I used to think my parents place was the epitome of ordinary
cookie cutter neighborhood at the base of some foothills,
complete with a neat little fence in a paved driveway.
But everything shifted once I found that obscure path just off
the Canyon Rd. It's hidden behind a thin screen
of trees, and the sign is either so faded or small that most
people wouldn't notice it even if they were looking.
I stumbled across it thanks to a hunch and a friend's random tip,
and on the day I decided to explore it with a buddy from the
Lost Creek Expeditions. Well, that was the afternoon
everything changed. We parked near the bend in the
road and got out. The chill in the air smelled
like wet earth and leaf rot, which made sense because the
entire slope was drenched in melting snow.
The moment we stepped onto the gravel, 2 sharp cracks echoed
through the trunks. My friend froze, glancing at me
with a did you do that expression.
I shook my head. It was definitely coming from
deeper in the trees, although the idea of random branches
snapping on their own crossed my mind.
I tried to laugh it off, but it felt forced.
It was the first spark of suspicion that something or
someone was aware we had arrived.
The trail itself was a sloppy mess, coated with slush and
fresh mud. Each step made an ugly
squelching noise that shattered any semblance of silence.
The canopy overhead was so thick most of the day's light got
swallowed before it touched the ground.
It was like entering a tunnel of shadows.
We picked our way along carefully, occasionally
slipping. We only made it a few 100 feet
when another pair of cracks rang out, sharper than the ones by
the car. My friend threw me a nervous
smile, and I tried to shrug like it was normal.
On the inside. I was rattled.
The knocks felt deliberate, spaced just right, almost like
signals or warnings. We kept moving, telling each
other we were just being paranoid.
Sure, it's a remote trail. Sure, it looks spooky.
Could be normal forest sounds, right?
Except the deeper we went, the heavier the atmosphere became,
like someone had draped a wet blanket over everything.
My friend pointed out how odd it was that we hadn't seen a single
squirrel, bird, or even a random chipmunk.
By this point, I was seriously wondering if we'd wandered into
a section of woods that didn't appreciate visitors.
Eventually, we reached a point where the path leveled off and
we found a small clearing. It was probably the only spot
along that stretch of trail where daylight actually made it
through the branches. My friend wanted to stop for a
snack, so we hunkered down on an old fallen log, only half
focused on the granola bars in our hands.
My ears kept straining to catch even the faintest noise.
That's when a third set of knocks rattled the air from
somewhere up the slope. I remember locking eyes with my
friend. At that moment, there was no
more kidding around. We knew we weren't imagining it.
Despite the growing tension, we decided to wrap up the snack
break and head back. Neither of us openly admitted
being uneasy, but the walk down felt much faster than the hike
up. When we finally made it to the
car, the weird sense of relief washed over me so hard I
actually paused to catch my breath.
My friend and I swapped a few hushed theories.
Maybe a woodpecker, maybe trees shifting in the wind, but
neither of us believed it. A knot of dread seemed lodged in
my gut, insisting something else was going on.
I ended up returning to that trail on my own not long after.
It nagged at me constantly. I'd be sitting in the living
room at my folks place, looking out at the ridges and I'd feel
this pole to go back. Every trip was the same slick
ground, murky light and uncanny hush.
The knocks were still there too, echoing sporadically as if they
were following my progress. My mom eventually tagged along
on one of these outings during a cold, overcast morning.
We didn't talk much until we reached the top third of the
path, where a chain of knocks surrounded us from every
direction. She just raised her eyebrows,
unsettled but pretending she was fine.
Neither of us dared speak above a whisper.
At first. We told ourselves it was just
the forest, after all, nature can get weird.
But as we headed home, the silence in the car was
suffocating. We both sensed that something
far stranger than random tree sounds lived up there.
Even recounting it now, the memory of those cracks in the
distance makes my stomach twist. Yet I couldn't stay away.
Something about that trail demanded my return, like I'd
stumbled onto a secret that refused to stay hidden.
Even though the experience unsettled me, I needed to know
more. I needed to find out what was
knocking back. I didn't realize just how deep
I'd gotten into this obsession until the day I ventured up
there alone again. No casual friend in tow, no
group. Just me and the looming wall of
silent trees. I wasn't stupid, I was nervous
as hell, but the urge to see if the knocks would happen again or
if something even weirder might had me lacing up my boots
anyway. So I parked my car at the usual
spot and started up the trail like I had a dozen times before.
Barely 10 minutes in, I heard rustles in the brush, the kind
you catch at the corner of your ear when something big is moving
around. I kept telling myself it could
be a deer. But a few minutes later, that
notion collapsed when a resounding woo boomed from
somewhere off to my right. I froze like I'd just been
caught stealing. My heart stuttered, but after a
couple of breathless seconds, I did something probably insane.
I answered back with my own woo. It was more out of adrenaline
than courage, like my brain hadn't gotten the memo that this
was a terrible idea. The response came so fast it
nearly knocked me backward, A vicious high pitched screech
that shot through the trees. My spine prickled.
The sound wasn't human, yet something about it felt eerily
intentional, like an angry command.
I've been out in the woods enough to know the usual
suspects. Owls, foxes, Hawks, this wasn't
any of those. It was deeper, more layered.
My whole body was shaking, but I forced myself to keep calm,
crouching to make a smaller silhouette in case, God forbid,
whatever was out there saw me as a threat.
I guess I must have sat for a while, but I couldn't tell if it
was one minute or 10 because the whole world got so quiet I could
hear my pulse in my ears. Then this new noise drifted
toward me. Something soft at first, like a
faint panting, but it grew louder, heavier, until it felt
like the breathing of an animal with a chest the size of a
refrigerator. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Each exhale sounded closer than the last, though I couldn't
pinpoint from which direction. It was as though the forest
itself was breathing, massive lungs expanding in the shadows
around me. Terror lit up my nerves.
My brain reeled with possibilities.
Bear, Mountain Lion, or something else entirely.
