I hadn't realized until then
just how much I'd wanted her to say those words.
Ray nodded quietly, eyes steady and approving.
Within days, we packed up our belongings and moved closer to
Chinley. Away from Junction Overlook,
away from that old road. Life returned to something
almost normal, though quieter, more cautious.
I graduated college, eventually moved forward, but never forgot.
Even now, whenever I drive home, I glance uneasily at the dusty
ridges and distant berms. Sometimes, if the evening
shadows are long enough, I think I see a single coyote sitting
perfectly still, watching. But I never stop.
Not anymore. Fort Defiance, AZ It's a quiet
corner of the Navajo Nation where the desert stretches wide
beneath star heavy skies, and silence comes naturally.
My family's land sits just West of town, near Black Creek Wash.
Growing up, I learned to respect this land, to acknowledge its
stories. It's not just dirt and juniper,
its history, tradition, and something deeper that's hard to
explain to outsiders. Maybe that's why bringing my
military friends out here felt complicated.
They'd seen enough overseas to be skeptical about anything that
couldn't be explained by logic or bullets.
I knew better, but I kept it to myself.
The fire snapped gently as we sat around the pit built from
flat stones I had stacked myself.
The six of us, John, Ty, Nathan, Chris, Devin, and me, we're
sharing drinks and swapping memories from our service.
The whiskey had loosened everyone up, laughter flowing
freely under the amber glow of the fire.
The moon hung low, painting the edges of the mesa's silver blue.
We'd all recently gotten out of the military, adjusting to
civilian life in our own ways. John, a former soldier from New
Mexico, never missed a chance to mock anything he didn't
understand. I'd invited him out here, hoping
the peace might ease his bitterness.
I soon regretted it. John took a swig from the
whiskey bottle and grinned at Chris, who had been telling a
story about something strange he'd seen as a kid.
You don't actually buy that skinwalker crap, do you?
John asked, shaking his head. His laughter was harsh, mocking.
It's just stories bored shepherds tell each other to
pass the time. I felt a sharp unease spread
across my chest, tightening like wire.
My grandfather had always warned me.
Don't mock what you don't know. Careful, man.
I said softly, trying not to show my discomfort.
Some things around here aren't meant to be joked about.
John scoffed again, tossing another log onto the fire with
exaggerated force. Sparks leaped upwards, swirling
skyward. Chris stared into the dark
beyond the firelight, uneasy. A sudden, violent crack echoed
from the fire pit, and I flinched as a burning log burst,
spitting embers into the air. Ty swore loudly, shielding his
face. Nathan laughed nervously,
brushing glowing bits off his jacket.
Calm down. Just wet wood.
John insisted, though his smile had faded slightly.
No one spoke for a moment. The atmosphere shifted quietly
into tension, a silent awareness that something had changed.
I glanced at Chris, who was staring intently into the
shadows beyond the flickering light.
He shifted uncomfortably. What is it?
Devin asked, noticing Chris's expression.
Chris hesitated before answering, his voice quiet.
Earlier, when we were setting up, I thought I saw something
move up there on the Ridge. Tall, real skinny.
Didn't move right. John laughed again, though less
convincingly. Probably just a coyote.
Stop letting this place get to you.
I tried to convince myself John was right, but the hair at the
back of my neck prickled. Coyotes didn't move like men,
and men didn't move like that thing Chris described.
The land had gone too quiet. Then Ty leaned forward, head
tilted slightly, straining to listen.
You guys hear that? We held our breath.
The faintest crunch of gravel echoed softly somewhere just
beyond the dim circle of firelight.
My heartbeat quickened. It sounded rhythmic, deliberate,
like slow footsteps, pacing, circling around our camp.
Dear. Nathan asked hopefully, though
his voice trembled. No, I answered automatically,
surprising myself with my firmness.
John chuckled uneasily, stood up and stretched.
You're all too jumpy. Relax, I'm going to go take a
leak. He wandered off into the dark
beyond our trucks, deliberately loud whistling to show he wasn't
afraid. His shape dissolved into the
shadows between junipers, the crunch of his boots fading
gradually. A minute passed, then two, then
5. Taking his time, huh?
Nathan mumbled. I glanced toward where John had
disappeared, waiting for his footsteps to return, but silence
lingered, stubbornly, thickening the night air around us.
The fire crackled softly, the only sound cutting through our
anxious, quiet. John.
I finally called out. The night absorbed my voice,
offering nothing in return. Hey, John, you good?
Nothing. Unease spread rapidly among us.
Ty got to his feet, eyes wary. Maybe we should go check on him.
I nodded, standing slowly, my legs strangely heavy.
The shadows beyond our circle seem darker now, deeper somehow.
Chris handed me a flashlight, his hand trembling slightly.
You coming? I asked him.
He shook his head, eyes flickering toward the darkness.
Someone should stay here, just in case.
Nathan stood instead, flicking on his flashlight, illuminating
the patch of dusty earth between the fire and the juniper
thicket. I could see John's footprints
clearly. They led toward the trees,
straight into the darkness. John.
I called again, louder this time.
Again, silence. We moved slowly forward,
flashlight beams carving thin tunnels through the blackness.
Each step echoed painfully loud gravel crunching beneath our
boots. The juniper stand loomed ahead,
twisted branches starkly silhouetted against the stars.
We reached the first juniper tree, its branches reaching out
crookedly. I swept my flashlight around,
catching movement just behind the trunk.
