This happened at a certain State Park in Arkansas, which will
remain nameless. I had been working there for a
few years and can attest to its beauty.
It's the kind of place that makes you feel small in the best
possible way, like you're just a tiny part of something much
bigger, something older than yourself.
As a Ranger, my job was to ensure the park was safe and
accessible for visitors while protecting the natural
environment. There's a balance to it, not
always an easy one. You get all kinds.
The seasoned outdoorsman who know the trails like the back of
their hand, the families with young kids who are just there
for a weekend camp out, and those city slickers who think
roughing it means a cabin without Wi-Fi.
Most of the time it's pretty routine stuff, giving directions
and enforcing park rules. Sometimes I help out with a
twisted ankle or a lost hiker. But every once in a while,
something happens that reminds you that the wilderness isn't
always as friendly as it appears.
It started with a few strange reports from hikers.
They'd come into the Ranger station looking confused and
unsettled, telling stories of hearing voices out on the
trails, voices that sounded human but not quite right.
One woman, an experienced hiker in her 50s, swore she had heard
a child crying just off the trail.
It sounded so real, she said. Her hands trembled as she
clutched her hiking poles. I thought maybe a little one had
wandered away from their family. I called out, but no one
answered. Then she paused, her eyes
distant. Then the crying turned into
laughter. It wasn't happy either.
It was cruel, almost mocking. I felt like something out there
wanted to trick me. Another hiker, a young man who
had been camping solo, reported hearing someone whispering his
name near his tent in the middle of the night.
I thought maybe I was dreaming at first, he said.
But then I heard it again, louder.
It sounded like it was coming from just outside.
I grabbed my flashlight and looked out, but there was no one
around. Reports like these were quite
unsettling, but they weren't necessarily unheard of.
The woods can play tricks on your mind, especially if you're
not used to being in such a quiet, isolated place Alone.
Sounds can carry strangely, too, and an overactive imagination
can easily turn a gust of wind or a rustling animal into
something sinister. Still, something about these
reports felt different. The consistency of the stories
and the specific details sounded like these people had
encountered something that was actively trying to mess with
them. The other Rangers and I started
to compare notes, trying to see if there was a pattern to this.
The reports seem to be concentrated around a specific
area of the park, a dense patch of old growth forest that wasn't
heavily trafficked by hikers. We decided to do some extra
patrols in that area, just to be safe.
But even in broad daylight, with the comfort of a partner by your
side, there was something about those woods that felt off.
The air seemed heavier there, the shadows deeper.
It was like the trees were watching you too, whispering
secrets just beyond the range of our hearing.
One evening, after a long day of patrols, a group of US Rangers
were sitting around the wood stove in one of the park cabins.
This had become a bit of a tradition, a chance to unwind,
swap stories, maybe play a few rounds of cards before heading
home for the night. The conversation inevitably
turned to the strange reports we've been getting.
We all had our theories. A prank by some local kids or
some weird acoustic phenomenon. One of the guys even said it was
a rare type of bird that could mimic human sounds really well.
One of the older Rangers spoke up.
He had a reputation for being a bit of a storyteller and
superstitious, but there was no twinkle in his eye as he leaned
forward, voice low and serious. Ever hear something called a
Wendigo? He asked.
A few of us shook our heads. I felt a chill run down my
spine. I'd heard of it before, in some
half remembered folklore, a Native American legend, Jake
continued. A creature that was once human
but became something else, something evil.
They say it happens when a person resorts to cannibalism
out of desperation or madness. It changes them, twist them into
a monster that's never satisfied, always hungry for
human flesh. Sure, one of the younger Rangers
said, looking skeptical. Wendigo, If that was even the
case, what does that have to do with the voices?
The Wendigo is a mimic, the older man said.
Legend has it it can imitate human voices, lure people in and
make them think they're hearing a friend or a loved one in
distress. And then when you're close
enough. He snapped his fingers,
startling most of us. Silence fell over the room.
I could hear the wind whistling through the trees outside, the
crackle of the fire on the stove.
It's just a legend. Just a fairy tale, guys.
Nothing real about it, someone said, but the old man shrugged.
Most legends have some truth to them.
And I'll tell you this, I've been working these woods for a
long time. Y'all know that.
And I ain't never heard nothing like these reports before.
I think something's out there, and I think it ain't no bird.
We exchanged uneasy glances. The idea of a mythical, menacing
monster stalking the woods was absurd.
Then again, so were the stories we've been hearing from the
hikers. We decided to keep a closer eye
on things, maybe do some research into the history of the
area, see if there had ever been any strange disappearances, any
old stories that might shed some light on what was really going
on. I volunteered to take the lead
on the research. I've always been interested in
local history and folklore. I figured it wouldn't hurt to
know more about the place I worked at, but the horror would
soon turn very real. And it all started with a
routine solo patrol on a crisp autumn morning when the mist
hung low over the trails. Because that was the day I heard
the voice myself. The morning started like any
other. I arrived at the Ranger station
just as the sun was starting to peek through the trees, casting
long shadows across the parking lot.
I checked in with dispatch, grabbed my gear, and set out on
my assigned patrol route. I was headed towards the area
where most of the strange reports had been coming from.
That area that I mentioned before, the old growth forest.
The place was very steep and rocky, too.
The trail there was narrow and winding, Easy to lose if you
weren't paying attention, but I worked here.
I had hiked this route dozens of times before, but let me tell
you, something felt different that morning.
The air was unusually still and the forest seemed quieter than
normal. Even the birds were silent, as
if they were holding their breath, waiting for something to
happen. I tried to shake it off,
chalking it up to the stories we've been hearing and the late
night talk of Wendigo's around the wood stove.
I'm a grown man, I reminded myself and a Ranger at that.
I knew these woods. I knew there was nothing out
here that I couldn't handle. About an hour into my hike, I
stopped for a water break at a small clearing.
It was a peaceful spot, with a fallen log that made a perfect
bench and a view of the valley below through a gap in the
trees. As I took a swig from my
canteen, I heard it, a voice coming from somewhere off the
trail behind me. Please help.
I froze, the water still in my mouth.
The voice sounded like a child, a little girl.
It was faint but clear and filled with a desperate pleading
tone. I swallowed, put down the
canteen and called back. Hello.