But something about the pattern felt calculated, like it was
announcing its presence rather than creeping up for a kill.
Maybe it was trying to scare me away.
If so, it worked. I stood carefully, heart
hammering against my rib cage, and started moving back
downhill, slow enough that I wouldn't trip on the muddy
slope. The moment I decided to leave,
that heavy breathing cut off like a switch had been flipped.
Dead silence again. There's a twisted kind of relief
in being left alone, but it sure didn't feel like a blessing,
more like a threat that could fire up again anytime.
Another time. Not long after that, I spotted
an odd structure near the top of the trail, under a thick old
tree that had been bent and broken, yet was somehow still
clinging to life. Leaning against its trunk were
several sticks, long, sturdy branches arranged in a
triangular shape like a teepee. I'd read about weird stick
structures in online stories, but always figured they were
bushcraft shelters or kids playing around.
This one, though, looked too deliberate.
The sticks had been placed at angles that locked them
together. No random pile of Deadwood could
pull that off. Against my better judgement, I
whipped out my phone and snapped a few photos.
My breath caught in my throat. There was an unmistakable
pressure in the air, like I was being watched from just outside
my field of vision. You know that feeling when the
hairs on your neck stand up? Multiply that by ten.
I hurried back down the trail faster than I should have, half
slipping in the mud, convinced I might catch a glimpse of
something darting through the trees.
The next day I must have been half out of my mind, because I
went up again to see if any fresh clues were waiting.
At first it seemed normal, or as normal as that place can feel,
but once I was near the base of the trail, I nearly puked when I
saw it. A deer carcass, or what was left
of it. The skull was mostly intact,
still attached to part of the spine, but the legs looked
snapped, twisted. No scattering of fur or signs of
a typical animal kill either. It was like it had been dropped
there, right where I couldn't miss it.
A jolt of horror flooded my system so fast my knees almost
buckled. I remember standing there trying
to wrap my head around it when a single notion took hold.
This was left for me because of the pictures.
That was the instant I decided never to bring a camera up there
again. It felt like crossing a line, as
if I'd disrespected something that didn't appreciate prying
eyes. Word of my experiences must have
gotten around, because a friend who was skeptical about the
whole thing pestered me to let him tag along.
We went at dusk, and the knocks started up almost on cue.
By the time we got halfway, a series of sharp clacks echoed so
loudly you'd swear someone was whacking a tree trunk right
beside us. My friend's confidence
evaporated. We walked out of there in a
hurry, each step mirrored by faint crunches in the
undergrowth. Neither of us dared look back.
I made it a personal rule. No more cameras, no more
inviting people to witness it unless they're truly prepared.
The idea that I was treading on sacred ground, someone else's
territory, gnawed at me constantly.
Every time I ventured back, I felt a swirl of excitement and
dread. Something out there was
watching, maybe testing me. And after that dear skeleton
incident, I wasn't eager to push any further than I had to.
I wish I could say I stayed away, but that would be a lie.
It's like this place has a pulse of its own, and it's synced with
my curiosity, dragging me back whenever I try to ignore it.
At this point, I know it's only a matter of time before
something big happens, something impossible to dismiss or
rationalize. Yet part of me keeps coming back
for more, in spite of the warning signs piling up like
stacked bones. And that, I guess, is where
caution ends and obsession begins.
I don't know why I kept testing my luck on that trail, but I
guess part of me needed closure. Something told me the story
wasn't finished, so when I heard about the second structure, it
was like an invisible force tugging me back.
The first one, a teepee of sticks under that warped tree,
was shocking enough, but my friend claimed to have spotted
another, bigger construction further up, near a Grove of
aspens that had been bent almost into an arch.
He was nervous about returning, so I decided to check it out
alone. I still wonder if that was a
huge mistake. Reaching the arch took longer
than usual because the trail felt wetter than ever.
Mud sucked at my boots with each step, like the land was trying
to hold me back. When I finally got there, I
noticed the arch wasn't just a random shape.
Long branches had been wedged crosswise, forming a kind of
lattice. Slabs of fresh Aspen bark draped
across the top like roofing tiles, channelling the rainwater
so it ran off in neat rivulets. It definitely wasn't natural.
My chest tightened at the idea of something with clever hands
building that. The silence felt like it might
smother me on the spot. Even though it scared me, I
crouched down to look inside. It looked barely tall enough for
a person on all fours. Maybe an adult could sit
comfortably but not stand. Either way, it was sturdy.
As I stood to leave, I caught a whiff of something unfamiliar,
earthy, kind of damp and animalistic.
It was enough to make me back away, uneasy that whatever
stayed in there might come home at any moment.
On the return trip, I heard frantic wood knocks from above,
almost like a warning or maybe a scolding for trespassing.
That's when I glanced up the slope and spotted a silhouette.
At first I assumed it was just a broken trunk.
The shape blended perfectly with the surrounding trees.
Then it glided sideways behind a thicker trunk with such
effortless motion that my head spun.
For several seconds, I stood there, trying not to lose it.
The presence of that shape, tall, quiet, and cunning,
twisted my nerves into knots I still haven't worked out.
I might have tried to rationalize it away, except
there were other details I couldn't ignore.
Foot shaped impressions in the muck that vanished like someone
had deliberately erased them. Shredded bark on wide trunks at
heights no average animal would reach.
One of the worst discoveries was 1/2 eaten rabbit's carcass
propped near the path where I couldn't miss it.
I'd walked that spot earlier and it definitely hadn't been there
before. The notion that someone might be
placing these gruesome finds on purpose made my skin crawl.
Word about my experiences spread among friends, and soon I was
getting messages from people who wanted proof.
Pictures, hair samples, footprints, anything.
I refuse to bring a camera anymore.
Remembering the deer bones from my last attempt, I had zero
desire to push this phenomenon any further than I already had.
That trail still calls to me every time I pass by those
mountain ridges. It's not peaceful.
