I've always had an open mind when it comes to the mysterious
creatures that might wander our world.
It's partly because I've always been inquisitive by nature, and
partly because of the lessons my mother instilled in me about
respecting nature and being aware of my surroundings.
She taught me to listen to the animals, believing they would
alert us if something unusual lurked nearby.
This story takes me back to when I was a teenager visiting my
dad's small hometown in Texas for a family reunion.
The town was so tiny that you could stroll through its central
part in less than an hour. Most of our relatives live
further out, each with an acre or more of land around their
homes, providing privacy and tranquility.
That evening, we joined my dad's extensive family for a hoe down
near the town's edge. People were dancing, drinking,
and reveling in the festivities while my brother, one of our
cousins, her friend and I hung out on the sidelines.
We engaged in typical teenage chatter, discussing school
crushes and the like. Our attention drifted towards
the outskirts of the party, where a fence bordered the area.
The fence separated the yard from the scrub land on the edge
of town. The night had fallen and the
only illumination came from the lights on the fence poles,
casting eerie shadows around. As I gazed into the distance, I
noticed something unusual, an object partially obscured by a
small tree. It stood out because it remains
still, unaffected by the breeze that rustled the other foliage.
I pointed it out to my brother and cousin, who also saw it.
We couldn't help but be curious. One of us suggested it might be
a coyote, but we quickly realized that it was too massive
to be 1. Curiosity and perhaps a bit of
foolishness got the better of us and we cautiously approached the
fence. We were now only 20 yards away
from it, and this mysterious figure was a further 10 yards
from the fence. Shrouded in darkness just beyond
the reach of the feeble light. We halted in our tracks, our
eyes locked on this enigmatic creature.
It was covered in fur, it's hunched form supported by long
slender legs and human like arms ending in sharp claws.
Its head, partially concealed by the tree, had a canine
appearance, complete with a long snout and pointed ears, much
like a coyotes. But it wasn't a coyote, it was
something else entirely. The creatures gaze met ours and
a chill ran down our spines. We hastily retreated to the
party, realizing that we were now closer to this strange being
than to our own families. If this creature possessed the
speed attributed to werewolves in movies, the fence would have
been no obstacle for it to reach us.
We were stunned into silence, unable to comprehend the reality
of what we had just witnessed. Back at the hoedown, we
exchanged knowing glances but said nothing.
Who would believe us? The next day, my family prepared
to return to Oklahoma and my brother and I secretly breathed
sighs of relief, leaving behind the unsettling encounter.
My cousin and her friends still lived in Texas within the
territory of that creature. I hoped they never had to see it
again. Over the years, that night's
encounter lingered in the back of my mind as I learned about
various creatures people claim to have encountered in the
woods. I hoped I'd never cross paths
with anything like that again. However, as fate would have it,
in 2019 I found myself on my boss's farm for a three day work
excursion during the summer. The farm was located about an
hour from Oklahoma City and spanned 80 acres, mostly covered
in woods and isolated from neighboring properties.
His nearest neighbor was at least a mile away.
I had visited his farm numerous times in the past and had grown
familiar with the surrounding woods.
There was a trail leading into the woods from the compound, and
every morning I'd walk it with his dog Duke.
But I never ventured onto that trail alone, and I always
carried a weapon. Not because I feared encounters
with dog men or Bigfoot, but because wild boars were known to
inhabit the area. However, I had never heard of
any reports of dog men or Bigfoot sightings in the
vicinity, only rumors about wild boars.
On this particular day, I set out toward the trail in the late
afternoon, Duke by my side. The trail wasn't well travelled,
covered more in grass than dirt. As we ventured further, I could
see signs of wildlife all around.
Deer tracks, raccoon prints, even an armadillo scrape on the
ground. Duke wandered off the trail into
the trees, drawn by something that had captured his attention.
I called out to him, asking him not to stray too far, and
stepped toward the edge of the trail to join him.
That's when I saw something that made my heart skip a beat.
Right at the edge of the trail where the exposed earth met, the
grass was a colossal, canine like footprint.
It dwarfed Duke's Prince and was much larger than even my own
size 10 boot. The track appeared to be
relatively fresh, no more than 24 hours old.
I couldn't help but wonder what had made it.
I looked back down the trail, but saw no more tracks, as if
this creature had leaped over the trail to avoid leaving any
more Prince. It had jumped a staggering 15
feet across the trail, leaving no trace of its presence.
I quickly scanned the surroundings and strained my
ears, but all I heard was silence.
No birds, no insects, and even Duke seemed on edge.
I called Duke back to my side and hastened our pace, heading
back toward the barn. I didn't want to stay any longer
in case whatever had made those footprints was still lurking
nearby. As we reached the tree line and
entered the open, I couldn't help but think that they were
here in Oklahoma, too. Even though I had foolishly
believed they would remain confined to Texas, my thoughts
were disrupted. When I returned to the barn, I
couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss.
Duke's nervous demeanor seemed to convey a clear message we
needed to leave. I briefly glanced around, but
the woods appeared empty. Yet I couldn't shake the eerie
sensation that we were being watched.
As we made our way back inside, I couldn't help but ponder the
implications of what I had seen. I remembered my mother's words.
You may not see them, but they can see you.
I knew that whatever left that footprint and turned that branch
had been near, and it was a chilling realization as I
recounted the events of that day.
I couldn't shake the feeling that these creatures were not
confined to Texas alone. My brother had mentioned that
his Co worker had recently claimed to have seen a dog man
on the edge of his property in El Reno.
OK, a mere 10 miles from my boss's farm, the boundaries
between fact and folklore were becoming increasingly blurred,
and I couldn't help but wonder if these enigmatic creatures
were closer to home than I had ever imagined.
Back in the 90s, I found myself working as a park Ranger in the
northern part of the United States.
For the safety of all involved, I won't reveal the specific
state, but I can tell you it was near the northern border of
America. After an incredible honeymoon
with my husband, I was headed back to work.
Even though he wasn't thrilled about my career choice, he
worried about me being alone in the wilderness, Especially since
I'm a short, slender woman weighing maybe 100 lbs soaking
wet. But my heart belonged to nature,
and I couldn't give up my job to stay home and have a baby as he
wished. I long to spend days, sometimes
weeks or even months, among the trees and wildlife.
Unfortunately, I never got to enjoy my favorite job again, at
least not the way I used to. It was quite a drive from my
husband's home, which was on the other side of the state.
However, it was worth it, especially during winter when
the tree tops were blanketed in snow as far as the eye could
see. The long drives through nature
were always a pleasure for me, though I can't imagine being
able to stomach one anymore. On this particular occasion, it
was the winter season and I had signed on for fire watch duty.