My pulse quickened as I moved closer, Nathan just behind me,
breathing rapidly. John crouched low, hunched
behind the tree, his hands clawing frantically at the dirt.
His eyes were wide and unfocused, fixed on something we
couldn't see. He murmured rapidly,
incoherently, the word spilling out in a panicked stream.
John. Nathan reached out cautiously.
Hey, man, what happened? John flinched violently, jerking
away from Nathan's touch, continuing to whisper
nonsensically. His hands trembled, fingernails
caked with dirt and blood. Let's get him back to camp.
I said urgently. Together, we lifted John to his
feet. He moved like a man in a trance,
eyes still staring past us towards something in the
darkness behind our backs. My own skin crawled with dread
as we carried him slowly back toward the fire.
John suddenly stiffened, his voice trembling clearly through
the silence for the first time since we'd found him.
It's following us. He whispered hoarsely.
Don't turn around, it's right there.
The walk back to camp felt impossibly long.
John's weight pressed heavily against my shoulder, his body
shaking so violently I could feel it rattling through my
bones. Nathan's flashlight beam bounced
chaotically ahead, illuminating uneven patches of dirt and
clusters of scrub brush. None of us spoke, but John's
panicked whispers filled the silence, hissing out between
clenched teeth. It's right behind us, he
repeated over and over, voice barely audible, strained with
fear. Don't look back, don't look
back. I fought against every instinct
in my body not to glance over my shoulder.
My grandfather had warned me many times growing up, never
look directly at certain things, especially when they're watching
you. The air felt thick and
oppressive, pressing down like a weight I couldn't shake.
Each step echoed loudly, painfully slow across the dirt.
By the time the fire light came back into view, my heart felt
ready to burst. Chris and Devin stood anxiously
waiting by the fire. Chris was clutching a heavy
stick like a club, eyes wide and alert.
Devon had retreated behind the truck, watching us with visible
dread. Is he OK?
Chris asked shakily as we gently lowered John to a folding chair
near the fire. John curled inward, arms locked
tightly around himself, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the
darkness surrounding us. His lips continued moving
silently, the sound now just a faint hiss.
Ty brought him a blanket, draping it around John's
shoulders. I knelt down, my voice low and
calm, forcing steadiness despite the hammering in my chest.
John. I said quietly, gripping his
shoulder. It's OK now, you're safe.
Can you tell us what happened out there?
John's eyes flickered toward mine, haunted and distant.
It was. It was wearing something,
wearing someone's face. The words chilled me straight
through. I felt Nathan recoil next to me,
breathing sharply. I exchanged a silent glance with
Chris, whose eyes had gone wide with recognition.
You mean? Chris began softly, then stopped
himself abruptly, as if unwilling to speak the thought
into existence. The air shifted, and a sudden,
foul odor swept into camp, sharp and putrid, like rotten meat
baking in the desert sun. I instinctively brought a hand
to my face, trying to shield myself from it, but the smell
lingered, thick and suffocating. John gagged violently, his body
convulsing as he hunched forward, breathing raggedly.
Did you hear that? Devin whispered suddenly, his
voice thin and strained. What?
I asked, trying to hide my own trembling.
Someone's breathing. He replied faintly, backing
further behind the truck, his eyes darting wildly right behind
us, over by the tents. Every muscle in my body tensed
as I strained to hear. There it was, a slow, raspy
sound, rhythmic, deliberate, barely audible over the crackle
of the fire. My stomach churned.
I'll go look. Ty said abruptly, voice firm
with forced bravery. He grabbed a flashlight and
moved cautiously toward the tense, his silhouette elongated
by firelight. We watched in terrified silence
as he stepped further into the shadows.
There's nothing. Ty started, then stopped
suddenly, flashlight beam shaking slightly.
Wait, what's that? Come back, Ty.
I said sharply, alarm rising in my voice now.
He didn't move at first, staring into the darkness, shoulders
rigid with tension. Then he backed up slowly,
carefully returning to the fire, eyes wide.
What did you see? Chris asked, his voice hoarse.
Ty shook his head slowly, unwilling to meet anyone's gaze.
I'm not sure something standing out near the trees look tall,
watching us. My mouth went dry, pulse
hammering painfully in my throat.
We had to leave, we had to get out now.
But something deep within me resisted the idea of abandoning
this place, not without understanding exactly what had
followed John back from the darkness.
Chris. I said urgently, turning to him.
Grab the cedar and corn pollen from my truck now.
Chris didn't question me, hurrying toward the vehicle.
I moved to John again, kneeling to steady his shaking hands.
He stared blankly past me, eyes wide and vacant.
You're safe here. I lied softly, hoping my voice
sounded convincing enough for both of us.
We won't let it come closer. John's eyes suddenly locked onto
mine, clearer than they had been since we found him.
His fingers gripped my wrist painfully, nails biting into my
skin. It's already here.
He whispered, voice trembling. It followed us in.
Behind me, Chris dropped the pouch of cedar, his hands
shaking as he stared past my shoulder, eyes fixed on
something just beyond the glow of the fire.
A shadow flickered briefly, tall and slender, moving fluidly
between the juniper trees. The breath froze in my chest,
and I fought every impulse to turn and look directly at it.
Don't look at it, I warned the others harshly, forcing
authority into my voice despite the terror burning inside me.