It's far from it. It feels like stepping onto
ground that belongs to something else, something you sense just
outside your vision. I keep telling folks that no
matter how curious they are, they should think twice before
hunting for cryptic answers. There, curiosity might lead you
straight to a truth you're not ready to handle.
And once you've glimpsed that shape shifting behind the trees
or found those bones laid out for you, you can't pretend it
was just your imagination. You carry it with you forever.
I hopped off the train in Olympia, feeling pretty
confident that I could handle whatever lay ahead.
Figured if I could manage the Moody weather and notoriously
fickle schedules of public transit, a few crashing waves in
Westport would be no big deal. Truth be told, I'd been itching
for something new, something unexpected.
Surfing in the cold waters of coastal Washington sounded like
the perfect fix. After a quick cup of cheap
coffee, I stuck out my thumb along the highway and an old
truck eventually pulled over. The driver, a lean man in a
flannel jacket, wasted no time telling me there wasn't much
going on at the shore this time of year.
I laughed it off, but he just shrugged and said some folks
like their solitude a little too much.
The comment hung in the air, weirdly unsettling.
Maybe he was just making conversation, but his words
rattled around my head the rest of the ride.
When we reached Westport, I thanked him and climbed out.
The wind greeted me like a slap, sharp and relentless, carrying
the Tang of salt from the water. After I found a shop willing to
rent me a surfboard for the day, I sprinted straight for the
shore with more excitement than caution.
That was my first mistake. The Pacific in May was nothing
short of frigid, and the waves slammed me like I'd insulted
them personally. Still, I stuck with it, if only
out of stubbornness. By late afternoon, every inch of
me was exhausted. My face stung from the wind and
my arms felt like heavy weights from paddling.
The thought of a warm bed seemed like wishful thinking at that
point. A local suggested heading South
to Grayland State Park. If I wanted an out of the way
place to crash, pay for a campground or skip the fee by
stealth camping. If I was feeling bold, naturally
bold one out. I hitched another short ride
down Hwy. 105, noticing how the trees along the road grew thick
and twisted, their branches leaning over the asphalt as
though trying to keep secrets locked under their canopy.
Not that they were towering giants, far from it, but they
formed a continuous tangle that blocked out a good portion of
the sky. Something about those woods made
my mouth feel dry, even though I couldn't pin down why.
Graylin turned out to be nearly deserted. 1 bulky RV stood near
the entrance with its blinds closed, as if whoever was inside
didn't want to see or be seen. A tent further down looked
zipped up for the night, no sign of movement.
The air there felt different, less briny, more earthy, like
damp soil and leaves with a sharp undertone of marine chill.
I decided to scope out the trail leading to the beach.
By then the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows that danced
along the edges of the trees. The wind pushed me forward,
almost urging me to get on with it.
I found a decent spot a short distance away from the surf,
marked by a weirdly shaped rock and a flimsy post fluttering
with a bit of pink ribbon. I dropped my gear, a battered
sleeping bag, ground tarp and the wet suit.
I hadn't bothered returning yet, thinking it would be easy enough
to find them later. Before dark truly set in.
I headed to the bathroom, hoping I could charge my phone.
No dice. The overhead light flickered,
but the outlets were dead. No caretaker or Ranger insight.
I took a moment to rest against the concrete wall, listening to
the wind wind through the empty campground.
A tiny voice in my mind asked why nobody else was around.
Sure, it was offseason, but it felt downright abandoned.
I lit up a cheap cigar, watching the last rays of sunlight fade.
My nerves buzzed with anticipation, maybe from the
lack of real food, maybe from that edgy stillness that only
comes when a place feels untouched by casual human
presence. Occasionally, I heard the
muffled sound of the waves crashing, and I pretended it was
lulling me into a sense of calm, a weak illusion.
Once darkness settled in, I realized I couldn't stall
forever. I'd have to brave the narrow
trail again, guided only by what little moonlight seeped through
the canopy. My stomach twisted at the
prospect of stumbling around blindly, but I tried to laugh it
off. It's just a half tame strip of
coastal forest, I told myself. What's the worst thing that can
happen? With that, I pushed off the
bathroom's damp concrete wall and started walking, the wind
picking up as though it wanted me to hurry.
Everything around me felt on edge.
Like the environment itself was waiting for me to make a wrong
move. I had a flash of the driver's
words from earlier. Some folks like their solitude a
bit too much. The phrase made me glance over
my shoulder, scanning the dimly lit campsite.
I didn't spot a soul, but I still couldn't shake the nagging
sense that something beyond my knowledge thrived in that
emptiness. Determined to camp as planned, I
took my first steps into the dark.
Little did I know just how quickly my confidence would
unravel once the trees swallowed me whole.
The second I stepped beyond the tree line, the campground lights
and that tiny thread of comfort they offered vanished behind me.
It was as though I'd walked into a different reality, one where
the wind seemed louder and the darkness felt tangible, like it
had weight. I kept my hands stretched out in
front of me, trying to avoid slamming into a trunk, but my
breath still caught at every near miss.
Each shuffle forward was a calculated gamble.
The path under foot was uneven, and I had zero sense of how far
I'd come. Despite knowing I just had to
continue, WI soon lost all sense of direction.
In theory, if I kept moving, I'd stumble onto the shore
eventually. Instead, I found myself trudging
in circles, spooked by the sensation that the trees were
closing in. My arms brushed rough bark,
tangles of branches snagged my clothing, and the roar of the
wind overhead drowned out any hints that might have helped me
navigate. When I finally emerged from that
labyrinth of twisted foliage, relief flooded me until I
realized the landmarks I'd counted on spotting my weird
rock and that little post with the streamer weren't there.
My eyes darted across the moonlit sand, looking for
anything familiar, but the beach stretched on emptily.
Salt scented gusts lashed against me, making it impossible
to see much of anything. Frustrated, I inched back into
the woods, flipping on my phone screen for a feeble glow.
That light barely reached a few steps ahead, revealing only a
tangle of wet ferns and shadows. At one point, something off in
the distance made a noise, a low resonant call that rose above
the wind, oddly stretched and loud.