My job was to ensure that no fires were left unattended
despite the heavy snowfall, but in reality I was there to keep
hikers from getting lost and to watch over the wildlife.
The winter had been especially harsh and I made the journey in
my 92 Ford to the Ranger station.
After exchanging well wishes and some gossip with my colleagues,
I set off for my favorite fire watch tower for the winter
season. If my memory serves me well, it
should have been a three hour drive to reach the best parking
spot to access the tower. As I venture deeper into the
wilderness, the road grew rougher and eventually I
couldn't proceed much farther. I hadn't reached the parking
area I had in mind, but I hope that the conditions might
improve, allowing me to drive to my preferred spot.
I consulted my map, circled the spot where I had parked, and
studied the path ahead. It was quite a distance to hike,
but I was no stranger to it. I had trekked farther before, so
I wasn't too concerned about the distance.
As I began hiking through the snow, memories of what I loved
about this job flooded back. The satisfying crunch of snow
under foot, the pristine white landscape adorned with
occasional animal tracks. It felt like stepping into a
storybook or a fairy tale. Nature had always been my one
true love. Despite my deep affection for my
husband. The day passed quickly as I
walked through the snow, taking breaks to sketch in my notebook
and capture photographs with my camera.
It felt like one of those days that blink by and suddenly the
sun was setting. Consulting my map, I realized I
was nearing the tower, but I wasn't sure if I should camp for
the night or proceed. The thought of entering the warm
tower, meeting the Ranger who had been stationed there before,
and enjoying hot chocolate and a comfortable bed was tempting.
Yet the forest I cherished was quickly vanishing into the
swirling abyss of white and black.
It would have been easy to miss the tower completely, so I made
an educated decision and began setting up my camp, ensuring I
wouldn't get lost in the snowy wilderness.
I pitched my tent, packed down the snow, and stacked some
firewood I had brought into a pile.
A campfire crackled to life and I followed all the proper steps
for camping in the snow, something I genuinely enjoyed.
I remember gazing at the distant tower, still a good distance
away as I ate my dinner, which I believe was some type of meat.
It smelled like meat, but my memory was a bit hazy.
After dinner, I extinguished the fire and crawled into my tent,
which provided as much warmth as possible.
I relish the feeling of camping again after months away.
The sound of the wind against my tent lulled me to sleep, and I
soon drifted into a dream whose details I couldn't recall.
Suddenly I was jolted awake by a horrifying guttural howl.
My heart pounded and I scrambled out of my tent, clutching a
flashlight tightly. I shown the beam into the snowy
landscape, searching for the source of the spine chilling
noise. Hello.
I called out into the frigid night.
Is anyone there? I'm a park Ranger.
Do you need help? Where are you?
I shouted again, my voice growing hoarse with every
question. I scan the surroundings, but
there was nothing to be seen except for the slumbering trees.
Hello you there, I yelled once more, taking a moment to cover
my mouth and warm my face with my breath.
During this brief respite, I heard another shriek, this one
sounding more desperate and feminine.
It felt closer, and I called out again.
Ma'am, are you OK? What's wrong?
However, there was still no response from anyone or
anything, except for the wilderness itself.
I tried to determine the direction from which the sounds
had come, but it eluded me. As a park Ranger, it was my duty
to assist people in such situations, which was why I was
stationed here throughout the winter.
I returned to my tent, quickly gathered my gear, and rolled up
my sleeping bag. There wasn't enough time to
dismantle the tent. It took me about 10 minutes to
prepare myself fully and gather the courage to head in a
direction. At that moment, my starting
direction was arbitrary, but in my mind I convinced myself that
the scream had come from that specific direction.
I set off into the snow, my flashlights beam dancing across
the trees. About 5 minutes later another
scream pierced the night, or at least it felt like 5 minutes.
Time seemed distorted in that eerie silence.
This time I was closer to the source and it sounded like a
woman's cry. My heart raced as I shouted.
It's OK, I'm here to help. Where are you?
The icy air irritated my throat with each question, but I
continued to scan my surroundings for any signs of
the distressed person. Once again, there was nothing
but the sleeping forest. Stay where you are, I'll come to
you, I yelled, my voice echoing through the wilderness.
I hurried off into the night, driven by the urgency of the
situation. My footsteps crunched through
the snow. As I venture deeper into the
darkness, another shriek echoed through the forest, and this
time it sounded almost like a word, Possibly help.
Although it was hard to discern, the sound came from a bit to the
right of the previous location. I finished warming up my throat
and yelled again. I'm coming, stay where you are.
I sprinted toward the source of the screams, and as I drew
closer, I noticed tracks in the snow.
My heart sank as I also spotted patches of blood along with boot
prints. I followed the boot prints for a
while, but the trail suddenly ended at a larger pool of blood.
The person or creature seemed to have vanished into thin air.
I spun around, my heart pounding, and while I wanted to
call out in a desperate attempt to find them, a deep rooted
survival instinct kept me silent.
It was as though the person had been plucked from that spot,
disappearing without a trace. I took a deep breath, attempting
to calm my racing mind, and considered my options.
Another scream pierced the night closer than before, and panic
gripped me. I started running, this time,
not needing to convince myself of any direction.
I simply fled into the night, the trees blurring past me as I
weaved in and out, trying to put them between myself and whatever
had produced those horrifying noises.
I ran until my lungs burned and my body felt frozen from the
cold. I came to a sudden stop and
shown my flashlight around, searching for the source of the
terrifying screams. I couldn't understand how it had
followed me so easily, but then I realized that I had been
shining a blindingly bright light in all directions,
practically announcing my location.
I pressed my thumb against the flashlight button, plunging
myself into total darkness. The wind howled around me as I
heard the crunching of footsteps in the snow.
Slowly I moved, making every effort to remain as silent as
possible. I approached the nearest tree,
or at least where I had remembered it to be, and huddled
down next to it, covering myself with snow.
There I waited, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath
visible in the frigid air. I strained my ears for any sign
of the person or thing that had been following me.
The footsteps grew closer, and I heard them sniffing the air.
My heart raced as the crunching sounds approached, and I covered
my mouth with my hands to stifle my breathing.
Then I heard another shriek, more furious than the previous
ones. I shivered from the cold and
trembled with anxiety as I held my breath, waiting for this
unknown entity to spot me in the absolute darkness.
I waited for what felt like an eternity, every passing 2nd
stretching into hours. The crunching grew nearer and
the air turned putrid, as if a septic tank had ruptured nearby.
I prayed silently as the presents drew closer and closer
until it passed by me. I remained still, waiting for it
to emerge from the other side of the tree and seize me, but it
never did. I offered silent thanks to my
lucky stars, and cautiously began to rise from my hiding
place. The crunching sounds moved away
and I dared to crawl out From under the tree.
Rolling onto my side, I realized that I had been crying.