Is someone out there? Silence, But then again, a
little louder. Please help me.
I was already moving, plunging into the underbrush in the
direction of the voice. My training kicked in.
I knew I should radio for backup, but there wasn't time.
If there was a child out there, lost or hurt, every second
counted. I crashed through the bushes,
thorns, snagging at my uniform. That voice seemed to be moving,
always just ahead of me, somehow leading me deeper into the
trees. I'm coming, I shouted.
Stay where you are, I'm coming to help.
And then, abruptly, the voice changed.
The pleading tone shifted, morphed into something else.
Something darker Found you, it whispered, and I could swear I
felt breath on the back of my neck.
I spun around, my heart hammering in my chest.
There was no one there, just the trees, the underbrush, the
dappled sunlight through the leaves.
I stood there for a moment, trying to catch my breath,
trying to make sense of what I had just heard.
Maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me, an
auditory illusion brought on by stress and suggestion.
But then I heard something else, a sound just on the edge of my
hearing. That sound made the hairs on my
arms stand up. My skin crawl.
Got you. It was the girl's voice again,
but twisted now, warped into something unnatural.
I turned in a slow circle, scanning the trees.
Who are you? I demanded, trying to keep my
voice steady. What do you want?
The laughter came again, louder than before.
It seemed to be coming from everywhere, at once, echoing off
the trees. I took a step back, my hand
going to the radio on my belt, but before I could grab it, the
voice spoke again. No cheating, It hissed.
Suddenly it was right behind me, so close I could feel the brush
of air on my ear. I whirled, lashing out with my
fist, but I hit nothing but air. The laughter was all around
again, rising and falling in a sickening wave.
What are you? I shouted.
Even I could hear the desperation in my voice.
What the heck are you? The laugh turned to the laughter
of a child again, But there was nothing innocent about it.
So I ran blundered through the trees, not caring where I was
going, just needing to get away from that voice, that awful
twisted sound. To my horror, it followed me,
darting from tree to tree, always just out of sight.
One moment it was ahead of me, the next behind a man, a woman,
a child. A thing that was none of those
but all of those at once. Run, run, it chanted.
Now I stumbled, then falling to my knees in a tangle of roots
and dead leaves. The voice laughed again, a sound
like breaking glass. I squeezed my eyes shut,
clasping my hands over my ears. This couldn't be happening.
It couldn't be real, but I could still hear it even through my
hands. That horrible mocking laughter.
And underneath it, a sound even worse.
A new sound, wet and tearing, like flesh being pulled from the
bone. I don't really know how long I
sat there, paralyzed with fear. It could have been minutes.
It could have been hours. I mean, at that moment, time
seemed to have no meaning. Eventually the sounds did fade.
The forest grew quiet again, still with that unnatural hush
to it. I opened my eyes, half expecting
to see some horror looming over me.
But there was nothing. Just trees, sunlight, the gentle
rustle of leaves in a breeze I could not feel.
I staggered to my feet, but my legs shook.
I looked around wildly. I was alone.
The voice, that presence, whatever it had been, it was
gone. Now.
I don't recall the hike back to the Ranger station.
That part is a blur in my memory, a jumbled mess of
confusion and terror. I know I must have looked
affright when I stumbled through that door.
I had leaves in my hair and scratches on my face.
My eyes were wide. The other Rangers gathered
around asking questions, trying to make sense of my babbled,
incoherent story. I kept trying to explain it to
them, but nothing I could say would make them understand the
sheer terror I'd felt. And I'm not even sure they
believed me. I'm sure some of them did.
I went home early that day, took a few sick days.
When I was out of sick days, I claimed a family emergency.
Anything to avoid going back for a while.
But I didn't hide forever. I still loved my job, loved the
outdoors. This was only one rare
occurrence out of years of work and even more years of outdoors
experience. I told myself I was just unlucky
and to this very day I still work at that park and I never
did experience anything quite like it again.
I have but one lesson for you from this story.
If you're out alone in the woods, far from other people,
and you hear a voice calling out to you from off the trail, don't
answer it. Autumn had dressed the high
mountains in a shroud of red and gold, a beautiful, quiet death
that comes before the deep sleep of winter.
I'd always loved this time of year in the park, the way the
air turned crisp and the crowds thinned until it was just us
Rangers and the wilderness. But that October was different.
The park was closed earlier than usual, and I was alone, left to
keep watch over a Kingdom of shadows and whispers.
The Ranger station, a sturdy log structure that had weathered
more storms than I could count, felt bigger, emptier.
My footsteps echoed in the quiet as I moved from room to room,
carrying out the routines that marked the passing hours.
I checked the locks on the doors and windows, scanned the
perimeter from the safety of the floodlights, and then settled
into the back office with a mug of coffee that did little to
warm me. To keep the silence at Bay, I'd
take into watching old movies on a small, crackling TV, the
voices of long gone actors filling the space like temporary
ghosts. When the last credits rolled and
static filled the screen, I'd switch to reading that night.
It was a tattered copy of a Louis Lemoore novel, the pages
softened from years of thumbing. Sometimes I'd whittle small
figures from scraps of pine, little bears and deer as rough
and rugged as the land around me.
But the stillness of the mountains was a weighty thing.
It pressed in close, seeping through the walls, whispering,
and every whisper seemed like a harbinger.
By midnight the wind had picked up, rustling through the Pines
outside with a mournful howl that sounded too much like
voices. I tried to lose myself in my
book again, but the plot slipped through my mind like water
through a sieve. It was around 2:00 in the
morning when I first heard it. A soft thud against the side of
the station. Pine cones, I told myself, or
maybe a curious deer nudged by the wind.
But then came another thud and another, each one louder and
more deliberate than the last. My spine stiffened.
I set my book down and stood, my body tense, every sense
straining in the dark. I move slowly to the window, the
cold seeping in as I peeked through the blinds.
The floodlights cast long shadows across the gravel, the
edges of the forest, a black void where any nightmare could
be born. Thud, thud, thud.
The sounds were moving, tracing the perimeter of the building,
drawing ever closer to the front, where the only barrier
between me and whatever was out there was a pane of glass and a
wooden door. My heart thrummed, A frantic
rhythm against my ribs. I considered my options, Radio
for help or confront whatever was stalking through the dark.