It could have been my mind twisting normal forest sounds
into something ominous, but it sent a surge of alarm through my
body anyway. I told myself it was an owl, or
maybe a coyote, but even I didn't believe it.
It didn't have the trademark Yip or screech.
This was different, a drawn out tone that felt impossible to
ignore. I crept forward, trying to keep
calm, my feet rooted in place whenever I heard a rustle or
detected a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision.
As the seconds dragged on, I noticed a pungent odor, damp and
somehow animalistic. The wind couldn't carry it away
fast enough. It gnawed at the edges of my
thinking, fueling the idea that something far larger than an owl
was lurking beyond my flashlight's pitiful radius.
Then I heard the same unnerving sound again, but this time it
reverberated from behind me, closer than before.
It was a low, wavering moan that crescendoed in a way I couldn't
have imagined an ordinary creature producing.
My chest felt tight. With a surge of adrenaline, I
stumbled forward in a desperate attempt to get out of there,
tangling my foot on an exposed root.
My shoulder smacked against a trunk and pain jolted down my
arm, but I refused to stop. My only plan was to keep moving
until I reached the beach or open ground, somewhere I could
see whatever was out there. A short time later, I burst on
to the sand again, breathless and shaking.
My phone's light flickered off, so I was left with only the
faint glow of the moon. The ocean lay in front of me, a
slab of shifting darkness. For a moment I stood still,
scanning the shoreline. The waves roared, but they
couldn't drown out that faint call echoing in the wind.
Somehow I knew it was trailing me.
I forced myself to walk along the beach, eyes straining for
that stupid rock, anything to anchor my bearings.
My entire body felt raw, like every nerve ending was ready to
snap. At one point I noticed what
looked like a large shaped dart between the trunks at the edge
of the woods, but the swirl of sand and gusts made it
impossible to confirm. If it had been my imagination,
it was doing a damn good job of tormenting me.
After what felt like hours of staggering along the sand, the
rock finally came into view. That stone never looked so
beautiful. My makeshift camp was right
where I'd left it, which meant shelter for the night.
Not much, but better than wandering out in the open.
I sank on to my ground tarp, pressing a hand to my shoulder,
trying to massage away the pain. My lungs still felt like they
were on fire. For a long time I sat there,
straining to catch any hint of the unknown noise.
All I heard was the restless tide and the occasional gust
slicing through the trees. At some point I dragged my
sleeping bag over me and huddled inside.
Normally I might have drifted off to the hiss of waves, but
fear kept me rigid. Every brush of wind through the
nearby grass made me jump. I couldn't guarantee I was safe,
but at least the open sky gave me a fighting chance to spot
trouble before it reached me. Eventually, the brutal
exhaustion one out. My eyes grew heavy, even though
my pulse was still racing. Before I slipped into a restless
doze, I grabbed my pocket knife and laid it beside me, just in
case. The reality of what lurked in
those woods was far from settled, and I had a feeling the
night wasn't ready to let me off easy.
My eyes snapped open at first light, though I couldn't say I
truly slept. The wind had died to a low
whistle and the morning sky was a dull grey, casting just enough
light for me to see I was still in one piece.
My shoulder throbbed from last night's collision with that
tree, and my legs ached in a way that told me I'd gone too hard
trying to outrun something I couldn't even see.
Shaking off the lingering fog in my head, I sat up and scanned
the beach. It was eerily quiet.
Normally, sunrise over the Pacific is breathtaking.
Pinkish clouds, golden water. But that morning it felt
subdued, like even the day was hesitant about showing up.
Part of me hoped I'd find solid proof that the terror I'd felt
in those woods was just my own overactive imagination.
Then I noticed something odd near the water's edge.
Impressions in the wet sand, bigger than I'd expect from any
person walking around. They were spaced too far apart
to be from a casual stroll. My pulse jumped.
They could have been smoothed or warped by the tide shore, but as
I got closer I realized they had a vague foot like shape to them,
elongated, broad. I crouched down, suddenly aware
of how alone I was on that stretch of beach.
My heart pounded harder when I noticed a line of these prints
leading toward the tree line, exactly where I'd fled last
night. I wanted to dismiss them, blame
them on shifting sand or an odd trick of the current, but the
winds howling in my memory and that unexplainable call I'd
heard still weighed on me. Standing there, cold water
lapping around my ankles, I felt more shaken than ever.
Whatever had prowled those woods might have been right there on
the beach, watching me as I bolted around in the dark.
I hurried back to my makeshift camp and stuffed everything into
my pack. There was no chance I'd linger
another minute in that spot. Every snap of a twig, every gust
of wind behind me made my skin prickle.
Turning my back on that gnarled coastal forest felt both
necessary and dangerous, like something might leap out at me
before I was out of reach. The walk through the trees in
daylight was nowhere near as terrifying as at night, but my
nerves were still on high alert. The occasional shaft of morning
sun revealed just how twisted and close those branches were.
Conifer needles and salt laden air formed a pungent mix that
sat heavy in my lungs. Even then, even with the
sunlight, I couldn't shake the sense that I was being watched.
When I finally reemerged into Grayland's campground, I almost
didn't recognize the place. The single RV was gone.
The site where the couple had been sleeping looked deserted as
well. No people.
No sign they'd ever been there. Maybe they packed up at dawn, or
maybe they were gone long before I even woke.
That chill at the back of my neck prickled again, making me
wonder if I'd imagined the RV in the tent entirely.
I didn't waste time. I hoofed it out to the highway
and flagged down a passing truck, the driver throwing me a
curious look when I practically jumped into the cab.
I mumbled something about needing to get out of Grayland
fast. He didn't press for details, and
I didn't offer any. We ended up stopping in a small
coastal town not too far away. There was a diner there,
fluorescent lights buzzing, the scent of bacon and coffee in the
air. I sank into a booth, hands still
shaking as I wrapped them around a steaming mug.