My eyes stung from the tears and I wiped them away with my
clothes. At some point, exhaustion
overwhelmed me and I lost consciousness.
I awoke the next morning and slowly extricated myself from
under the bed. The stench in the room was
unbearable, and the sight was horrifying.
I staggered and limped down the steps of the tower, my senses
overwhelmed by the gruesome scene.
I ran into the woods, desperately trying to put as
much distance as possible between myself and whatever had
happened in that tower. I ran, and I didn't stop until I
reached my vehicle. I got inside and floored the
accelerator. Racing back to the Ranger
station, I filed a report, deliberately avoiding any
mention of what I suspected had been there.
I only stated that I didn't see who or what it was.
Eventually, I was interrogated about my story, particularly
what made me think it wasn't human.
I was instructed never to speak of it again.
However, after hearing the accounts of other former Park
Rangers and reading similar stories online, I couldn't help
but share my experience. I still love how well America
preserves its natural beauty, but I now fear that it may be to
hide things like what I encountered that night.
When I told my husband, he was shocked and could only hold me
tightly. Yet I don't believe he truly
believed my account, especially when I mentioned encountering a
monster, given that I had never seen it directly.
But based on all the stories I've come across, I genuinely
believe I may have encountered A Wendigo.
And I also believe it's still out there, lurking in the
wilderness, responsible for the countless missing persons in our
National Parks. My name is Ben and I had the
weirdest encounter of my entire life during my recent trip to
Ocean City, MD. I'd mentioned in a previous
story that I and my friend often visited this popular beach
destination, which is about 3 hours from where I live.
This time I decided to go alone, seeking some relaxation and
respite from the wacky summer. Plagued by the ongoing pandemic,
I drove down in my trusty Chevy Nova on June 10th, excited to
avoid any unnecessary stops along the way.
Upon arriving at the condo, I swiftly unloaded my bags onto
one of those hotel wheel carts, which proved to be a more
efficient alternative to lugging my luggage up the stairs.
Our condo was on the 5th floor beachfront, and waking up to the
soothing sound of crashing waves every morning was a true luxury.
As I peered out from the balcony, I noticed the ocean
looking rather choppy. And there were plenty of people
dotting the beach with not much space between them.
I'm the type who enjoys the beach view from a distance, but
doesn't particularly relish getting sandy or diving into the
water. Unless, of course, I find myself
in a more secluded spot with fewer people around.
The day passed by, marked by a sudden rain shower around 2:00
PM, which quickly cleared the beach.
Seeing this as an opportunity, I seized the moment and decided to
head down to the shore for some surf fishing.
Rain poured down relentlessly as I cast my line, though I didn't
manage to catch anything. But there's something about
fishing that makes me feel truly alive, akin to the thrill of bow
hunting. The first night came and went,
and I ordered some delicious seafood for dinner before
retreating to my freshly made bed.
The following morning, I brewed some coffee and contemplated my
day ahead. Although I had brought my
Nintendo Switch, I felt a compelling urge to step outdoors
and soak up the beauty of the beach.
It was then that I decided to visit Assateague Island.
For those unfamiliar, Ocean City is essentially a massive sandbar
surrounded by various islands and small pieces of land.
Assateague is one such place, a National Park, and it had been
recommended to me by my next door neighbor who was studying
to become a park Ranger. The island was a natural
playground featuring protected marshlands, beaches, swamps,
forests and even wild horses that had roamed there for
generations. While there was a dune trail for
off road vehicles, my 1970 Chevy Nova was ill suited for the sand
given the risk of rust. Arriving at Assateague, I parked
in one of the visitor lots and began exploring.
First, I ventured into the swamp trails, only to be mercilessly
attacked by mosquitoes. Regretting not having brought
bug spray, I soldiered on and then made my way through the
beautiful marsh waters, observing crabs and small fish
darting around my legs. Eventually I found a quiet
stretch of beach and decided to lay out on the sand.
Thankfully, I had remembered to bring a towel.
This time I closed my eyes, basking in the warmth of the
sun, and lost track of time. It must have been around noon
when I first arrived, but when I awoke, darkness was already
descending upon the horizon and I realized I had fallen asleep
under the scorching sun. As I tried to sit up, I let out
a scream of agony. My skin was searing, and despite
having applied sunscreen earlier, I had been badly
sunburned. It felt as though my skin was
bubbling and peeling away before my very eyes, and I couldn't
help but shed tears. I've endured my fair share of
injuries, but sunburns are a different kind of pain Now.
This is where the truly eerie part of my story begins.
I was contemplating how to hobble back to my car when I
heard a loud splash from the ocean.
Typically, such a sound wouldn't have alarmed me, as large fish
and even sharks were known to frequent these waters.
In fact, I had once caught a massive sand tiger shark near
Assateague two years prior. However, this splash was
different. It was close, maybe only 7 feet
from the shore, which was peculiar.
Large fish usually didn't venture so close to the beach,
and the noise it was making was unsettlingly loud.
In my rush to get up, I dropped my bag and car keys, my body
protesting every step I took toward the water's edge.
But then it made a sound I would never forget, a haunting
combination of a mountain lion's cry and the deep calls of a
colossal whale. It was eerie, sad, and
entrancing all at once. Defying explanation, my mind
immediately conjured up tales of sirens and mermaids whose
haunting songs lured unsuspecting sailors to their
doom. I didn't truly believe in
mermaids, but with the vastness of our unexplored oceans, who
could say what mysteries might dwell beneath the waves?
My thoughts raced as I backed away from the crashing waves,
which had grown smaller now. Whatever had made that sound was
moving closer to the shore, and I began to hurry back to grab my
bag. Panic Weld within me as I made
my way to the spot I had been lounging in all the while
feeling my sunburned skin peel and burn.
I shone the light of my phone on the sandy ground, searching for
my keys, and there they were, partially buried beneath the
sand. I dropped to my knees, scraping
them in my haste to retrieve the keys.
As I was about to get up, I met its gaze.
The creature before me was like nothing I had ever seen.
It was pale, almost translucent, resembling a jellyfish in some
respects. Its skin appeared aged yet
muscular, devoid of any hair. Its long, slender legs were
strangely tall, akin to those of a basketball player.
Its hands were amphibious, and it possessed something akin to a
tail, but its face was the source of true horror.
The face was eerily featureless, reminiscent of a clean
mannequin's visage. The only discernible features
were a nose and a tiny slit, presumably its mouth.
As I stared in abject terror, I couldn't help but smile at it.
A foolish feudal gesture, perhaps.
I entertained the fleeting thought that this entity might
possess emotions. To my astonishment, it returned
the smile. But it was all wrong.
The tiny slit of a mouth began to expand, tearing its face
apart to form an unnaturally large grin.