Neither choice was appealing. The nearest backup was hours
away. Whatever was going to happen,
would happen before they arrived, thud closer now almost
at the door. My hand moved instinctively to
the pistol holstered at my side. I drew it, the weight familiar
and somewhat comforting. I edged back from the window,
watching the shadows, then silence.
A suffocating, thick silence that felt charged with unspoken
threat. I held my breath, listening,
waiting. The wind had died down now, as
if the mountain itself was holding its breath with me.
Then a violent crash against the door shattered the silence, and
my last shred of hope that this was just a wandering deer.
I retreated my back to the wall, gun aimed at the shaking door.
Whatever was outside wanted in, and it was strong determined.
The door trembled under another impact, wood groaning against
force, and in that moment I knew the Silent Watch had ended and
the night's true face was about to be revealed.
The door buckled under another savage blow, the sound of
splintering wood piercing the night's fragile calm.
I steadied my breathing, my fingers tight around the grip of
my pistol. This wasn't how I imagined my
night would go when I took the last sip of my now forgotten
coffee. For a moment the assault paused.
The silence was almost worse than the noise waiting.
Knowing something was out there, something big enough to shake
the whole building, I crept closer to the window, my
movements slow and deliberate. Peering through the blinds.
I scanned the flood lit gravel for any sign of movement.
Nothing stirred, and yet the sense of being watched was
palpable. As I backed away from the
window, the attack resumed. This time the creature, or
whatever it was, hit the door with such force that the frame
itself protested. My heart raced.
I could almost feel its heavy presence just beyond the thin
barrier. Hold.
I whispered to myself a pointless command.
My training as a Ranger had prepared me for wildlife
encounters, for fires, for lost hikers, not for sieges by
unknown assailants in the dead of night.
With a final thunderous crash, the door gave way.
I jumped back as the dark outline of something immense
filled the doorway. Instinctively, I squeezed the
trigger. The guns report loud in the
confined space. The figure staggered but didn't
fall. Instead, it took a lumbering
step forward into the light. I couldn't make out details,
just a massive, shadowy form, more nightmare than flesh.
My mind scrambled for any logical explanation.
A bear. A prankster in a grotesque
costume, Anything But deep down, I knew this was no bear.
I turned and fled towards the back of the station, my
footsteps echoing my pounding heart.
Slamming the door to the supply room behind me, I fumble with
the keys, locking it just as the first thud hit this new barrier.
Shoving a desk against the door, I set my back to it, gun still
in hand, pointed at the only entry point.
The impacts continued. Each hit a blow to the makeshift
barricade and my dwindling hope. Then, abruptly, the attacks
stopped. Silence descended again, thick
and suffocating, broken only by my ragged breaths.
My radio crackled to life, nearly making me jump out of my
skin. Dave, come in over.
Mike's voice sounded routine and calm, unaware of the chaos.
Mike. Mike, I need help.
I hissed into the radio, keeping my voice low.
Something's trying to get in. It broke down the front door.
I'm trapped. Whoa, slow down.
What's going on? What do you mean, something?
I struggled to find the words. I don't know, Mike.
A bear, Maybe? It's big.
Just get help. All right, sit tight.
I'm calling for backup. Just stay calm and don't do
anything stupid, he replied before the line went dead.
I leaned against the desk gun still aimed at the door, waiting
for the creature to renew its assault.
But outside, the only sound was the wind picking up again,
whispering through the Pines like a warning.
Hours seemed to pass in moments, or maybe moments stretched into
hours. I couldn't tell anymore.
All I knew was that I had never felt so alone, so haunted in all
my years as a Ranger. As the adrenaline began to wane,
fatigue crept in. But I dared not relax my vigil.
Whatever was out there, it was waiting.
And so was I. The weeks following the attack
blurred together like a bad dream.
I couldn't wake up from by day. I threw myself into my duties
with a ferocity that left my colleagues whispering by night.
I lay awake, listening to the wind and wondering if every
Creek and groan was it. Returning to finish what it
started. Animal attacks in the park
escalated. First, a deer brutally mauled
its carcass, A grim tableau amidst the serene beauty of the
fall woods. Then an elk and even a black
bear, each scene more horrific than the last.
None of the kills bore the usual signs of predator attacks.
They were too savage, too messy. It was as if whatever made those
kills did so not out of hunger, but out of rage or sport.
The park staff was on edge, their theories about the attacks
ranging from the plausible to the paranoid.
The Superintendent decided it was time to bring in outside
help. A team of seasoned hunters was
called in, experts in tracking and killing large predators.
I was tasked with guiding them, a job I accepted with grim
determination. I needed answers, and perhaps,
deep down, a part of me craved revenge.
We met at dawn at the Ranger station, the air crisp and
tinged with the last remnants of night chill.
The hunters were a rugged bunch, their gear well worn and their
faces lined with experience. They listened intently as I
briefed them on the situation, their expression serious but
sceptical. We'll find whatever's out there,
the lead hunter, a grizzled old man named Hank, assured me, but
his eyes, I noticed, kept straying to the repaired door of
the station. We set out as the sun began to
brighten the eastern sky, casting long shadows across the
forest floor. The hunters moved quietly,
efficiently, their eyes scanning for signs of our quarry.
I LED them through the areas where the attacks had occurred,
each sight a stark reminder of the night I'd face the unknown.
As we tracked, signs of the creature became increasingly
apparent. Broken branches, disturbed
earth, and most unsettlingly, more kills.
Each site was a chilling echo of the first violent, chaotic, but
no clear tracks, no fur, nothing to definitively say what we were
dealing with On the third day, As the afternoon waned into
evening, we came upon another site.
The remains of a deer lay scattered across a clearing, the
violence of its end written in the blood stained leaves and
trampled underbrush. That's no cougar, one of the
younger hunters muttered, crouching beside a particularly
large piece of torn flesh. No, Hank agreed, his voice low.
It's something else. As we stood there, the forest
around us seemed to hold its breath.
Then a twig snapped, a sharp, clear sound in the quiet.
We all froze, every nerve taut. Slowly, Hank raised his rifle,
his movements deliberate. The rest of us followed suit,
eyes straining through the gathering dusk.