When the waitress asked if I was OK, I managed a half smile and
said something like long night. She nodded like she'd heard it
all before. A couple old timers at the
counter kept glancing over, probably picking up on my
rattled vibe. Eventually I summoned the nerve
to ask them if they'd ever heard weird noises in the grayland
area. Their eyes flickered with a hint
of recognition. One said he'd heard all sorts of
stories, sightings of large ape like figures near the dunes,
strange howls at odd hours. The other shrugged, calling them
tall tales, but his mouth said in a way that said he wasn't
entirely convinced of that. Later, after I'd changed into
dry clothes and recharged my phone, I typed in every search
term I could think of. Greylin, Screech, Bigfoot calls,
Westport forest noises, The audio clips I found, those
alleged Bigfoot whoops or howls sent a jolt straight through me.
Some had the same weird resonant pitch I'd heard piercing the
wind the night before. My throat went tight just
listening to them. I can't say with 100% certainty
what chased me through those tangled trees, or if anything
literally followed me at all. But when I think back on that
searing cry, on those footprints in the damp sand, and on the
acrid smell that clung to the air, I can't deny something was
out there. Something bigger and stranger
than a mere owl or deer. By the time I finally found a
bus back toward Olympia, the morning sun had grown strong,
casting long rays over the highway.
I should have felt more at ease, but I realized I was still
shaking. I kept replaying the night in my
head. If I'd made one wrong move,
taken 1 bad tumble, I might have still been out there, huddled in
the dark with whatever that thing was.
Even now, safe at home and scrolling through Internet
forums, I can't shake the feeling that I glimpsed another
side of that rugged Washington coastline, a side that rarely
meets human eyes. Sure, I walked away rattled, but
I walked away all the same, which is more than I can say for
some folks who've vanished in thick forests and never shown up
again. I didn't get the grand surf
adventure I'd hoped for, and I doubt I'll be heading back to
those dunes anytime soon. Still, that memory of hearing
that unearthly cry slicing through the howling wind, the
trackway in the sand, and the sense of a presence lurking in
the gloom has carved itself into my story forever.
It's a reminder that sometimes, out on the edges of the map,
you're a guest in someone else's realm, and you don't always see
your host until it's far too late.
I remember the heat pressing down like a weight that
afternoon, making every breath feel thick.
My friend and I had set out for a casual hike a few miles from
downtown Salt Lake City, figuring we'd escape the traffic
noise and chaos for a while. The trail was narrow, weaving
through dense undergrowth that tugged at our clothes, and we
hadn't been walking long before sweat started trickling into our
eyes. We finally stopped in a small
clearing where clusters of tall furs stood close enough to form
a canopy overhead. I squinted at them, noticing how
some trunks seemed angled against each other, almost like
a teepee. My friend and I tossed around
theories. Maybe campers had dragged them
into that shape, or some weird storm had left them like that.
None of our guesses felt convincing, and something about
the arrangement set my nerves on edge.
We just leaned against fallen logs to rest when a tremendous
crash shattered the stillness. Branches rattled, needles
spiraled down, and I felt a jolt of alarm.
My head snapped toward the noise, eyes searching for the
source. Deep in the undergrowth, I
spotted movement in the gloom of overlapping branches.
A form about 6 feet tall darted through the brush.
It had dark brown hair, patches of lighter fur around its
midsection, then darker again along its legs.
My mind immediately tried to twist it into something
familiar, but the temperature alone made it impossible that
anyone would be trekking around in a heavy outfit.
I called out, my voice tight. Hello, anybody there?
My friend was already on his feet, pushing aside low hanging
branches to get a better look. No response.
It was eerie how fast everything returned to total silence.
We inched forward, scanning the area for footprints or broken
limbs. The only clue we found was a
wide depression in the thick layer of needles, a single mark
deeper and larger than the shape of my size 11 sandals.
We strained our ears, hoping for a second crash, or at least the
sound of something stomping away.
Nothing. The forest around us seemed
emptied of life. With the hairs on my arms
prickling, I tried to rationalize it, maybe a stray
hiker in an odd costume or a shadow playing tricks on me, but
my gut told me we'd crossed paths with something else.
Despite the unease creeping through my body, we decided to
keep moving. The trail ahead felt safer than
lingering in that strange, silent pocket.
I remember glancing back every few steps, half expecting that
hairy figure to appear again. It never did, but from that
moment on, the simple day hike I'd planned turned into a slow
walk with my senses on high alert, always waiting for
another crash in the undergrowth.
Over the next few days, I found it almost impossible to focus on
everyday life. My mind kept drifting back to
that strange figure slipping through the furs, the odd print
in the needles, and the question of what or who was lurking out
there. Every time I tried to dismiss
it, I'd remember how intense that moment felt and get that
uneasy twist in my stomach all over again.
It wasn't something I could write off as a trick of the
light or a fleeting shadow. Finally, my friend and I agreed
we had to head back. I wasn't about to do it alone,
so we brought along two more people who were up for the
challenge. They were both skeptics at
first, rolling their eyes when we mentioned fur and footprints.
But once we described how massive that impression was and
how quickly the figure had vanished, they got quiet.
We stocked up on extra supplies, strong flashlights, fully
charged phones for video, and a firm resolution that this time,
we'd be prepared for whatever we might find.
We started early in the morning, hoping to reach the tree
formation before the midday sun turned the trail into an oven.
The four of us hiked in a line, maneuvering through dense brush
like it was some uncharted terrain.
Conversation was minimal, we'd crack small jokes here and
there, but there was this underlying nervous energy, like
we all suspected something was off and didn't want to jinx it
by talking too much. Eventually we reached the spot
where we'd rested on the previous trip, the clearing with
the bizarre teepee configuration.
It looked different somehow, like the branches had shifted or
more had been added. I couldn't help but wonder if
something had returned to rearrange them.
They were large, twisted limbs, not something you'd expect to be
thrown together on a whim. The silence around us felt
thick, like the atmosphere itself was warning us that this
place wasn't ours to linger in. One of our new companions,
Sarah, noticed a cluster of cracked branches piled in a
weird pattern on the ground. It looked intentional, almost
like the start of another structure.