Whatever you do, don't look directly at it.
Nathan's breathing grew quick and uneven, panic building
visibly in his posture. Devin stood frozen by the truck,
refusing to even glance toward the trees.
Ty moved slowly closer, flashlight gripped tightly, eyes
wide and locked onto the fire, trying to ignore the faint
rustling of footsteps just beyond the perimeter of camp.
A distant scream rose suddenly from somewhere in the darkness,
high and piercing, chilling my blood instantly.
John shuddered violently, murmuring something too low and
frantic to understand. The wind died abruptly, leaving
a heavy, oppressive silence pressing down on us.
I knew we had no choice but to stay awake and alert until dawn.
As I reached down to lift another log onto the fire,
Nathan suddenly jolted upright, eyes wide with fear.
What's wrong? I asked sharply, gripping his
shoulder tightly. Someone whispered my name.
He replied, voice shaking right behind the tent.
It sounded just like John, but John hasn't moved.
My eyes drifted involuntarily to John's unmoving figure.
He sat curled tightly under the blanket, eyes unblinking,
whispering to something only he could see.
We settled into a terrified vigil, our bodies tense,
adrenaline pulsing relentlessly. Each sound around us became
magnified, every rustle of leaves, every distant snap of
branches sparking renewed dread. John's murmurs blended softly
into the night, a quiet and persistent reminder of the
unseen threat circling slowly, silently, just beyond our sight.
By the time dawn broke, exhaustion clung heavily to my
bones. My eyes burned from staring into
the darkness, afraid to blink, afraid to let down my guard even
for a second. The first pale rays of sunlight
spilled slowly across the horizon, bathing our camp in
faint, comforting warmth. But there was no relief, just
the heavy reality of what we'd experienced settling
uncomfortably into silence among us.
John had finally fallen asleep just before dawn.
He lay curled awkwardly in the bed of my truck, still wrapped
in blankets. His breathing had settled into
something steady, but I couldn't shake the sense that something
had broken in him during the night, something deeper than
fear. I turned at the low rumble of an
approaching vehicle. Relief washed over me as my
grandfather's old, faded blue Ford pickup slowly came into
view down the dirt Rd. trailing dust in its wake.
He parked beside my truck and climbed out slowly, his movement
steady, careful. My grandfather said nothing at
first, his weathered face unreadable, but his eyes scanned
the camp sharply, absorbing every detail.
Without greeting us, he moved silently toward the fire pit,
holding a small leather pouch in one hand and dried sage in the
other. He dropped herbs onto the fire's
dying embers, breathing quietly and steadily as smoke rose in
thin Gray ribbons. He began chanting softly, his
words rhythmic, low and comforting, echoing faintly
against the dawn. I felt Chris move closer beside
me, his shoulders rigid with tension.
Should we say something? He whispered.
No, I said softly, eyes fixed on my grandfather's movements.
Let him work. The wind shifted gently as my
grandfather continued his ritual.
The air around us seemed to lighten just slightly, as if a
weight were gradually being lifted.
John suddenly stirred in the truck bed, gasping sharply as if
waking from a nightmare. Ty quickly stepped over, helping
him sit up. John stared around wildly for a
moment before focusing on the old man at the fire.
Slowly, clarity returned to his eyes, along with a haunted
recognition. My grandfather continued
chanting, gently, tossing pinches of cedar into the fire,
the smoke thickening and swirling upward.
After a few moments, he paused, turning to me with sharp,
penetrating eyes. You should have known better.
He said simply, his voice low but firm.
Shame flooded through me instantly.
I know, I said quietly. I didn't think you brought
outsiders here. He interrupted, nodding slowly
toward John, and they mocked what should never be mocked.
John's face flushed painfully, and he lowered his gaze, unable
to meet my grandfather's stare. Will it leave?
I asked, almost afraid to hear his answer.
It has no reason to stay, He said simply.
But some wounds take time to heal, some never do.
He glanced pointedly at John, who shivered visibly beneath the
blanket. You saw it.
John hesitated, swallowing hard, then finally nodded slowly.
It wore a face. He whispered, voice barely
audible. But the eyes weren't human.
My grandfather studied him closely, then turned and gently
placed another pinch of cedar into the fire, resuming his
quiet chanting as the smoke rose higher.
I watched carefully, feeling the heaviness of the previous night
slowly beginning to lift, replaced by something closer to
calm. Chris shifted uneasily next to
me, his voice hushed. Last night.
I looked toward the Ridge. When your grandfather said not
to, there was someone, something, standing there, tall
and thin, watching us, watching me.
Don't say anything more, I cautioned quietly.
It's better if you don't speak of it.
He nodded grimly, staring silently into the smoke.
Eventually, my grandfather finished his ceremony, carefully
tucking his pouch of cedar and pollen back into his pocket.
He walked slowly toward his truck, pausing only briefly to
grip my shoulder. Respect this land, he said
softly, voice heavy with warning.
Never forget what lives out there, and never invite it
closer. He climbed into his truck
without another word, the engine rumbling gently as he drove
slowly away, dust clouds settling silently behind him.
We packed up camp quickly afterward, barely speaking as we
loaded our trucks. John sat silently in the
passenger seat of Ty's vehicle, staring blankly out the window.
Whatever he'd seen had left a permanent shadow behind his
eyes. Within days, John moved to
Albuquerque, cutting off contact entirely.