The forest remained still for a long moment, then rustled softly
as a deer bounded across a distant patch of light.
The tension broke, but the unease remained.
That night. Around the campfire, the hunters
spoke in low tones about what the creature could be.
Theories ranged from an escaped exotic animal to something
older, something that didn't belong in any scientific
journal. As the fire crackled in the
darkness, pressed in around us, I found myself listening not to
the conversation, but to the forest, listening for something
moving in the dark, coming closer.
And with each crack and whisper of the woods, I felt the weight
of what we might find, or what might find us growing heavier.
The days of tracking through dense underbrush and over steep
ridges had taken their toll. Our group was quieter now, the
initial bravado tempered by the harsh realities of the
wilderness and the gruesome signs of the creatures passage.
We were deep in the heart of the park, farther than I usually
ventured in a region where the trees grew close and the shadows
lingered. On the 5th day as the sun dipped
below the Ridge, casting the world into early twilight, the
forest around us erupted with a blood curdling scream.
It was almost human, but distorted, feral.
Instinctively, everyone reached for their weapons, our previous
fatigue forgotten in the surge of adrenaline.
Stay sharp, Hank whispered, his eyes scanning the darkening
woods. We move toward the sound, our
steps cautious, rifles at the ready.
The hunters, experienced though they were, wore expressions of
genuine apprehension. The air was thick with the scent
of pine and a faint but unmistakable odor of decay.
We hadn't gone far when we found the source of the scream, a
small clearing where the underbrush had been violently
disturbed. No body, just the signs of
something large having passed through.
Hank knelt, examining the ground.
It came through here fast, he murmured, pointing to the broken
branches and deeply indented earth.
Then, from the trees just ahead, a low growl rumbled, a sound so
deep it seemed more felt than heard.
We froze, every sense straining. There was a palpable presence,
something watching, waiting. Without warning, the creature
appeared at the edge of the clearing.
It was huge, its body shrouded in shadow, eyes reflecting the
dying light like twin coals. It stood on 2 legs, vaguely
humanoid but covered in thick matted fur.
It was like nothing I'd ever seen, both bear and man, yet
neither The hunters reacted instantly, rifles raising in
unison. The creature roared, a sound
that shook the leaves on the trees and charged.
Chaos erupted. Gunfire tore through the silence
of the forest flashes, lighting the clearing like lightning
strikes. The creature moved with
terrifying speed, its form blurring between the trees.
I fired alongside the hunters, the recoil jarring my shoulder
In the confusion, someone shouted a warning or a cry of
pain. I couldn't tell the creatures.
Charge broke our line, scattering us into the woods.
I ran, not looking back, branches whipping my face, lungs
burning with the cold air. I don't know how long I ran
before I stumbled into a stream. The cold water shocked me,
slowing my panicked flight. I splashed through it, every
shadow, a monster, every sound of footstep behind me.
Eventually, exhaustion overcame fear and I stopped, gasping,
listening. The forest was silent again.
No gunshots, no roars, just my ragged breaths and the gentle
rustle of leaves. I was alone, utterly alone.
It took hours to find my way back to the main park roads.
By the time I reached the Ranger station, Dawn was breaking,
painting the sky with streaks of pink and gold.
The others were already there, all except one.
We didn't speak much. The official story was decided
without much debate. A bear attack, they said.
The park was closed. A search for the missing hunter
commenced, but I knew the truth. That creature, whatever it was,
was still out there. It was beyond our understanding,
beyond our guns and our courage. As I left the park for the last
time, I couldn't help but feel its eyes on me, watching from
the deep woods, waiting for the silence to return.
I'd always considered Aedon Park to be a bit of heaven scattered
across 6,000,000 acres in upstate New York.
It's where I chose to escape the noise and clutter of
civilization. Mountains, rivers, and forests
stretched as far as the eye could see, untamed and ancient.
Yet as much as the beauty held me, the solitude was what I
loved most. That's why when I got stationed
at the Western Edge, a place where few ventured unless decked
in hiking boots or carrying a Hunter's rifle, it felt right
Just me in the endless wild. The outpost was nothing fancy,
just a rugged old cabin built sturdy enough to hold off the
winter winds and keep out the critters.
I had a wood stove, a bunk, and enough supplies to last through
any storm. It was the kind of place you'd
picture if someone said lonely Ranger station, and that suited
me just fine. Nights were the best and worst
parts. The darkness in Aden is unlike
the city. It's a living, breathing thing,
thick enough to swallow light whole, stars pierced that black
canvas, sharp and bright, untouched by the bleed of city
glow. I'd sit by the window, coffee in
hand, just watching the dark woods, listening to the wind
telling old secrets through the leaves.
But as I settled into my post, the stillness began to feel less
like peace and more like a warning.
It started subtly, A rustling not quite right, a shadow too
quick to be caught. I'm not one to spook easy.
I've tracked wounded bears through thicker forests than
these. But something about the way the
air turned cold, or how the silence stretched too long, made
the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight.
Then there were the stories, old and worn, as the trails I
patrolled. The local tribes had called
these lands home long before settlers pushed them out.
Back when the forests were thick with legends and blood.
I'd heard the tales from old timers about spirits unsettled,
wandering the woods looking for something lost.
I always listened, nodded, and took it with a grain of salt.
After all, isolation plays tricks on a man's mind.
But one evening changed that. I was walking a familiar trail,
the light dying fast behind the Ridge when I felt it, eyes on
me, not the curious gaze of a deer, which I could sense and
dismiss with the certainty of the setting sun.
This was different. It was intense, almost angry.
I spun around, hand dropping to the knife at my belt.
But there was nothing, just the whisper of leaves and the quick
beat of my own heart. I tried shaking it off as a
fluke, maybe a trick of the shadow and fading light.
But as I made my way back to the cabin, every snap of a twig felt
like a footstep, every whisper of wind, like a low voice
calling through the trees. I knew it wasn't the wind or a
deer or my imagination. Something was out there,
watching, waiting as I bolted the door shut that night,
peering out into the impenetrable black, I couldn't
shake the feeling that the vast, wild beauty of Eden Park had a
darker side, and I was no longer sure I belonged.