A few steps away, I saw old bark stripped off a trunk in a way
that didn't look natural. We started taking photos and
poking around, trying to see if there were any signs of
footprints in the dirt or new scuffs on the bark.
That's when we caught the faint sound of movement from up the
slope, a shuffle or a shift in the leaves, low and heavy.
We froze as a group, exchanging glances that held the same
anxious thought. We weren't alone.
We aimed our flashlights toward the dense undergrowth, their
beams cutting through shadows. Nothing, Not even a startled
bird fluttering away. Still, none of us relaxed.
We found ourselves whispering, like we were worried that
raising our voices might provoke something.
With that uneasy weight hanging over us, we headed into a small
ravine, the same direction I was pretty sure our mystery creature
had darted before. My pulse throbbed as the shadows
deepened. The place reeked of damp soil
and old foliage, a scent that somehow felt claustrophobic.
It wasn't long before the daylight started fading.
The Canyon walls blocked out a lot of the afternoon sun, and I
realized we'd spent more time in that area than we'd planned.
The thought of getting caught in near dark conditions while
searching for a massive unknown creature sent a bolt of anxiety
through me. Another half hour of picking our
way through thick vegetation and we collectively decided we
tested our luck enough. We turned around to head back,
taking measured steps, all of us glancing over our shoulders
every few seconds. The undergrowth seemed thicker
now, or maybe it was just our nerves.
Every snapped twig felt like an alarm, each rustle a potential
threat waiting just beyond our sight.
But despite the near constant tension, we never saw a distinct
shape or heard anything more than a stray crack of wood.
When we finally reached the clearer part of the trail, the
sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows that stretched
across the ground. We hurried out, not exactly
running but not taking a leisurely pace either.
By the time we got to the trailhead parking area, nobody
was in the mood to talk about what we'd seen or hadn't seen.
We just stood by our cars, exchanging uneasy glances like
we'd all silently agreed there was definitely something out
there, and we weren't sure how close we'd come to it this time.
Driving home, I kept reliving the moments we'd spent next to
that tangle of broken branches, the silence pressing down on us.
And that single, distant noise that carried just enough heft to
remind us we were intruders, even if we hadn't caught more
than a glimpse. It felt like a step further into
a mystery that might be bigger than anything we were prepared
for. And yet a part of me knew we'd
be back. Because once you sense something
that's strange, it's impossible to just walk away and forget.
I couldn't shake the feeling that we were dancing around the
edge of something huge. After we got home from that
second hike, the tension in my chest wouldn't let up.
Every time I tried to sleep, I pictured the twisted branches,
the strange footprints, the hushed rustle on the slope.
Part of me was flat out terrified, but another part was
hooked. I needed to know what we were
dealing with, needed to see it with my own eyes once and for
all. It took some convincing, OK,
borderline begging, but my friends agreed to go back one
last time. This time, we planned it
differently. No more flirting with sunset.
We'd go in early in broad daylight, do a thorough sweep,
and be out before darkness had a chance to swallow us.
We told ourselves that if we still couldn't find solid
answers, we'd accept the mystery and move on.
At least, that was the plan. We set out at dawn, the rising
sun casting warm light on the dusty trailhead.
Even the walk leading up to the fir forest felt loaded with
suspense, like the trees themselves knew our intentions.
The forest canopy was still thick, though patches of light
trickled in, illuminating swirling dust moats in the early
morning air. It should have felt peaceful,
but I was coiled tight with anticipation.
By the time we reached the teepee like structure, the sun
was fully up. The weird arrangement of logs
and branches looked even more deliberate in daylight.
My friend Sarah, who had been so skeptical before, just stood
there shaking her head. She murmured something about how
there was no way this was natural.
It felt more like a constructed boundary marker than anything
random. We combed the area
systematically, marking any impressions, picking up bits of
fur caught on broken branches. Yeah, fur.
Not just a stray tuft here or there, but enough to notice a
pattern. It was coarse, dark, with
lighter tips. We collected it carefully in
small plastic bags, our minds spinning with possibilities.
There was a smell, too, musky, pungent, like wet dog mixed with
rotting leaves. It made my stomach churn, but it
also felt like proof that we weren't chasing ghosts.
Eventually, we descended into that narrow ravine where we'd
heard something moving on the second trip.
It was cooler there, the sunlight hitting the ground only
in scattered patches. The deeper we went, the more
unsettling the atmosphere became.
Giant boulders jutted out at odd angles, and fallen trees formed
natural barricades, like something had been shaping the
path to discourage visitors. That's when I saw it.
Just a flicker of motion from the corner of my eye.
My throat went bone dry. I raised my hand to signal
everyone else to stop. We stood dead still, every nerve
on high alert. Between two tall furs, partially
hidden by a thick screen of leaves, was a silhouette.
Tall, stocky, covered in that same 2 toned hair.
It wasn't running this time, it was watching us.
My heart pounded so hard I could feel my pulse in my temples.
The creature shifted, stepping forward just enough for me to
make out a thick, powerful frame.
I couldn't see its eyes clearly, but I sensed the tension in its
stance. My friend whispered Oh my God
and started fumbling for her phone, but I gently put my hand
on her arm to still her. Something in the creature's
posture told me it wasn't thrilled to see us yet It wasn't
charging either. It felt like a standoff.
Then it made this deep, resonant sound, an almost guttural
warning. The trees around us seemed to
vibrate with the force of it. I swear I felt the noise more
than heard it, like a low tremor through the ground.
My legs wobbled, a primal instinct screaming that I was in
the presence of something that could hurt me if it wanted to,
but it didn't move closer. It stared for a long moment, as
if weighing whether we posed a real threat.
I raised my arms in a slow, open gesture, trying to look as non
threatening as possible. My entire body was on the verge
of bolting, but I forced myself to hold my ground.