He didn't return our calls or texts.
Chris left shortly after catching a one way flight to
Oregon, and we heard nothing more from him either.
Ty and Nathan stayed closer, but we never spoke openly about that
night again. Months passed before I saw
Nathan again, bumping into him outside a grocery store in
Window Rock. We stood awkwardly for a moment,
silence hanging heavy between us.
You good? He asked eventually, his voice
hesitant. I nodded slowly, eyes meeting
his. You better now.
He admitted quietly. It still follows me some nights,
but your grandfather helped. I've learned not to look back.
I reached into my pocket, pulling out a small pouch of ash
and pollen my grandfather had given me weeks before.
Take this. I said softly, handing it to
him. Keep it with you.
He nodded solemnly, slipping it into his jacket pocket.
That night I finally slept soundly, the quiet assurance of
my grandfather's protection easing some of the dread that
had lingered. But the warning stayed clear in
my mind, a heavy truth rooted in generations of stories passed
down. Respect the land and never speak
lightly of the things that move quietly in the dark.
The Arizona Strip has always been a special place for serious
hunters, including guys like me and my buddy Jace.
It's a remote, isolated stretch of wilderness north of the Grand
Canyon, an area known for big mule deer and harsh country.
We've been hunting together since high school, and we
weren't rookies. We'd spent weeks planning this
hunt after we'd secured written permission to hunt near Mount
Trumbull in Kibob National Forest.
A friend told us about an old Ranger shack we could use as a
base camp, and we jumped at the chance.
Free accommodations in prime mule deer territory sounded too
good to pass up. The road from Cedar City down to
the Arizona strip was bone jarring and rugged, but my
Tacoma was built for exactly this kind of terrain.
We left town early, fueled up and cruise through Hurricane in
Colorado City before hitting the dirt roads leading into Kaibab
National Forest. The farther we drove, the more
remote it felt. No towns, no houses, just
endless juniper, sagebrush, and red dirt stretching in every
direction. Jace checked the coordinates on
his handheld GPS and finally pointed down a faded 2 track
leading deeper into the trees. This should be it, he said, and
we bounced along for another 20 minutes before we saw it.
A squat, rundown structure tucked between the junipers, the
shack looked forgotten by time itself.
It had rough log walls and a corrugated metal roof, rusted
and dented with a stovepipe poking crookedly from the top.
Looks cozy, Jay said sarcastically as we parked.
I laughed and grabbed my gear. Inside, the air smelled musty
and stale. Dust motes floated in beams of
fading sunlight, coming through cracks in the walls.
There was a busted cot frame in one corner, an ancient wood
stove in another, and in the middle, a small wooden table
with two mismatched chairs. It wasn't luxurious, but it beat
sleeping in a tent. Check this out.
Jay said, pointing toward the far window.
I moved closer and noticed that the boards nailed over the
broken pane were charred around the edges, like they'd survived
a quick, hot burn. Probably just someone being dumb
and lighting a campfire in here. I shrugged.
Yeah, but why board it up from the inside?
Jace frowned. He looked uneasy for a second,
but shook it off. Whatever, let's get some sleep.
We're glassing for deer first thing.
We cooked a quick dinner on our propane stove, the smell of
canned Stew filling the small room.
Darkness fell quickly outside, and a deep, unsettling silence
seemed to fall over the woods. Usually we'd hear coyotes, or at
least insects, but tonight the forest felt empty.
After eating, we zipped our sleeping bags and settled in for
the night, rifles within easy reach, just out of habit.
I don't know how long I'd been asleep when something jolted me
awake, A heavy, solid thud on the roof.
My heart instantly slammed against my ribs, adrenaline
flooding through me. Beside me, I heard Jay stir,
whispering harshly. You hear that?
Yeah, I whispered back. Probably a cougar jumping onto
the roof. We sat perfectly still, rifles
in hand. Another thud came, harder,
heavier than before. Then silence.
My pulse roared in my ears as I strained to listen.
The silence stretched out painfully, and I had just begun
to relax when a different sound filled the shack, a slow,
deliberate scratching against the front door.
It wasn't frantic, like an animal desperate to get in.
It was measured, careful and deliberate.
I glanced over at Jace, his eyes wide in the darkness.
Cougar, he mouthed silently. I shook my head, unsure.
Cougars don't calmly scratch doors, Not like this.
I inched toward the door and stood with my rifle ready.
Every muscle in my body tensed, waiting for whatever came next.
Then, as abruptly as it started, the scratching stopped.
We waited for minutes, barely breathing, ears straining to
hear anything outside. Finally, unable to handle the
tension, I cracked the door open slowly, aiming my flashlight and
rifle into the blackness. Nothing.
No tracks, no eyeshine, nothing but empty darkness stretching
endlessly into the trees. The forest stood still, eerily
quiet and empty. I shut the door again, pushing
an old wooden chair in front of it for good measure.
Jay said nothing, but I could see the uneasy questions in his
eyes. Neither of us slept again that
night. We sat silently, rifles close,
counting down the hours until dawn broke through the cracks in
the walls. When morning finally came, the
first faint Gray light breaking through gaps in the logs, we
stepped outside cautiously. I circled around the shack,
scanning the ground carefully, looking for paw prints or drag
marks. Jace walked beside me silently,
rifle slung loosely over his shoulder, his head down as he
studied the dirt. But there was nothing.