Blood trickled down its face as it smiled back at me, revealing
rows of razor sharp teeth glistening in the beam of my
phone's flashlight. It was a sight that would haunt
me until my dying day. In sheer terror, I turned and
ran screaming like a child. Surprisingly, no park Ranger or
passerby heard my panicked cries.
As I sprinted back to my car, I could hear it screaming back at
me, a mocking, otherworldly sound.
I leaped into my car and speed away, my heart pounding in my
chest. When I reached the safety of my
condo. I raced upstairs, locked the
door behind me, and struggled to regain control of my erratic
breathing. As I finally composed myself and
collapsed onto the couch, the sunburned agony still coursing
through my body, I realized that I had narrowly escaped something
truly inexplicable and horrifying.
The next day, I visited a local clinic to have my sunburned skin
examined. They prescribed a lotion to
alleviate the burns and I headed home Immediately.
I scoured the Internet desperately searching for any
explanation for what I had witnessed.
Skinwalker, alien, or some other shape shifting crypted, I
couldn't find an answer. I want to thank Just Creepy for
sharing my story and encounter, and I appreciate the support
from his channel during these challenging times.
If anyone reading this has any insight into what that creature
could have been, please let me know.
The memory of that encounter continues to haunt me, and I
yearn for answers that may never come.
My name is Ryan, and I'll never forget the terrifying experience
that unfolded about 2 1/2 years ago.
It's a story I still relive in my nightmares, and it has left
me scarred with a touch of PTSD. Let me assure you, this story is
not a work of fiction. It's a chilling reality that my
friend Jake and I endured. It all began in June, during a
time when the pandemic was wreaking havoc worldwide.
At that time, I was living with my sister and her two children,
having taken them in after she fled her abusive husband.
Desperate for employment, I had been working as a social worker
and counselor for abused kids at a group home.
But after a few months, myself and a few colleagues, including
my close friend Jake, were let go.
The loss of my job hit me hard. I had bills to pay, a mortgage
to meet, and I was responsible for my sister and her kids.
I needed a job urgently 1 evening.
While scouring Craigslist for job opportunities, I stumbled
upon an intriguing one. They were looking for people to
work at ABNB that was about to open.
They needed live in housekeepers, a cook and a front
desk clerk offering a tempting $20.00 an hour, plus free room
and board with weekends off. It was an offer too good to pass
up, even if it meant stepping away from my career field.
I called the number listed in the Craigslist ad and a man with
a Southern accent answered. I expressed my interest and
suggested I could come in for an interview the following day.
However, he surprised me by insisting that I come that very
evening. It was already late in the
afternoon and darkness was setting in, making it an odd
time for an interview. Nevertheless, he claimed they
were desperate and that my immediate presence would greatly
help. I agreed and asked if I could
bring my friend Jake, who was also job hunting.
The man agreed, gave me his name and provided the address.
I informed my sister and her children about my plans and
despite their concerns and warnings about responding to
Craigslist ads, I headed out to explore this job opportunity.
I picked up Jake and together we embarked on the journey to the
mysterious job interview. As we drove, Jake expressed his
skepticism about these seemingly too good to be true $20.00 an
hour jobs, but my desperation pushed me to believe that it
could be legitimate. The drive took us deep into
rural wooded areas far from the main city.
It was a long journey filled with endless trees lining both
sides of the road. Upon arrival, we found the BNB
sitting back from the road, resembling a Southern plantation
house. A skinny young man named Jordan
greeted us on the porch. His appearance was more fitting
for a skater park than ABNB. He wore a peculiar smile as he
welcomed us and mentioned that we were the 4th and 5th
applicants interviewed that day. He added that the previous
applicant had been hired on the spot.
This raised eyebrows since immediate hiring was a rarity.
Without much thought, we followed Jordan into the BNB.
He led us to the kitchen and mentioned that Michael would
also like us. Just as Jake began to reply, a
tall, imposing figure suddenly appeared behind us, towering
over us like a professional wrestler.
This was Michael, the owner of the BNB.
After the introductions, he guided us through various rooms
and shared that Charlie, his brother, was the mastermind
behind the operation. While he, along with his son
Jordan and daughter Marissa, would manage the day-to-day
affairs. Michael explained that Charlie
had some affiliation with the government, piquing my
curiosity. However, when I inquired about
the nature of Charlie's government work, Michael evaded
the question and redirected us to his office for the interview.
Entering Michael's office, we were met with a chilling sight.
Shelves and tables adorned with taxidermy and embalmed animals,
Deer, alligators, wolves, and even a boar's head were on
display. Although bizarre, I brushed it
off as a quirky hobby. Jake and I sat down at Michael's
desk, ready for the interview, but it soon became evident that
this interview was anything but ordinary.
Michael asked a series of bizarre personal questions that
were completely unrelated to the job.
He inquired about our last physicals, prescription
medications, and other intrusive details.
It felt inappropriate and unnerving, but Michael insisted
that it was for workplace safety reasons.
I considered leaving, suspecting this might be a scam, but
desperation for a job and Michael's reassurances convinced
me to stay. Michael concluded the interview
by declaring that we were hired. Relief washed over me.
I finally had a job. Michael then showed us around
the BNB, revealing it's dilapidated condition.
Only four rooms were remotely presentable.
The rest were in terrible disrepair, including one with
significant water damage from a recent roof leak.
We also met Marissa, Michael's daughter, who appeared
dishevelled and disconnected. I didn't want to be rude, so I
ignored her condition. We met the other employees,
Katrina and Rob, and encountered Charlie, who exuded an eerie,
emotionless aura. He showed little interest in US.
I assumed our visit was over and we'd return on Monday to begin
work. However, Michael had one last
surprise in store, a walk through the wooded nature trail
on the property, which he believed would attract guests.
Although it was already dark, he handed us flashlights and armed
himself with a shotgun. Jake and I hesitated, feeling
uneasy about following a stranger into the woods at
night, especially one wielding A firearm.
But we didn't want to jeopardize our new found employment.
We trekked along the trail, Michael discussing plans for
picnic tables and bonfires. It wasn't long before I heard
faint murmurs and whispers in the distance.
The eerie sounds grew louder as we venture deeper into the
woods. Jake and I exchanged alarmed
glances. We weren't alone in hearing this
unsettling chorus. Michael remained oblivious to
the whispers, and we continued following him.
Suddenly I spotted a dim light through the trees and we
stumbled upon a clearing. A blazing fire illuminated the
area, revealing about half a dozen figures dressed in black
hooded robes. To the left, obscured from our
view, lay something gruesome, A mangled animal with blood
evident. Realization hit us like a
freight train we had walked into, a gathering of a cult or
ritualistic group. Michael turned to us with a
twisted smile, proclaiming it to be the beginning of a hunting
ritual. Panic set in as we realized we
were in grave danger. Michael raised his shotgun and
fired it into the air, yelling something about the hunt, frozen
with fear. I couldn't move.