The creature gave a strange huff, then slid back into the
brush, ascending the slope with a speed and grace that left us
standing there, breathless. 1 moment it was there, the next
the forest swallowed it whole. We didn't chase it.
I think a few of us realized at the same time that chasing would
be a monumentally bad idea. Instead, we just stood, gripping
one another's arms, marvelling that the standoff had ended
without violence. My brain buzzed with a mix of
relief, awe, and lingering fear. Part of me wished we had some
perfect, crystal clear footage to show the world.
Another part knew it was enough just to have seen it and walked
away in one piece. After a few shaky breaths, we
gathered what composure we could and decided to head back.
None of us wanted to press our luck.
On the way down, we found the courage to talk quietly about
what we'd seen. The footprints, the smell, the
fur, and finally that face almost hidden behind the leaves.
It felt like we'd intruded on another intelligence, something
that had staked out its home here, way too close to
civilization for comfort, but hidden by the thick undergrowth.
It was near midday when we emerged onto the main trail.
The sun shone brighter than I'd expected.
The warmth on my shoulder is a stark reminder that we hadn't
been gone long in terms of hours, yet it felt like we'd
lived an entire lifetime in that ravine.
The rest of the hike was silent except for the rhythmic crunch
of our boots and the occasional shaky laugh whenever someone
muttered what just happened at the parking lot.
We regrouped around our cars, unsaid questions hanging in the
air. We had hair samples and faint
phone videos of leaves moving, but nothing that could truly
capture what we experienced. Honestly, it hardly mattered.
We knew we'd touch something beyond our day-to-day lives, and
there was a powerful, almost sacred finality.
And leaving it behind, undisturbed By that afternoon,
we promised we'd keep our eyes and ears open for other stories,
other signs, but we all agreed we wouldn't intrude again.
It was like we'd signed an unspoken pact with that forest.
Respect its boundaries, let the creature live as it was meant
to. And maybe, just maybe, it would
keep granting us safe passage. I haven't been back since, but I
can't say I won't ever go. The memory still lingers in the
back of my mind, especially when I'm alone at night.
Every now and then I relive that moment of eye contact, if you
can call it that, and wonder if it might happen again.
Strange as it sounds, there's a small part of me that hopes it
does. Because for one brief moment,
fear and fascination collided, and I realized there are still
corners of our world that remain wild, vast, and deeply
mysterious. I grew up on a stretch of land
tucked behind Rattlesnake Ridge, an expanse of farmland and
forest that stretched farther than my young eyes could
measure. For most of my childhood, it
felt like my personal playground.
My older brother and I spent countless afternoons chasing
each other across the fields, and if we wanted a change of
pace, we'd wander down to this cluster of thin Alder trees off
the lower pasture. The trunks were so flexible that
you could climb halfway up, then lean forward and ride them back
down like a giant springboard. It was a thrill, branches
snapping beneath us, the ground rushing up, both of us whooping
with excitement that was our world wide open, full of life
and possibility. 1 Autumn day, everything changed.
I remember the bite of the crisp air, the hint of damp Moss as we
hiked the gentle slope toward our favorite bendy alders.
The two of us were already knee deep in mud by the time we
reached them, eager for the adrenaline we got from swaying
to the ground. Snap, crash, just normal
everyday noises that went along with our games.
We knew what breaking branches sounded like.
Small twigs made a quick pop. Thicker ones created this deeper
crack. It never scared us, not until we
heard something that shouldn't have been there.
We'd just finished a round of our makeshift tree surfing when
a different kind of snapping started echoing through the
Grove. Louder, heavier.
It cut through the air with a force I'd never experienced.
My brother glanced at me, his smile twisting into alarm, and I
realized he heard it too. We both froze.
The cracking sounds kept rolling in, growing louder with each
second, as if logs two or three times thicker than the ones we
were playing on were being torn apart.
I tried to make sense of it. We knew the rumble of bulldozers
and tractors. Our dad worked those machines
all the time. But this was different, like
some massive presence was crushing trunks under foot.
It felt too random, too wild for any piece of equipment.
The worst part was we couldn't see the source of the noise.
The trees formed a wall of leafy shadows around us, and beyond
that everything felt eerily dim. Suddenly, it all stopped, not
gradually. One second it was there, the
next it was dead quiet. We were left standing with our
breath ragged, our heads craned, scanning the alders for a
glimpse of whatever was out there.
A cold prickle of dread coiled in my gut.
The land we knew so well felt strange and unwelcoming, like
something dangerous was lurking just beyond our sight.
My brother started to whisper something, maybe to tell me to
head back, when a roar or a howl I don't even know how to label
it ripped through the silence. It was so powerful I could
practically feel it in my chest. Every hair on my neck prickled
and my legs seemed to move on their own, stumbling backward
away from the tree line. My brother was right beside me,
muttering words under his breath that I couldn't make out.
We didn't linger to see if the creature, if that's what it was,
would step into view. We tore up that slope, sliding
on loose gravel, nearly colliding with each other in our
haste. I remember the metallic taste of
adrenaline in my mouth. When we reached the house, we
barged in through the back door, panting so hard it took a minute
to speak. Our mom stood there alarmed, but
as soon as we tried to explain, babbling about snapping trees
and an impossible roar, her face softened into a look I
recognized all too well. Disbelief.
Probably a bear, she said. Or you 2 just got yourselves
worked up. No matter how hard we insisted,
it was bigger, louder, more frightening than any bear she
wouldn't budget. She told us to clean off our
muddy shoes and go about our day.
That night, though, I could barely settle into my bed.
Every time I closed my eyes, my thoughts wandered back to the
moment that relentless crashing fell silent and how an unearthly
roar seemed to RIP through the air.
The lower pasture, the place that had once felt like our
personal amusement park, now felt like a different realm all
together. I wanted to forget it, chalk it
up to an overactive imagination, but I couldn't push it from my
mind. Later, I'd have to start waking
up before dawn to feed our cattle down near those same
alders. It was a chore I used to do with
ease, no flashlight needed, comfortable in my own backyard
after what happened, I found myself standing at the door each
morning, heart pounding as I peered outside at the black
silhouettes of the trees. The thought of crossing that
stretch of land made me shiver. I'd force myself to go, but
every crunch of a leaf would raise the hairs on my arms.