No disturbed earth, no claw marks, no footprints.
It was as if whatever had come around last night had simply
vanished into thin air. Maybe we imagined it.
Jay said half heartedly, kicking at a dry juniper branch.
You and I both know we didn't. I replied quietly.
Something was up there, something heavy.
We decided to inspect the shack again in daylight.
Inside, everything looked exactly as we'd left it.
I approached the boarded up window, the same one we'd
noticed the night before. Something caught my attention,
something that made the hair rise on my neck.
Jace, come look at this. He stepped close, following my
gaze along the inner window ledge.
Beneath the boards, 3 deep scratches cut vertically into
the wood. They weren't thin lines or
shallow grooves. They were gouged deep into the
timber, clearly fresh splinters still curled upward.
What the hell? Jace muttered, voice suddenly
quiet. How's that even possible?
Those boards haven't moved. I felt a cold weight settle into
my stomach. He was right, nothing had moved
those boards. They were nailed solidly from
the inside. Yet here we were, staring at 3
claw marks too large and too deep to belong to a cougar or
any animal I'd ever seen. I don't like this, Jace said
flatly. We'll hunt today, but maybe we
leave tonight, I said, trying to sound steady even though my
voice betrayed my nerves. I don't want another night like
that. Jace nodded slowly.
We spent the day hiking a nearby Ridge, glassing for mule deer.
The sun was bright, but a strange stillness hungover the
forest. No birds called, no squirrels
scrambled through the junipers. Just silence and empty air.
It felt unnatural, oppressive. We saw nothing move, nothing
worth chasing. The whole forest seemed empty,
devoid of life. The day passed with
uncomfortable silence between us.
Both of us felt unsettled, wary, jumping at every cracking twig
or rustling leaf. By the time evening came,
neither of us mentioned staying another night.
We packed our gear quickly and loaded most of it into the
Tacoma, determined to get out before the darkness returned.
But as the sun dropped behind the horizon, the shadows seemed
to grow dense and threatening around the shack.
It felt colder, as if something heavy and unseen had settled
around us. We'd just thrown the last of our
packs into the truck bed when the first heavy thud echoed from
the roof again, louder and harder than the night before.
Jay spun toward me, eyes wide, face pale.
Let's go now, He hissed urgently.
I didn't hesitate. We both moved swiftly toward the
truck, but before we reached the doors, a slow, metallic tapping
rang out like claws on tin from the stovepipe protruding above
the shack. It was deliberate, almost
rhythmic, and I felt panic creeping into my chest.
Whatever was here knew exactly where we were, and it wasn't
afraid. Instinctively, I raised my rifle
and swept the flashlight beam across the trees behind us.
The pale beam bounced wildly before catching something
standing, half hidden behind a twisted juniper 20 yards away.
My breath caught sharply in my throat.
It wasn't a cougar or a bear or anything I'd ever encountered
before. The figure was pale and hunched,
unnaturally lean and sinewy, its limbs twisted awkwardly, bent in
ways that didn't seem natural. It stood upright but moved with
a jerky, unsettling gait, slipping from tree to tree, it's
pale flesh reflecting dully in the flashlight beam.
Get in the truck. I whispered hoarsely.
As I spoke, the creature stepped forward, emerging just enough to
clearly see. It was hairless, almost white,
with elongated limbs ending in long, Bony fingers.
It stared at us silently from sunken black eyes that reflected
no light. Jay swung around, saw it too,
and gasped sharply. We both backed quickly to the
truck doors, rifles raised defensively.
But the figure moved again, faster this time, disappearing
into the shadows. For a long moment, the forest
was dead quiet again. Then we heard a shuffling sound,
footsteps crunching leaves and snapping twigs behind the truck,
moving deliberately toward the trail we'd taken in.
It's blocking the way out, Jay said, his voice strained.
Not for long, I replied. Get in.
We threw ourselves into the truck.
I slammed it into reverse, dirt flying as we bounced roughly
backward down the trail, headlights illuminating only the
narrow track behind us. Branches clawed at the windows,
scraping loudly against the truck, but we didn't stop or
look back. All we could think about was
escape and the pale thing watching silently from the
darkness. The truck lurched violently as
we backed down the narrow, rutted trail.
Branches scraped harshly against the side mirrors and rocks
thumped loudly beneath the chassis, but neither of us even
considered slowing down. My heart hammered relentlessly
in my chest. I gripped the wheel, knuckles
white, while Jayce stared out the back window, rifle clutched
tightly in both hands, scanning the darkness behind us.
Keep going. Jayce urged.
Don't stop, man. The headlights barely
illuminated the rough path behind us, throwing distorted
shadows onto junipers and brush. Every twisted branch looked like
reaching limbs. Every shadow shifted unnaturally
under our frantic movements. Finally, after what felt like
hours but was probably only minutes, we reached a wider dirt
Rd. I spun the wheel sharply,
whipped the Tacoma around, slammed it into drive, and hit
the accelerator hard. Gravel flew from beneath the
tires, dust billowing behind us as we speed toward Fredonia.
Neither of us spoke for miles. We were both breathing heavily,
mines racing, adrenaline still pumping.
The empty highway offered little comfort.
It was a long, silent ride back into town.
We reached Fredonia sometime around 3:00 in the morning.
Exhausted and rattled, we pulled into a gas station parking lot
under harsh fluorescent lights. I killed the engine, but neither
of us moved for a moment. Finally, Jace broke the silence.