The deeper I ventured into the history and mysteries of Eden
Park, the less it felt like the sanctuary I once revered.
The park's history was drenched in stories, soaked through with
the darker hues of human and supernatural interactions.
The whispers of the past seem to echo louder each night, and I
found myself pouring over old maps and records drawn to the
legends like a moth to a flickering porch light.
The isolation of my post, once a cherished companion, started to
wear on me, weaving threads of unease into the edges of my
solitude. It was during a routine patrol
along the Northridge Trail, a path winding dangerously close
to forgotten ruins, that I stumbled upon something that
chilled me to my bones. There, among the Pines obscured
by underbrush and years of neglect, were symbols carved
deeply into the bark of an ancient oak, symbols that didn't
match any natural wear or childhood whimsy of initials
framed in hearts. These marks were deliberate,
filled with intention and a darkness that seemed to pulse
with an old rhythmic malice. Beneath the tree, stones and
sticks were arranged in patterns that spoke of rituals I'd only
heard of in hushed, fearful tones from older Rangers.
These weren't the harmless practices of weekend campers,
they whispered of the old ways, long forgotten and best left
undiscovered. That night, as I sat by the fire
in my cabin, the wind seemed to carry voices with its howling
gusts. The tales of the old asylum
surfaced in my mind, unbidden but insistent.
It was said to be a place of healing turned to horror, where
the fresh mountain air that was supposed to cleanse the mind
instead became thick with screams of mistreated souls.
Rangers spoke of the asylum's ruins as if they harbored
ghosts, patients who vanished into the woods never to be seen
again. Their agony's etched into the
cold stone foundations that were all that remained.
My skepticism waned under the weight of these stories, and I
found myself gripped by an unsettling curiosity.
I began to dig deeper, visiting the local library and scrolling
through digital archives late into the night.
Accounts from the 1920s detailed an asylum where experimental
treatments blurred the lines of humanity and ethics.
The more I read, the more the chilling accounts from the other
Rangers began to stitch together a tapestry of torment and lost
souls. Then, on a dusk drenched
evening, while investigating another set of strange
occurrences near the supposed site of the asylum, I heard it a
scream. A woman's scream so filled with
terror and pain it froze me in my tracks.
It was distant yet piercing, cutting through the twilight
like a beacon of dread. I followed the sound against
better judgement, driven by a ranger's duty and a growing
dread that what I was seeking was also seeking me.
As I approached the clearing from where the scream seemed to
originate, my heart pounded with a mix of fear and an adrenaline
fueled determination to face whatever lay ahead.
The air grew colder, the woods quieter, as if nature itself
held its breath. And there, in the fading light I
saw it, something that shook my understanding of the natural
order and made me question my grip on reality.
It was a figure horrifyingly distorted, a grotesque mockery
of human form rooted in the shadowed soil of the clearing.
This was no animal, no trick of the light.
This was something else, something that shouldn't exist.
As the figure turned towards me, the last rays of sun glinted off
its two long limbs and its face, oh God, its face.
It was wrong. Terribly wrong.
I knew then that the stories were not just stories and the
past not as dead as it seemed. As I stood in the shadowed
clearing, my breath visible in the cold air, the twisted figure
before me seemed almost to pulse with a dark life of its own.
My mind raced, my instincts scream to turn and flee, but my
feet were rooted in place, as if the very ground held me captive
to the horror unfolding before me.
The shape, barely human, its proportions grotesquely
elongated, shifted with an unnatural fluidity.
As it moved, the silence of the forest deepened, punctuated only
by the crackling of dead leaves under its weight.
This was the source of the scream, I realized with a
sinking heart. This was what the asylum's
tortured spirits had become. Compelled by a mixture of fear
and duty, I followed the figure as it seemed to glide toward the
ruins of the old asylum. The structure, or what was left
of it, loomed out of the darkness like a tombstone,
marking the grave of countless forgotten tragedies.
The walls crumbled and Ivy clad, whispered of despair and long
suffered agonies. Rusted beds and scattered,
broken medical equipment lay strewn about, relics of a cruel
past that refused to die quietly drawing closer.
The air grew thick, almost suffocating with the stench of
decay and mould. I could almost hear the faint
echoes of cries and whispers from years gone by, the residue
of pain clinging to the crumbling stone.
My flashlights beam cut through the darkness, illuminating
fragments of this haunted place, each shadow seeming to jump and
twist into macabre shapes. I stumbled upon a circle of
stones in what might once have been a treatment room In the
centre. Charred bones, remnants perhaps
of some unspeakable ritual, lay in a heap.
The sight sent a shiver down my spine, a visceral reaction not
just to the cold or fear, but to the palpable evil that seemed to
seep from the very soil. As I turned to leave, desperate
to escape the oppressive atmosphere, a faint whisper
brushed against my ear. Help me, it pleaded in a voice
so soft it might have been mistaken for the wind, but I was
alone, and the voice carried a human sorrow that the wind could
never mimic. My heart pounding, I scanned the
darkness with my flashlight. There, in a far corner of the
ruin, a figure crouched. It was a woman, or so it seemed,
dressed in tatters that might once have been a hospital gown.
Her hair was matted, her posture one of utter defeat.
But as the light touched her, she lifted her head, and where
her eyes should have been, there was nothing, only dark, empty
sockets. Help me, she whispered again,
her voice a dry, rasping sound that filled the cold air with
morning. As I watched, paralyzed with
horror, her form began to change, her limbs elongated, her
body twisted, and her face her face melted away to reveal the
same featureless mask as the creature in the woods.
I backed away, every instinct, screaming that this was wrong,
that this was beyond my understanding or help.
I fled, the sound of her whispering plea following me as
I crashed through the underbrush, the boundaries of
the natural and supernatural worlds blurring around me.
The shadows of the asylum clung to me, a cloak woven from the
threads of nightmares as I ran toward the safety of light and
life, away from the dark past that refused to be forgotten.
By the time I made it back to my cabin, the sky was beginning to
lighten. The first weak rays of dawn
casting long shadows across the forest floor.
My body ached from the night's exertions.
My mind spun from the horrors I'd witnessed.
I slammed the door behind me, the sound echoing like a gunshot
in the quiet morning. I leaned against the wood, my
breath ragged, my heart still racing as if it could outrun the
darkness I had escaped. I didn't sleep.