This couldn't be happening, but it was undeniably real.
We had either stumbled into an elaborate scam or something far
more sinister. Jake snapped out of it before I
did. Ryan, run, he shouted, sprinting
back toward the trail. We dashed through the woods,
blindly following the path, our hearts pounding.
Gunshots echoed behind us, accompanied by furious shouts in
pursuit. We zigzagged, unable to tell
where the shots were coming from.
By some miracle, we made it back to my truck.
Unlock the door and speed away just as the group closed in on
us, firing at my tires, Jake suggested going straight to the
police, but I knew our story would sound too absurd to be
believed. We opted to remain silent about
the ordeal and told my sister and nephews that the job wasn't
a good fit. Weeks later, I secured a job at
a local fast food restaurant, and Jake and I never spoke about
that fateful night. Again, I avoided passing by the
BNB, always on edge, fearing they might come after us.
Six months later, I moved to another state for better job
opportunities. To this day, I still have
nightmares haunted by the possibility that Charlie might
recruit others for a similar sinister scheme.
So I implore you, be cautious when responding to Craigslist
ads. If it could happen to me and
Jake, it could happen to anyone. Stay safe and trust your
instincts. I've always had a knack for
finding the perfect spots for camping, a skill I attribute to
my years growing up in the Wilds of Georgia.
This time, my choice was Eatonville, WA.
It was a picturesque town, the kind that you'd imagine on a
postcard or in a dream, nestled between lush green hills and
clear starry skies. We arrived in the late
afternoon, the sun casting a golden hue over the landscape.
My wife Anna hummed a soft tune as she helped set up the camper,
while our kids Sarah and Joey ran around in the open space,
their laughter echoing through the trees.
The youngest little Lily was just a year old, snug in her
portable crib. Gazing at the new surroundings
with wide, curious eyes, I lit the grill, the smell of cooking
burgers mingling with the fresh pine air.
Anna set the picnic table, her hands moving deftly as she laid
out the plates and utensils. We had a simple rule.
No phones, no tablets, just us and nature.
It was our way of reconnecting, A brief escape from the chaos of
city life. As night fell, we gathered
around the campfire. I cracked open a beer and
watched the flames dance, their light reflecting in my family's
eyes. It was moments like these that I
lived for the quiet simplicity of being surrounded by the ones
I loved. We roasted marshmallows, and I
shared stories from my childhood tales of camping trips and close
encounters with wildlife. The kids listened, their eyes
wide with wonder. The first two nights passed
peacefully. The days were spent exploring
the trails and the nights stargazing and telling stories.
I slept soundly those nights, the kind of deep sleep that you
only get when your mind is at ease.
But the third night, everything changed.
I woke up suddenly, my heart pounding in my chest.
It was past midnight, and an eerie silence enveloped the
camper. Then I heard it.
A whooping sound, distant yet distinct, breaking the stillness
of the night. It was unlike anything I'd ever
heard, a chilling, guttural cry that sent shivers down my spine.
Anna stirred beside me, her eyes wide with fear.
Hunter, What was that? She whispered.
I shook my head, unsure. We listened intently, the sound
growing closer. It was accompanied by a stench
so foul it made my stomach churn.
A mix of hot garbage and rotting roadkill.
I peered through the window with a dim yellow light from our
outdoor setup, barely piercing the darkness.
Maybe it's a bear, Anna suggested, her voice trembling.
But I knew better. I'd encountered bears before,
and this was different. This creature, whatever it was,
seemed to move with an eerie intelligence, its presence
unnerving. Anna clutched my hand, her
fingers cold. Our kids slept soundly,
blissfully unaware of the terror lurking just outside.
I felt a protective instinct kick in, a primal urge to keep
my family safe. The creature let out another
whoop, louder this time right outside our camper.
The RV trembled slightly, and I held my breath, praying for it
to pass. That night, as we lay in fear, I
knew our peaceful camping trip had turned into something we'd
never forget. Something was out there in the
dark and it was too close for comfort, lying in our camper, my
heart racing. I felt a sense of dread wash
over me. The eerie whooping sound outside
seemed to Pierce through the walls, each cry more unsettling
than the last. Anna clung to me, her body
trembling with fear. I tried to reassure her, but my
voice was a mere whisper, lost in the chaos of the moment.
As the creature circled our camper, its immense size became
apparent. Even in the dim glow of our
outdoor lights, I could make out a towering, shadowy figure,
moving with an unsettling grace. The stench that accompanied it
was suffocating, an assault on the senses that made my stomach
churn. I've spent enough time in the
wild to know the sounds and behaviors of most animals, but
this was different. This was no bear.
Its movements were too deliberate, too intelligent.
It let out a low growl, a sound so foreign and menacing that it
chilled me to the bone. Anna's tears streamed down her
cheeks in silent terror. We huddled together, trying to
make ourselves as small and as quiet as possible.
The kids, thank God, remained asleep, oblivious to the
nightmare unfolding just outside.
The creatures whooping intensified a haunting chorus
that seemed to shake the very air.
It was right in front of our RV now.
The camper trembled with each of its movements, A terrifying
reminder of its immense power. I remembered the stories I'd
heard, tales of Bigfoot, creatures of legend that roamed
the remote corners of the world. I'd always dismissed them as
just that, stories. But now, in the heart of the
Washington wilderness, I wasn't so sure.
The minutes stretched into what felt like hours, each second, a
test of our courage. I held my breath, listening as
the sounds gradually moved away, the whooping growing fainter
until it finally disappeared into the night.
When the silence returned, it was a cold comfort.
We were safe for the moment, but the fear lingered, A tangible
presence in the cramped space of the camper.
I didn't sleep for the rest of the night.
Instead, I watched the first light of dawn creep through the
windows, the beauty of the morning a stark contrast to the
horrors of the night. As the sun rose, casting its
warm glow over the campsite, I knew our lives had changed.
We had come to Eatonville in search of peace and found
ourselves face to face with a mystery as old as the hills
themselves. That morning, as we stepped out
of the camper, we were greeted by the sight of other campers,
their faces etched with the same mix of fear and curiosity that I
felt. They too, had heard the sounds,
the whooping that had shattered the stillness of the night.
Together we gathered around the unmistakable evidence, left
behind a set of colossal footprints unlike anything any
of us had ever seen. It was a moment of shared
disbelief, A realization that we had encountered something truly
extraordinary. The sense of wonder was
overshadowed by a primal fear, a reminder of our vulnerability in
the face of the unknown. As we packed up our belongings,
ready to leave this place behind, I couldn't shake the
feeling that we had stumbled upon a secret, a hidden truth
that lay just beyond the reach of understanding.