What the hell was that thing? I shook my head slowly, still
gripping the steering wheel. I have no idea, man.
But whatever it was, it's not something I ever want to see
again. We spent the rest of the night
in the truck, catching scattered sleep as dawn crept over the
horizon. When morning finally came, we
stumbled into a diner, seeking strong coffee and some sense of
normalcy. We sat at a booth, pale, quiet,
hardly touching our food. An older man at the counter,
wearing a worn flannel jacket and faded jeans, eyed us
carefully before finally approaching.
You fellas look like you've seen something rough.
He said, leaning on the edge of our table.
Rough doesn't begin to cover it. I muttered, exchanging a glance
with Jace. Where were you hunting?
The man asked, sipping his coffee casually.
Up near Mount Trumbull. I answered quietly.
We stayed in this old Ranger shack just east of.
Before I could finish, the old man's expression shifted
sharply. You stayed where?
An old Ranger shack? Jace repeated cautiously.
Out by Mount Trumbull. He stared at us both with
disbelief. Boys, that shack burned down
years ago, back in the 80s. Ain't nothing left up there but
ashes and old stories. You sure you're talking about
the same place? I felt the blood drain from my
face. My mouth was suddenly dry,
throat tight. No way.
We stayed in it, slept there, cooked dinner on the table.
He shook his head slowly, expression grim.
No, you didn't. Nobody's used that shack in
decades. That fire gutted it down to the
foundation. Everybody knows better than to
camp near there anyway. Jay stared at me, eyes wide,
silently begging me to argue, but I had nothing to say.
We both stood inside that shack, felt the warped wood beneath our
boots, saw the charred boards over the window.
But now doubt was creeping into my mind, twisting everything I'd
believe just moments ago. Weeks passed, but neither of us
could shake the experience. Finally, after several sleepless
nights, we agreed to return to the shack one last time, needing
closure more than answers. This time, we brought our friend
Ben and his GPS. The drive back into Kibob was
tense, silent, anxiety twisting in my stomach with every mile.
When we arrived, my chest tightened painfully.
The shack stood right where we remembered, but it looked
different now. The logs were weathered in Gray,
untouched by fire. The windows were perfectly
intact, unbroken and unboarded. A rusted padlock sealed the
door, clearly undisturbed for years.
There were no tire tracks, no boot prints, no sign we'd ever
been there. No way.
Jace whispered, stepping back uneasily.
Ben walked around the shack twice, shaking his head.
This place has been locked up tight forever, guys.
You sure you're not confusing it with somewhere else?
I didn't answer. There was nothing to say.
We both knew this was the place we'd run from in terror just
weeks earlier. Yet somehow, impossibly, it
stood here, sealed and untouched.
We left without another word. It was the last time either Jace
or I haunted in Arizona. We didn't speak about it again,
but I still think about it often.
At night, lying awake, staring at the ceiling, I hear those
heavy thuds, one after another, always three in a row, slow and
deliberate, coming from somewhere above.
I hadn't been back to Shiprock in nearly 10 years.
It wasn't something I'd planned. Life in Albuquerque just sort of
swept me away from my roots, slowly replacing memories of the
reservation with city noise and traffic lights.
My grandmother Doshi would often call and gently nudge me about
visiting, but I'd always find an excuse.
Work, life obligations. The truth was, something always
held me back, something I could never quite explain.
But now here I was, rolling down dusty Hwy. 491 with Emily in the
passenger seat, her camera already poised in her lap.
She was excited. Her smile was bright and eager,
her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity.
She had insisted on this trip for months, determined to
finally meet my family and see the land I came from.
We passed small clusters of houses along the highway, single
wide trailers and weathered cinder block homes, all coated
in the persistent rusty film of desert dust.
Emily took it all in quietly. I stole glances at her, trying
to read what she thought of this stark place that was so
different from her own upbringing in Oregon.
Shiprock Peak rose abruptly from the horizon as we turned off
toward the reservation. It's jagged silhouette stabbed
into the sky, dark and imposing against the soft glow of late
afternoon. Seeing it again brought back old
feelings, ones I buried years ago.
Awe mixed with something heavier, something
uncomfortable. That's it?
I murmured, nodding toward the monolith.
Emily leaned forward, eyes wide. Wow, pictures really don't do it
justice. It feels different seeing it in
person. It's sacred to our people.
I explained, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.
We call it the Rock with wings. It's an ancient volcanic plug,
no one's supposed to climb or get too close.
She nodded slowly, still staring at the formation.
It's beautiful. Beautiful and dangerous.
I added, feeling the tension tighten my throat.
Things happen around here sometimes, Strange things.
She turned to me, eyebrows raised, clearly intrigued.
Strange like what? I shook my head slightly.
Nothing, just old stories. We arrived at my grandmother's
home just before sunset. The small house, isolated at the
end of a dusty dirt Rd. was exactly as I remembered it.
Blue curtains, peeling white paint, the smell of sage and
juniper smoke. When she stepped outside, her
Gray hair tied neatly behind her head, she smiled and hugged me,
patting my back with frail but strong hands.
She whispered softly, welcoming me home.
Then she turned toward Emily. Her warm eyes flickered briefly
with something cautious before she embraced her gently.
Welcome dinner with Stew, fry bread, and quiet conversation.
Emily asked questions, polite and curious about our family
history, the old ways and traditions.