How could I? Every Creek of the cabin, every
whisper of the wind against the windows, brought me back to that
clearing, to the unnatural shapes of torment I had seen.
By the time the sun was fully up, a decision had formed in my
mind, clear and cold as the mountain air.
I couldn't stay here, not after last night.
The park, with its towering trees and secluded trails, had
become a prison of memories, too dark to live with.
I radioed my supervisor as soon as I was certain he'd be awake,
my voice steady over the line, betraying none of the fear that
clung to my skin. I requested a transfer.
Citing personal reasons, I avoided mentioning the real
cause. No one would believe the truth
about the asylum's ghosts or the twisted spectres in the woods.
The supernatural isn't supposed to be real, not in the rational
daylight world of paperwork and protocols.
My request was approved with a reluctance that hinted at the
inconvenience, but no real concern.
I was grateful for that. I packed up my belongings with a
mechanical efficiency, each item a tie to a life I was leaving
behind. As I drove away from the cabin
for the last time, the trees seemed to watch me go, their
branches waving in a silent, sardonic farewell.
I settled into a new position, several counties over, a desk
job that kept me surrounded by people and far away from the
solitude that had once been my refuge.
The nightmares, however, didn't respect my new urban boundaries.
They crept in vivid and terrifying, replaying my
encounters with a fidelity that left me sweating and awake long
into the night. As months turned into a year,
the raw edge of my fear dulled into something bearable, a dark
thread woven into the fabric of my daily life.
I spoke of Aiden Park only once, to a therapist whose non
judgmental nod couldn't mask the disbelief in her eyes.
I never mentioned it again. Sometimes when the city is quiet
and the night draws in close, I think about Aiden Park.
I wonder about the shadows and the whispers, about the history
hidden deep within its woods. Was I chosen for those
revelations, or was I simply in the wrong place at the right
time? I'll never return to Aiden Park.
I've found a new life, one that doesn't include mysterious
screams or faceless specters. But the wilderness hasn't left
me completely. It lingers in my dreams, a
whispering voice that follows me into the waking world.
Help me, it says, just as it did that night, a plea from the
shadows that I can neither answer nor escape.
It's a reminder that some places hold secrets darker than the
night, secrets that don't forget, that wait patiently for
the next unwitting soul to wander too deep into their
grasp. And sometimes in the silence, I
still listen. Working as a park Ranger in the
Midwest is about as peaceful as it gets.
Or so I thought when I first started here at Willow Creek
State Park. It's been three years now, and
every day feels like a little adventure on its own.
My job is pretty straightforward.
Keep the park safe and sound for all those who come to enjoy it.
That means making sure the trails are clear, the wildlife
is undisturbed, and the visitors are happy and safe.
Most of my days are spent in the great outdoors, under the wide
open skies or within the dense shelter of towering trees.
I often tell people that there's nothing quite like the smell of
the forest after a rain or the sound of leaves rustling gently
in the breeze. It's these little things that
make me love my job during the busy summer months.
The park buzzes with activity, families on picnics, hikers
exploring the trails, kids chasing each other around.
There's a lively vibe that's contagious.
But as the warmth of summer fades into the crisp air of
early September, the crowds thin out and a serene calm settles
over Willow Creek. Tonight, like many others, I'm
on the night shift. Night shifts are a different
beast altogether. The park transforms as the
sunsets, shadows grow longer, and the familiar paths seem to
twist and turn in new, unfamiliar ways.
It's not that I'm scared of the dark, but there's something
about the vast, silent woods at night that makes you feel like
you're not alone. I start my rounds just as the
sky begins to dim, checking each campsite and trail.
Most of the time it's just routine checks, making sure no
one's left a campfire burning or wandered off the marked trails.
It's peaceful work, but my senses are always heightened,
listening for the crack of a branch that doesn't belong or
the rustle of leaves that might mean someone needs help.
As the darkness blankets the park, I reach a section known as
the Meadows. It's a favorite spot for campers
who love stargazing. The open sky here brims with
stars untouched by city lights. I take a moment to look up,
losing myself in the sea of twinkling lights.
Then, with a sigh, I move on my flashlight, a small circle of
light in the vast night. The next part of my patrol takes
me down a mountainous trail, more secluded and much quieter.
I'm about halfway through when I noticed something odd, a flicker
of light through the trees. It's not the warm glow of a
campfire, but something harsher, more artificial.
Curiosity piqued, I decide to investigate.
As I approach, the light grows steadier and I can see it's
coming from one of the Backcountry campsites.
These sites are primitive. No amenities, just nature, and
whoever's out here is roughing it.
But this light, it's different. It seems to pulse, a rhythmic
flickering that sets my nerves on edge.
With each step closer, the woods around me grow oppressively
silent. Even the usual night sounds seem
to hold their breath. I remind myself it's probably
just a camper with a flashlight or some kids with glow sticks.
Yet something in the pit of my stomach tells me this isn't the
usual night patrol. Taking a deep breath, I tighten
my grip on my flashlight, readying myself for whatever
weights in the clearing ahead. Little did I know, this night
would be one that I wouldn't easily forget.
The crunch of my boots against the dry leaves filled the
silence. As I walk deeper into the
forest. The beam from my flashlight cut
through the darkness, a small comfort against the vast,
shadowy wood surrounding me. My night patrols usually had a
routine calmness to them, but tonight the flickering light I
had spotted earlier unnerved me. As I near the Backcountry
campsites, my heart rate picked up a bit.
These parts of the park were less travelled, especially after
dark, and the isolation could make any unusual sight or sound
seem amplified. The flickering light was coming
from one of these primitive campsites, a small clearing
known for its privacy and rugged appeal.
I remember thinking how out of place the artificial light
seemed there, in the midst of all the natural darkness.
Drawing closer, I could see the light more clearly.
It wasn't steady, like a campfire or Lantern.
It was erratic, pulsing, almost as if it were struggling to stay
alive. My curiosity grew mixed with a
dash of apprehension. Campers in this area usually
relied on more traditional sources of light.
This was different. Too bright, too mechanical.
I slowed my pace as I approached the edge of the clearing.
From a distance I could make out a tent set up in the middle.