Our encounter in Eatonville would stay with us, a haunting
memory of the night when the legend of Bigfoot became all too
real, the light of dawn did little to ease the tension that
had settled over the campsite. I stepped out of the camper,
Anna close behind me, her eyes still red from the night's
tears, the kids thankfully unaware of the night's ordeal.
We're curious about the sudden change in our plans.
We're heading home, early adventures over, I told them,
trying to mask the tremor in my voice.
Outside, the camp was abuzz with activity.
Other campers, faces drawn with a mix of fear and intrigue, were
gathered in small clusters. They spoke in hushed tones,
pointing at something on the ground.
I walked over my curiosity, overcoming my apprehension.
There, right in front of our camper, were the footprints.
They were unlike anything I'd ever seen.
Enormous, deep imprints that bore the unmistakable outline of
a massive foot, much larger than any human or known animal.
They carved a path through the campsite, a physical testament
to the reality of the previous night's terror.
Did you guys hear that thing last night?
I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Nods and murmurs of agreement met my question.
One camper, a middle-aged man with a weather beaten, face
pointed at the footprints. Look what it did right in front
of your camper, he said, his tone a mix of awe and disbelief.
The sight of the footprint sent a shiver down my spine.
They were real, tangible proof that what we had experienced was
no dream, no figment of our imagination.
This was something else, something beyond the realm of
normal understanding. The air was thick with the scent
of pine and the lingering, unspoken fear of the unknown.
People took photos, their cameras clicking in a desperate
attempt to capture the inexplicable.
I stood there, rooted to the spot, my mind racing with
questions that had no answers. The decision to leave was
unanimous. 1 by 1 the campers packed up their belongings,
eager to put distance between themselves and the unexplained
mystery of the night. Even the campsite manager, a
gruff no nonsense type, seemed unsettled as he issued refunds.
We packed up in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
The drive back was quiet, the usual chatter and laughter
absent. The encounter had left a mark on
us, a shadow that lingered in the corners of our minds.
Once home, I felt compelled to report the incident.
I reached out to the Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization
BFRO, detailing our experience and the evidence we had found.
Their response was measured, skeptical, yet intrigued.
They promised to investigate, but I knew the chances of
finding anything conclusive were slim.
The days that followed were a blur of normalcy, a stark
contrast to the surreal experience we had lived through.
But Normal felt different now, tinged with the knowledge of
something unexplainable, something that defied logic and
understanding. As I lay in bed each night, the
memories of that encounter played over in my mind the
whooping sound, the enormous footprints, the fear and wonder
they inspired. It was a reminder of the
mysteries that lay hidden in the wild places of the world, a
testament to the fact that despite our advancements and
knowledge, there are still things beyond our comprehension.
Eatonville, once a place of peace and relaxation, had become
something else to us, a symbol of the unknown, a reminder of
the night when our world was turned upside down.
We had come seeking a simple camping trip and left with a
story that would haunt us for the rest of our lives.
The days following our return from Eatonville passed in a haze
of normalcy, but beneath the surface, the memory of that
night lingered like a stubborn fog when the Bigfoot Field
Researchers organization BFRO contacted me saying they were
heading to the campsite, but part of me felt a rush of
relief. Maybe they could make sense of
what we had encountered. I met the BFRO team at the
campsite a few days later. The drive back was surreal, each
mile bringing me closer to the place I had sworn to leave.
Behind the team was a mix of seasoned researchers and
enthusiastic volunteers, their equipment a testament to their
dedication. We walk through the campsite,
the memories flooding back as I showed them where we had found
the footprints. The BFRO team moved with a
professional detachment, measuring the prints, taking
soil samples and discussing theories in low, serious tones.
I watched them, a bystander in my own story, feeling a mix of
hope and skepticism, one of the researchers, a woman named
Doctor Hayes, approached me. We've seen prints like these
before, she said. But it's rare to find them so
well preserved. Her eyes held a spark of
excitement, the thrill of the chase evident in her voice as
the day wore on. The team combed through the
area, their cameras and recording equipment at the
ready. They interviewed other campers
who had stayed nearby, collecting stories and
sightings. Each piece of evidence added to
the puzzle, but the picture remained incomplete.
Night fell, and with it, an unsettling quiet.
The BFRO team set up night vision cameras and audio
recorders, hoping to capture any lingering presence.
I stayed with them, my curiosity outweighing my apprehension.
The woods seemed different in the darkness, every rustle of
leaves and snap of a twig magnifying the tension.
But the night passed without incident.
No mysterious sounds, no unexplained movements, just the
quiet in different forest and the stars overhead.
Bearing silent witness to our search in the morning, Doctor
Hayes shared their findings, or lack thereof.
It's not uncommon for these investigations to yield more
questions than answers, she admitted.
The disappointment in her voice mirrored my own.
As the BFRO packed up their equipment preparing to leave,
Doctor Hayes offered a small smile.
This doesn't mean it's over, she said.
We'll keep looking. Keep investigating.
These mysteries have a way of revealing themselves in time.
I watched them drive away, the dust from their vehicles
settling back onto the empty Rd. The campsite was quiet again,
the excitement of the investigation replaced by a
palpable sense of mystery. On the drive home, I reflected
on the experience. The encounter in Eatonville had
opened a door to a world I had never truly believed in.
The lack of conclusive evidence from the BFRO didn't deter my
newfound curiosity. If anything, it fueled it.
The mystery of Bigfoot, once a mere legend, had become a part
of my story, a chapter in my life that remained unwritten.
The unknown had a way of drawing you in, of keeping you searching
for answers in the shadows of the unexplained.
And as I drove back to the familiarity of my life, I knew
one thing for certain. The search for answers would
continue, both for the bfro and for me.
In the weeks following the Eatonville incident, life
returned to a semblance of normalcy, but the shadows of
that night lingered in the corners of my mind.
At home, surrounded by the familiar.
The experience felt surreal, like a fragment of 1/2
remembered dream. Yet the footprints etched in my
memory and the whooping sound that echoed in my dreams were
reminders of a reality that defied explanation.
Anna and I didn't talk much about that night.
It was as if by acknowledging it, we'd give it power, let it
seep further into our lives. But the unspoken understanding
hung between us, a shared experience that had subtly
shifted the contours of our world.
The kids, thankfully oblivious to the true nature of our early
departure, had moved on. Their resilience, a stark
contrast to our silent grappling little Lily, with her innocent
gaze, remained a source of light.
In the shadow of our unease, I found myself drawn to the lore
of Bigfoot, an interest I had never entertained before.
It was a pursuit of understanding, of trying to make
sense of what we had encountered.