My grandmother answered kindly but carefully, never revealing
too much. When the meal ended, she caught
my eye across the table. Stay close to the house after
dark. She said softly, barely louder
than a whisper. Her eyes move to Emily, then
back to me. It's safer.
Emily glanced at me, her curiosity visibly stirred, but
said nothing. Later, alone in the bedroom
where I'd grown up, Emily quietly examined faded pictures
on the wall, finally picking up 1 tucked behind an old dresser.
It was me, around 8 or 9, standing near the peak.
The corner of the photograph was blackened, curled as if it had
touched fire. What happened here?
She asked, handing it to me. I took the photo, staring down
at the young boy in it, feeling a chill slowly run down my
spine. Nothing.
Probably got too close to a candle or something.
I set it back down quickly, feeling uneasy.
She watched me, unconvinced but silent.
When morning came, Emily's curiosity about Shiprock Peak
was stronger than ever. Over breakfast, she finally
asked. Can we go out there later, just
close enough for pictures? I hesitated, my grandmother's
warnings echoing in my mind. We shouldn't.
Emily tilted her head. We won't get close, I promise.
I just want to see it at sunset. You grew up here, it's part of
you. I just want to understand.
Against my better judgement, I finally agreed.
After all, maybe I was letting childhood fears haunt me.
Maybe returning as an adult would finally put old
superstitions to rest. Late in the day, we drove out
along the empty highway and parked in a gravel turn out.
As the sun slipped lower, shadows stretched long across
the red earth. Emily grabbed her camera, eager
and smiling, already framing shots in her mind.
We followed A narrow dirt path just a short distance from the
car, moving slowly toward a better vantage point.
The air grew still, silent. Even the gentle breeze stopped.
As I looked at Shiprock Peak looming overhead.
My pulse quickened, Old instincts stirred, every nerve
suddenly on edge. I took a breath, steadying
myself. Is this far enough?
I asked, turning back to Emily. She wasn't looking at me.
Instead, she stared toward a distant Ridge, eyes wide, frozen
in place. Did you just Call My Name?
She whispered, barely audible. No, my voice sounded hollow in
the stillness. Her face paled as she slowly
turned toward me. Her eyes moved beyond my
shoulder, widening in confusion, then fear.
I turned to follow her gaze. Standing atop the nearby Ridge,
silhouetted against the fiery sunset, stood a figure.
My heart slammed against my chest as recognition sent a
shockwave through me. It was me.
An exact image of myself wearing clothes I didn't own, staring
back with dead eyes. The breath caught in my throat.
Every story I dismissed rushed back to life in that instant.
Emily. I said slowly, carefully.
Don't move. I stared at the figure on the
Ridge, feeling my pulse hammer violently beneath my skin.
It was impossible, completely impossible.
But the man standing there, framed in the fading sunset, was
undeniably me. My height, my build, my face.
He was perfectly still, unblinking, watching us
intently. Tyrell.
Emily whispered, her voice tight with fear.
Who, who is that? I struggled to respond.
My throat felt dry, constricted. All my grandmother's stories
rushed back, tales I dismissed for years as folklore and
superstition. But now those stories felt
dangerously real. Too real.
Emily, I managed quietly. Don't take your eyes off me.
Stay close. Then she tensed beside me, eyes
wide with confusion. You.
You called my name just now, didn't you?
No, I said firmly. I didn't say anything.
Emily's breathing quickened, panic creeping into her
expression. We both turned slowly back
toward the Ridge. The figure hadn't moved, but it
felt closer, somehow, more present.
It stared at us, expressionless. It wasn't just identical, it was
exact, down to the small scar beneath my left eye.
Suddenly, the figure tilted its head slightly, like it was
studying us. Emily shuddered visibly,
gripping my arm tightly. Tyrell, please, let's go.
She said softly, tugging gently at my sleeve.
Slowly, I replied. Keep facing it.
Don't run, not yet. We stepped back cautiously,
keeping the figure in our line of sight, but as we moved, so
did it, matching each step perfectly.
The synchronicity was chilling, a grotesque mirror reflection.
Then it moved forward, coming down the Ridge, steps stiff and
unnatural, limbs slightly rigid, as if unused to motion.
My heart pounded harder, every instinct screaming at me to get
away, to escape. Tyrell.
Emily whispered, voice shaking. Wait.
I murmured, my eyes locked onto the approaching shape.
I reached slowly into my pocket, fingers trembling, and pulled
out a small leather pouch filled with corn pollen, something my
grandmother had quietly slipped into my hand as we left.
At the time, I hadn't understood why.
The figure stopped abruptly, its eyes narrowing, fixated on the
pouch. It's expression shifted,
becoming less familiar, less human.
Emily, when I tell you. I whispered urgently.
Turn around and run to the car. Don't look back, no matter what
you hear. Do you understand?
She hesitated, eyes wide with fear.
What are you trust me? I interrupted.
Just run. Without warning, the figure
suddenly called out Emily's name in a perfect imitation of my
voice, a sound that made my stomach turn violently.
Emily, run. I shouted.
She spun on her heel and bolted back toward the car, feet
pounding against the dirt. Immediately, the figure lunged
forward, its eyes fixed solely on me now.
I opened the pouch, desperately tossing corn pollen into the air
as I shouted an old Navajo protection chant my grandmother
had taught me years ago. The figure froze mid step, its
face contorting and sudden rage. An ugly guttural cry tore from
its throat, a sound unlike anything human.