The light seemed to be coming from inside.
Taking a moment to steady my nerves, I reminded myself that
it was probably just someone who'd brought along some modern
camping gear. Nothing to be worried about, but
the unease lingered. Stepping into the clearing, I
kept my flashlight directed at the ground in front of me, not
wanting to startle whoever was inside the tent.
The light inside flickered once more and then went out, plunging
the clearing Into Darkness. My heart skipped a beat and I
paused, listening. There was a rustling sound, then
silence. Suddenly the tent flap open
slightly and I saw movement. A figure crawled out.
It was a man moving in an oddly slow, deliberate manner.
His movements were unnatural, as if every motion was a struggle.
He didn't seem to notice me at first as he adjusted to the
darkness outside the tent. Keeping my distance.
I watched him rise to his feet, shaky and disoriented.
He was a thin man, with unkempt hair and clothes that looked
like they had seen better days. As he straightened up, he
finally noticed me. His reaction was one of shock.
His eyes widened and he took a quick, startled step back.
Evening. I called out, trying to sound
friendly and calm. Everything all right over here?
He blinked at me, his face pale in the light from my flashlight.
Oh, hi, Ranger, He stammered, his voice shaky.
Yeah, everything's fine. I was just well.
I haven't been feeling well, that's all.
His eyes darted around, nervously avoiding mine.
He seemed jittery, uneasy. There was a palpable tension in
his words, a sense that he was on edge.
Sure you're all right? I asked, taking a step closer.
The man flinched slightly, and I stopped, not wanting to
intimidate him. That didn't sound good, coming
from your tent. No, no, it's fine, He insisted,
backing away from me slightly. Just a stomach ache.
I think I ate something bad. I'll be all right.
His words tumbled out in a rush, his eyes still avoiding mine.
Something about his behavior didn't sit right with me.
His explanations were too vague, his discomfort too apparent, but
without any concrete reason to suspect anything was wrong, I
hesitated to press further. As I stood there in the dim
light, watching him retreat slowly back to his tent, a sense
of unease grew within me. Something was off, but I
couldn't quite put my finger on what it was.
This encounter, I would soon find out, was just the beginning
of a long, unsettling night. The rest of my night shift
passed without further incident, but the encounter with the man
at the Backcountry campsite weighed heavily on my mind.
I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
His odd behavior, the nervous glances, the strained voice, it
all painted a picture that didn't quite add up As I
patrolled the rest of the park. The silence of the woods seemed
to echo my own unease, the shadows a bit darker.
The night sounds a touch too quiet.
By the time I returned to the Ranger station, the first hints
of dawn were lightening the eastern sky.
I logged the encounter in the nightly report, noting the man's
strange behavior but also acknowledging that I had no real
cause to take further action. Still, as I drove home, the
image of him crawling out of the tent replayed in my mind,
unsettling me. Sleep didn't come easy that
morning. When it finally claimed me, it
was fitful and peppered with dreams of flickering lights and
shadowy figures in the woods. The ring of my phone shattered
the uneasy rest. I fumble for it, my heart
starting to race even before I answered.
The voice on the other end was my supervisor, the park
Superintendent. The urgency in his tone
immediately set me on edge. There's been an incident, he
said, his voice grave. A camper was found dead at one
of the Backcountry sites. It's it's bad.
A murder. The word struck me like a
physical blow. Murder.
Here in Willow Creek. It seemed impossible.
The details poured in. A young woman stabbed multiple
times while she slept in her tent.
No sign of a struggle. It was as if she had been taken
completely by surprise, never even waking up to defend
herself. As the Superintendent relayed
the information, a cold dread settled in my stomach.
The site he mentioned was the same one where I had encountered
the man. My thoughts raced.
Could he have? No.
It seemed too horrific to contemplate that the awkward,
jittery man could be capable of such violence.
Do we have a suspect? I managed to ask, my voice
tight. Yes, We found him trying to
leave the park. He was disheveled, looked
desperate, broke down when we picked him up.
He's being questioned now. The description matched the man
from last night. The pieces fell into place with
a chilling clarity. I sat there, phone still to my
ear, feeling numb. The Rangers had found him on the
edge of the park, exactly where I had last seen him heading.
After our encounter, the Superintendent continued, but I
barely heard him. My mind was stuck on that
moment, that decision to leave him be.
Guilt surged through me, mixed with a deep, hollow sadness.
If only I had done something more, asked more questions,
maybe even insisted on checking his tent.
I thanked my boss and hung up the weight of the situation
bearing down on me. I knew it wasn't rational to
blame myself. I had followed protocol, after
all, but the reality that I had spoken to a murderer mere
moments after his crime was something I couldn't easily
shake. As the day wore on, I kept to
myself, processing the news and battling the what ifs that
plagued my thoughts. The park, usually a place of
refuge and beauty, now felt tainted, as if the shadows of
last night had seeped into the soil.
I knew that moving forward, my patrols would never feel the
same. This tragedy had changed Willow
Creek, and it had changed me. The days following the murder
were some of the hardest I've ever faced.
At Willow Creek State Park, the park was quieter, with a somber
air hanging over it that seemed to mirror my own mood.
I went about my duties with a new level of vigilance, but
every step I took was shadowed by the memories of that night.
It wasn't just the brutal act itself that haunted me.
It was the fact that I had interacted with the murderer
moments after he had committed such a heinous crime.
I had looked into his eyes, spoken to him, and I hadn't seen
it. The guilt gnawed at me, an
unrelenting reminder that perhaps I could have done
something, anything, to prevent the tragedy.
But as the initial shock began to wear off, I started to
reflect more on what had happened.
I spoke with counselors and my fellow Rangers, who were all
incredibly supportive. They reminded me that I had
followed protocol, that there was no way I could have known
what had just transpired in the darkened woods.
Rationality told me they were right, but the emotional side of
me still struggled. Through these conversations and
a lot of introspection, I slowly began to accept that I couldn't
have changed what happened. This acceptance was bitter, but
necessary. I realized that dwelling on what
I could have done differently wouldn't help anyone.
It wouldn't bring her back, and it wouldn't serve me in
continuing my duties. Instead, I resolved to use this
experience to become a better Ranger.
I focused on enhancing my awareness and intuition.