The Internet was a rabbit hole of theories, sightings, and
skepticisms. I read accounts that mirrored
our own stories of peaceful nights turned into encounters
with the unknown. Yet in each story, the mystery
remained a question mark hanging over the reality we thought we
knew. The BFRO reached out
occasionally, updating me on their ongoing investigations.
They hadn't found anything conclusive, but their dedication
to unraveling the mystery was a source of comfort.
It was a reassurance that we weren't alone in our experience,
that there were others who believed, who sought answers as
the seasons changed, the lure of the wild called to me.
But the thought of returning to Eatonville, to that campsite,
was a line I wasn't ready to cross.
The wilderness, once a refuge, now, held, an undercurrent of
unease, a reminder of the thin veil between the known and the
unknown. I took to spending evenings on
our porch, gazing at the woods that bordered our home.
The sounds of the night, once a Symphony of nature's
tranquility, now carried a hint of mystery.
Each rustle of leaves, each distant call, seemed to hold a
deeper significance, a whispered hint of the secrets hidden in
the depths of the wild. The encounter had changed me,
not just in my perception of the world, but in my understanding
of myself. I had always prided myself on my
rationality, my grounded view of life.
But faced with the unexplainable, I found my
beliefs challenged, my skepticism, giving way to a
cautious openness to the mysteries of the world.
In quiet moments, I would find Anna looking out at the woods,
her expression a mix of wonder and apprehension.
It was a look I understood all too well.
Our journey had taken us beyond the boundaries of our ordinary
lives, into a realm where legends tread the line of
reality. The Eatonville encounter, A
fleeting moment in the grand tapestry of life, had left an
indelible mark. It was a reminder of the vast,
unexplored mysteries that lay just beyond our understanding,
an invitation to embrace the unknown with a sense of awe and
reverence. As I sat there, the night
unfolding around me, I realized that our encounter with the
unknown was not an end, but a beginning.
A beginning of a journey into the depths of the unexplored, A
journey not just through the wilderness but within ourselves.
In the stillness of the night. I knew one thing for certain.
The world was far more mysterious and wondrous than we
could ever imagine, and our story was just one thread in its
vast, unfolding mystery. The night air was cool and crisp
as I sat by the campfire with my grandfather.
We were in his backyard, deep in the heart of the Arizona desert,
a place where the sky stretched endlessly, painted in shades of
purple as night fell. Stars twinkled like distant
fires, and the moon, full and imposing, hung low over the
distant mountains, casting a soft glow over the rugged
landscape. My grandfather, a man whose life
story was etched in the lines of his weathered face, had a voice
that crackled like the dry wood in our fire.
It was a raspy, gravelly sound, the result of too many cigars
and sips of whiskey over the years.
His eyes, wide and dark, seem to reflect the flames as he settled
into his chair, an old but sturdy thing that creaked under
his weight way back when. I was a boy about your age, he
began, his voice taking on a distant, reflective tone.
I leaned in closer, the fire's warmth comforting against the
desert's nocturnal chill. My grandfather live just outside
an Apache reservation with my great grandfather, a tough man
who would come back from the war and started a ranch raising
horses and cattle. The land was tough, rough with
dirt, good for growing nothing but thorn brush.
He continued, his eyes glazing over as if he was seeing the
past unfold before him. He spoke of a night long ago,
when his mother fell. I'll He and his father had to
drive to town for medicine, a journey of about 50 miles
through the desert, over a Creek that had long since dried up,
passing old, abandoned farmsteads that stood like
ghosts in the moonlight. As he spoke, a log in the fire
cracked sharply, making me jump. The sudden sound seemed to break
the spell of his story, and I found myself eagerly asking what
happened next. Grandpa?
He chuckled, a low, throaty sound.
Settle down, boy, You'll hear soon enough.
His tone was serious now, almost somber as he delved back into
the story. They were driving in an old Ford
pickup truck, he told me, the kind that seemed as tough and
rugged as the men who drove it. The darkness was thick, the only
light coming from the trucks, headlights slicing through the
night. He recalled, the engine
beginning to sputter, the truck slowing to a jerky Stop.
God damn it, his father had muttered, guiding the vehicle to
the side of the road. The truck coasted to a halt and
his father stepped out into the inky darkness.
I could almost feel the cool desert air as he described it,
breezy and refreshing against his hot face and neck.
His father was getting water from the back to cool the engine
when my grandfather smelled it, a stench like rotten eggs,
sulphur. His nose also picked up the
smell of carrion, reminding him of dead cattle bloating under
the scorching sun until they burst.
The stench was so foul he gagged, and a strange tingling
sensation spread across his skin.
Just then the wind died down, leaving the air heavy and still.
The cab of the truck filled with the stench, but there was no
answer. My grandfather's heart pounded
in his chest, a fear unlike any he had known gripping him.
He locked the door, reached over to lock his father's door, and
that's when he saw it, a shadow moving swiftly across the road,
illuminated briefly by the dim light of the truck's headlights.
It was something inexplicable, something that made his blood
run cold. My grandfather paused his story,
spitting a wad of tobacco into the fire, his gaze lost in the
flames. I realized I had been holding my
breath, the suspense of his tail gripping me.
I was sweating, despite the coolness of the night.
Well, what happened? What about your father?
What did you see? I asked, my voice barely above a
whisper. He sighed, a deep, weary sound.
A creature, he said, his voice barely audible.
But it's more than just that. You see, there are legends, old
legends, about creatures like the one I saw that night.
I sat there under the starry sky, listening intently as my
grandfather wove his tail. A story that would stay with me
for the rest of my life. I'll never forget that night,
driving through the Arizona desert with my grandfather.
The road stretched out before us like a dark ribbon, winding
through a landscape that felt as ancient as time itself.
The truck's headlights cut through the night, casting eerie
shadows across the abandoned farmsteads that dotted our path.
My grandfather's tail, steeped in mystery and the supernatural,
had me completely captivated. He described how as a young boy.
He and his father set off on a seemingly mundane trip to town,
a journey that would soon turn into a night of unforgettable
terror. The truck, a sturdy old Ford,
rattled along the rough desert roads, its engine humming a
steady rhythm. In the otherwise silent night,
the only signs of life were the occasional cacti and brush that
dotted the barren landscape as they drove.
The sky above was a blanket of darkness, pierced only by the
sharp glints of stars. My grandfather recalled the
sense of isolation, how the desert seemed to swallow them
whole, leaving them utterly alone under the vast, unyielding
sky. But then, without warning, their
journey was halted. The trucks engine began to
sputter and cough, its rhythm faltering until it came to a
jerky stop. My grandfather remembered his
father's curse, a sharp exclamation lost in the vastness
of the desert. He watched as his father, a
silhouette against the dark, moved to fix the truck, leaving
him alone inside the vehicle. That's when the atmosphere
shifted. The cool desert air, once a
relief against the heat of the day, now felt charged with an
unspoken threat. A sense of foreboding washed
over him, prickling his skin and setting his nerves on edge.