Heart hammering, I ran, legs burning as I sprinted after
Emily toward the distant shape of our car.
I could hear the footsteps behind me now heavier, rapid,
gaining quickly. My lungs ached and adrenaline
surged through me as the distance closed.
Emily reached the car first, frantically yanking open the
door and scrambling inside. She screamed my name again.
Desperation sharpened her voice. I pushed forward, feeling the
figure just steps behind. I threw myself into the driver's
seat, slammed the door shut, and locked it just as the figure
reached the vehicle. It stood motionless outside the
window, watching me closely, features twisted and unsettling
familiarity. Its lip slowly curled into an
unnatural, cruel smile. A smile I'd never worn in my
life. It raised a hand slowly, palm
pressed flat against the glass, fingers stretching out rigidly,
silently demanding entry. I started the engine, tires
spinning wildly on the loose gravel as we shot forward.
Emily was trembling, curled against the passenger door,
staring blankly ahead. We speed away from Shiprock
Peak, leaving the dark silhouette standing in the dust,
watching silently until it vanished from view in the fading
dusk. We drove in complete silence,
the only sounds the hum of the tires against asphalt and our
uneven breathing. Emily stared out the passenger
window, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
Her skin had lost all color, pale beneath the moonlight, eyes
hollow and distant. When we finally reached my
grandmother's home, every muscle in my body ached from tension.
I parked the car and sat quietly for a moment, my hands still
gripping the steering wheel so tightly they trembled.
Tyrell. Emily finally whispered, her
voice fragile, barely audible. What was that thing?
I turned to her slowly, searching for words that
wouldn't terrify her further, but none came.
Instead, I reached out, gently squeezing her hand, trying to
reassure her even though my own heartbeat refused to slow.
We'll find out. I finally said, opening my door.
My grandmother was already waiting on the porch, her eyes
sharp, alert. Her expression told me she
already understood more than I could ever explain.
Without a word, she waved us inside.
Once we stepped into the small house, she immediately closed
the door behind us and motioned toward the living room.
A small bowl of juniper leaves and dried sage rested on the
coffee table alongside a cluster of turquoise stones.
She'd known we would need protection even before we did.
Sit down. She instructed quietly, voice
calm yet commanding. Emily obeyed instantly, sinking
into the worn sofa. I stood nervously near her,
unable to stop pacing. My grandmother took the juniper
and sage, lighting them carefully, the soft smoke
drifting around us in a protective haze.
She began to chant softly, her voice low, rhythmic, calming my
racing thoughts. As the ritual progressed, my
heartbeat finally slowed, my breath easing back into a steady
rhythm. After a long silence, my
grandmother stopped chanting, looking directly at me, eyes
filled with quiet sorrow. Tell me exactly what happened,
She said firmly, her gaze never leaving mine.
I recounted everything, Emily hearing my voice call her name,
the figure identical to me appearing on the Ridge, the corn
pollen and the terrible cry it made as we fled.
Emily shuddered beside me as I described the twisted smile, the
way it watched us drive away. My grandmother remained
perfectly still, absorbing every word.
It's come back. She finally murmured, her eyes
darkening with quiet dread. It remembers you.
What do you mean? I asked, heart sinking.
She sighed deeply, looking suddenly weary.
When you were a boy, you disappeared one evening.
It was near Shiprock, just like tonight.
We searched for hours, afraid we'd lost you for good, and then
you came walking back into the yard just before midnight.
But you weren't right. Your eyes were blank, like you
didn't know us. You wore clothes we'd never
seen. You spoke words that didn't
sound human. Emily looked up sharply, visibly
shaken. What happened?
My grandmother turned slowly toward her, expression
unreadable. We did this same ritual.
The smoke, the sage, the corn pollen.
Eventually the real Tyrol returned to us.
But the thing that took him for those few hours, it never forgot
him. It wore your skin once.
She said quietly, turning back to me, voice heavy with sorrow.
Tonight, it wanted it again. A chill ran through me, settling
deep into my bones. Emily reached for my hand, her
fingers trembling against mine. Will it follow us?
She asked, voice barely above a whisper.
My grandmother shook her head slowly.
It lives only in places where its name has power.
Here, it walks freely away from Shiprock.
It weakens, but it never fully forgets.
She leaned closer, her voice dropping even lower.
You can never come back here again.
If you do, it will find you. Emily's grip on my hand
tightened sharply. Her eyes met mine, full of quiet
resolve and understanding. Neither of us spoke.
There was nothing left to say. The next morning, we packed our
bags quickly, silently. My grandmother stood on the
porch, her face serene, though sadness lingered deep in her
eyes. I hugged her tightly, whispering
my goodbyes. She whispered softly back,
cautioning me one last time. Be careful, she said, touching
my cheek gently. Never let it see your
reflection. Never say its name.
We drove away from Shiprock under Gray skies, my heart
heavy, carrying the quiet truth of what had happened.
Emily never asked to return, never spoke of the reservation
again. We moved N settling far away in
Oregon, a place where desert and dust became distant memories.
But still, years later, even after our lives had found their
quiet rhythm again, I kept mirrors turned toward the walls,
never fully meeting my own gaze, because I knew the truth my
grandmother never had to say aloud again.
It had worn my skin once and it would never stop watching.