Where I once might have hesitated to probe deeper into a
suspicious situation, now I understood the importance of
acting on my instincts. The stakes were too high to
ignore even the slightest hint of something amiss.
I also became more involved in community outreach, working to
educate campers on safety and awareness.
While in the park, my encounters with visitors took on a new
depth. I wasn't just there to enforce
rules, but to ensure everyone understood why those rules
existed and how vital they were for everyone's safety.
As time passed, I found a certain peace in my work.
Again, the beauty of the park began to shine.
Through the shadows of that terrible event I saw the
resilience of nature, how the forest continued to thrive and
grow, and it gave me a sense of hope.
The wilderness had not changed. It was still as majestic and as
indifferent as ever. What had changed was me.
One late afternoon, while patrolling the same trail where
I had first seen that flickering light, I paused to watch the
sunset. The sky was ablaze with colors,
and the once menacing trees now stood as silent Sentinels,
witnesses to both the joys and horrors of the natural world.
I realized then that being a park Ranger wasn't just about
preserving these lands. It was about understanding the
depths of human nature, the good and the ill, and doing my utmost
to protect against the latter. As I stood there, watching the
day give way, tonight, I felt a renewed sense of duty.
The park was my charge, and I was its guardian, now more than
ever, equipped not only with knowledge and experience but
with a deeper compassion and a resolute courage.
With each passing day, my resolve strengthened.
I would keep watch over this place, always vigilant, always
ready. Because if there's one thing
I've learned, it's that sometimes the most profound
dangers are the ones that walk on two legs and smile back at
you. I work as a Ranger at Big Basin
Redwood State Park. It's a job that comes with its
fair share of unusual experiences.
You're out in nature, dealing with all sorts of people in
situations. There is an incident from a few
years back that still leaves me scratching my head and a little
creeped out. It was the summer of 2019 and I
was partnered up with another Ranger, who I'll call Jacob, for
the season. Our main task that season was to
conduct a study on the parks bird population, counting them,
tracking their movements, and other such tasks.
It's a big park, so it kept us pretty busy.
About a week into the assignment, we started to get
some strange reports over the radio.
Apparently there had been sightings of some suspicious
individuals in the more remote areas of the park.
These reports were vague, but the gist was that these people
were up to some kind of mischief, possibly pranks or
vandalism. We were told to keep an eye out
and to report any unusual activity.
Jacob and I didn't think too much of this at first.
We already had our hands full with the bird study, and dealing
with the occasional troublemaker was just part of the job.
But looking back, I wish we had paid more attention.
It happened one evening, just as we were wrapping up our
observations for the day. We were in a very isolated spot,
a couple of miles off the main trail.
It was that golden hour just before sunset when the light
filters through the redwoods in a really beautiful way.
We were packing up our gear when Jacob suddenly grabbed me by the
arm. Look, he whispered, pointing to
a nearby clearing. At first I wasn't sure what he
was seeing, but then I saw the movement.
There was a group of people, maybe a dozen or so, walking in
a single file line through the woods.
They were all dressed in black from head to toe, like they were
in some kind of uniform. It was eerie, the way they moved
in perfect unison, their faces obscured by hoods as they
entered the clearing. They formed a circle, and then
the chanting began. It was unlike anything I'd ever
heard before. Guttural, primal, almost
inhuman. It sounded like throat singing,
but with a dark and menacing edge.
Jacob and I stood there dumbfounded and frozen, unsure
what to do. We were outnumbered, and
something about the situation felt deeply weird, but we also
knew we couldn't just ignore it. The chanting grew louder, more
frenzied. And then, as if on some unseen
signal, each person reached into their pocket and pulled out what
looked like a small pouch. It was similar to a Capri Sun
pouch. They raised these pouches to
their lips and drank deeply. What happened next will continue
to haunt me. One by one, they all fell to the
ground, their bodies beginning to convulse violently.
They look to be having seizures all at once.
The clearing was filled with the sounds of thrashing limbs and
horrific garbled noises that I can only assume were choked.
Screams. Jacob and I looked at each other
in horror. This was way beyond anything we
were trained to deal with. We had basic first aid training,
but this? This was something else
entirely. With shaky hands, I grabbed my
radio and called it in. I tried to keep my voice steady
as I described what was happening, but I'm sure that
dispatch could hear the panic in my words.
They told us to sit tight, back up and medical, we're on the
way. We waited there at the edge of
the clearing, watching helplessly as the figures
continued to seize and convulse. It seemed to go on forever,
though in reality it was probably only a few minutes.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
Those people, cloaked in shadows, lay still on the
ground, unmoving. The silence that followed was
almost worse than the chaos that had preceded it.
Jacob wanted to go check on them, but I held him back.
Something in my gut told me it wasn't safe, that we needed to
wait for help. It felt like forever before they
arrived. When they showed up, we met with
them and LED them back to the clearing nearby, bracing
ourselves for the worst. But you're not going to believe
what we found. Every single one of them who had
just been convulsing before was now gone.
The clearing was empty. All that remained were a few of
the strange pouches which had been left behind in the grass.
The medics were baffled, the other Rangers even more so.
A thorough search of the area turned up nothing.
It was like those people had never been there at all.
I gave my statement, tried to describe what we'd seen in as
much detail as I could, but even as I was saying the words, I
could hear how crazy it sounded. A secret cult in the woods.
A mass induced seizure followed by a mysterious disappearance.
It was like something out of a psychological horror film.
In the days and weeks that followed, I tried to find out
more. I asked my superiors if the
remaining liquids in those pouches had been tested yet, as
I figured that might give us some clue as to what had
happened, what those people were doing out there.
But I didn't get a straight answer.
My superiors were strangely tight lipped about the whole
thing. Eventually, it's sort of just
faded away. There were no more sightings, no
more strange reports. Life in the park went back to
normal, as if it had never happened, But I haven't
forgotten. I can't forget the sound of that
chanting, the sight of those bodies convulsing in the fading
light. It's seared into my memory.
I wonder if they were some kind of cult engaging in a bizarre
ritual. What kind of drug was in those
pouches and why they chose our park, that specific spot.
If there are any other cults out there planning to do the same,
please leave innocent eyes out of it.
No one needs to see that.