He described the smell that hit him then, a stench of sulphur
and decay so potent it made him gag.
It was an unnatural, unsettling odor that seemed out of place in
the dry desert air. His heart pounded in his chest,
a drum beat of fear escalating with each passing. 2nd His calls
for his father went unanswered, the silence of the desert.
Swallowing his voice, he remembered the stillness that
followed, A suffocating calm that hung heavily around him.
And in that stillness he sensed something else, a presence,
something lurking just beyond the reach of the trucks, dim
headlights. It was then that he saw it, a
shadow moving swiftly across the road.
It was only a glimpse, but enough to send a jolt of terror
Through him. The creature, whatever it was,
moved with a grace that belied its size, disappearing into the
darkness as quickly as it had appeared.
My grandfather paused his story, his eyes reflecting the flames
of our campfire. I could see the impact that
moment had on him, even after all these years.
The fear he felt as a boy was almost tangible in the air
between us. What was it, Grandpa?
What did you see? I asked, my voice trembling with
a mix of fear and excitement. He looked at me, his eyes grave.
I didn't know then, he said slowly.
But I would soon learn the truth.
That night, I came face to face with something from the old
legends, something that defied explanation, something that
would haunt me for the rest of my life.
Sitting across the campfire, my heart pounding in my chest, I
listened as my grandfather continued his harrowing tale
from that fateful night in the Arizona desert.
His voice, roughened by time and memories, carried a weight that
made the story all the more real and terrifying.
He spoke of the moment right after seeing the shadow dart
across the road, alone in the truck with his father nowhere
insight, he felt a deep, primal fear.
The desert, once a familiar place, now seemed alien and
menacing. The stench of sulphur and decay
hung heavy in the air, a reminder of the presence he had
just witnessed. Then my grandfather began to
explain about the legends he had heard as a boy.
Stories passed down through generations of Native Americans.
He spoke of the Skinwalkers, beings of ancient myth steeped
in dark magic and mystery. According to the lore,
Skinwalkers were once warriors who, through a deal with the
spirits, gained the power to transform into animals, taking
on not only their physical forms but some of their essence as
well. He described these creatures in
vivid detail, beings that walked on the hind legs of deer with
the sinewy, muscular torso of a man and the head of a coyote,
but all wrong, distorted and grotesque.
Their mouths were filled with teeth, sharp as Bowie knives,
and their eyes, he said, glowed with a malevolence that could
chill one's soul. As he spoke, I could almost see
the creature in my mind's eye, a nightmarish figure straight out
of a Horror Story. He told me how these skinwalkers
were feared among the tribes. Known for their cunning and
ruthlessness, they were tricksters, able to mimic human
voices, luring unsuspecting victims into their grasp.
But what scared me the most was the power they possessed, the
ability to wear the skin of another person, to become them,
if only for a short time. This was why they were named
Skinwalkers. It was a chilling thought to
imagine a creature that could take on the appearance of
someone you knew, someone you loved, and use it against you.
My grandfather's voice trembled slightly as he recounted his
thoughts from that night alone in the truck.
He had grappled with a terrifying possibility.
What if the creature had taken his father's form?
The thought had paralyzed him with fear, the uncertainty of it
more frightening than any ghost story.
He paused, looking into the fire as if it held answers to the
mysteries of that night. I could see the burden of those
long ago events in his eyes, the way they seem to look beyond the
fire, beyond me, into a past filled with shadows and fear.
What happened to your father? I asked, my voice barely above a
whisper caught up in the spell of his story.
My grandfather sighed, a sound of weariness and age.
He came back, he said. But for a moment I didn't know
if it was him or something else. That uncertainty, that fear of
not knowing, it stayed with me for a long time.
The fire crackled between us, a barrier against the darkness of
the night. I sat there, listening as the
tale of the skinwalker unfolded, a story that blurred the lines
between legend and reality, leaving me to wonder at the
mysteries that lay hidden in the depths of the Arizona desert.
The fire crackled and popped, casting eerie shadows across my
grandfather's face as he reached the climax of his story.
The night around us seemed to hold its breath, the stars
twinkling like distant, watchful eyes in the vast Arizona sky.
I leaned forward, hanging on every word, completely engrossed
in the tail of the skinwalker. My father eventually came back.
My grandfather continued, his voice heavy with the weight of
the memory. He climbed into the cab of the
truck, his movements awkward and strained.
For a moment I was frozen, my mind racing with fear.
Was this really my father, or had the skinwalker taken his
form? The way he described that moment
sent chills down my spine. I could almost feel the same
paralyzing fear he must have felt as a young boy, alone in
the dark, with a creature of nightmares lurking nearby.
The fear of not knowing if the person next to you was really
who they appeared to be was a terrifying thought.
My grandfather told me how he scrutinized his father,
searching for any sign that might reveal the truth.
The tension in the truck was palpable, a thick, suffocating
blanket of uncertainty and fear. Finally, his father spoke,
mentioning getting the medicine. For my great grandmother it was
such a simple, mundane statement, but to my grandfather
it was enough to confirm that this was indeed his father.
But how could you be sure? I asked, unable to contain my
curiosity. My grandfather looked at me, a
hint of sorrow in his eyes. I wasn't completely sure, not
until I saw it. The skinwalker running alongside
our truck, keeping pace with us as we drove.
It was a horrifying sight, its eyes glowing yellow in the
darkness, its mouth twisted into a sinister grin.
He described how the creature ran with an unnatural speed,
It's twisted form of blur in the night.
My grandfather's father kept his eyes fixed on the road, his
hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.
Don't look at it, he had warned in a stern, urgent voice.
That was the moment my grandfather knew for sure that
the man beside him was his father.
The story concluded with them arriving back home safely, but
the experience left a lasting impact on my grandfather.
He spoke of how the encounter with the Skinwalker had changed
him, how it had opened his eyes to the mysteries and terrors
that lay hidden in the world. As he finished his tale, the
fire between us had dwindled, 2 embers casting a soft, warm glow
in the cool desert night. I sat there processing the
story, feeling a mix of fear, awe and wonder.
The line between legend and reality seemed thinner than
ever, the mysteries of the desert more profound and
unfathomable. My grandfather leaned back in
his chair, looking up at the starry sky.
That's the power of the old legends, he said softly.
They teach us that there's more to this world than what we see,
that there are things beyond our understanding.
I nodded, A newfound respect for the old tales and the mysteries
they held filling my heart. The story of the Skinwalker, a
tale of fear, bravery, and the unknown would stay with me
forever. A haunting reminder of the
mysteries that lay hidden in the vast, enigmatic desert.