That roar played on a loop in my head.
I should have known it was only the beginning.
There was more to that roar than just a single terrifying
afternoon. Deep down, a part of me sensed
that whatever lurked in the Alder Grove wasn't finished
leaving its mark on our property or on me.
It had been a few weeks since that day in the Alder Grove, and
I was still on edge. During daylight, I managed to
keep most of the worry tucked away, but once the sun dipped
below the ridgeline, all bets were off.
Sleeping became a nightly struggle.
Every snapping twig outside turned my thoughts back to
whatever had roared at us. My parents stuck to their theory
that it was just a confused bear, though I think they
noticed how tense I was each time I had to walk down to the
barn. They offered no real comfort
beyond that life on a farm meant chores didn't stop, fear or not,
One evening, exhaustion finally got the better of me.
I'd spent hours chasing down a stray calf and was yawning by
dusk. I remember collapsing onto my
bed, half dressed, drifting in and out of sleep while a slice
of moonlight cut across the bedroom floor.
It must have been nearly two in the morning when I stirred,
aware of my flip clocks faint glow.
The display read 145, those bright illuminated numbers
casting a hazy light around the room.
My eyes were gritty with fatigue, but nature was calling,
so I swung my feet over the edge of the mattress.
That was when I happened to glance at the window.
At first, I saw just the road. We'd cleared a few trees near
the house the previous summer, so I had an unobstructed view of
the dirt path heading downhill. The moon was full and high,
bathing everything in a faint silver tone.
I blinked, trying to decide if my mind was playing tricks,
because off to the right, near the tree line, there was
something moving. It stepped into clearer view.
Tall, broad, and unlike any person I'd ever seen.
Even at night, I could make out the dark shape of towering
shoulders. Its head looked proportionately
big, though I couldn't see details.
The fence down there was about 5 feet tall, yet the figure's
torso hovered well above it. I froze, watching as it took two
strides across the road. That's how I knew it wasn't
human. No one could cross that span so
quickly, let alone look so massive in the process.
There was an unsettling grace to its movements, like it could
glide without effort. My thoughts drifted back to that
explosive roar in the Alder Grove, and a jolt of dread
coursed through me. I realized it might be the same
thing, Some unknown creature roaming our land, crossing the
pasture under the moon's gaze. Any hope that I'd imagined
everything before evaporated in that moment.
Panicking, I reached over to flip my clock face down, afraid
that even that mild glow might give away my presence.
Then I inched myself lower on the mattress, doing my best to
slip out of view. Every breath felt like it echoed
through the entire room. 1000 questions tore through my mind.
Would it come closer? Could it peer into my window if
it wanted to? I had never felt so vulnerable,
pressed into the creaking springs of my own bed.
Outside, the figure vanished behind the angled slope of the
hill. I lay there in the darkness,
unmoving, praying it would keep going.
My heart pounded against my rib cage and each passing 2nd
crawled by. I considered jumping up to close
the curtains, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.
Too risky. After a while, silence settled
back in, broken only by the croak of a frog somewhere near
the stream. Still, I stayed pinned in place.
The urge to flee or scream battled with the instinct to
remain absolutely still. Dawn eventually sneaked in
through the window, orange light stretching across the floor.
Only then did I dare to move. My body ached from being tensed
all night, and my eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep.
No matter how hard I tried to rationalize it, I couldn't
dismiss what I'd witnessed. Whatever I'd seen was real, and
it was big. I had no doubt it was connected
to the ruckus in the Aldergrove. Part of me wanted to warn
everyone, shout that we needed to barricade the house, but I
also knew my parents would just shake their heads.
My brother might believe me, he'd heard that roar too, but I
wasn't sure how much more I could say before sounding
hysterical. That morning, the chore list was
waiting for me, as usual. Pinned to the fridge, I had no
choice but to head outside again, the memory of that giant
silhouette still etched in my mind.
The world felt just a little less secure, and I realized with
growing unease that I might never view our farm the same way
again. The morning after I spotted that
silhouette outside my window, I tried one last time to convince
my parents. Something far bigger than any
bear roamed our property. My mother cut me off with a
patient smile, telling me to worry less about monsters and
more about my chores. My dad, equally skeptical,
suggested I pack some pepper spray if I was so nervous it was
madding. Only my older brother believed
me, and that was mostly because he'd been there in the
Aldergrove when the forest erupted with that terrifying
roar. Even then, I sensed a flicker of
doubt in his eyes, like he wondered if maybe I was over
hyping the night time sighting. Still, I couldn't let it go.
Every trip to the barn, every trek to the far pasture, I found
myself scanning the tree line for anything out of place.
At night I'd lie awake listening for heavy footsteps or another
earth shaking roar. Sleep became rare.
Each day I was more convinced our land wasn't ours alone.
When my brother finally admitted he was tired of tossing and
turning himself, we made a pact to figure it out, or at least
confront whatever was lurking. We waited until the moon rose
high again, just shy of full under the cover of darkness.
We snuck out of the house with a flashlight and a hand me down
camera. We agreed to stake out the edge
of the property line near the dirt Rd. where I'd last seen
that colossal figure. The night was cold enough to
sting our lungs when we breathed, and the air felt heavy
with apprehension. Beyond the faint ring of our
flashlights beam, the world was a black canvas.
Even the barn, usually a comforting sight, looked like a
looming shape of wooden slats and rusted metal.
At first we heard only the hum of crickets and an occasional
distant shuffle from the cattle. Then a low, resonant thump
reached our ears. It sounded like something
incredibly large was maneuvering through the undergrowth,
branches scratching together in the dark.
We tensed, gripping each other's arms for support.
The cattle started to move restlessly in their pen, letting
out anxious moves as though sensing a nearby threat.
Suddenly, a roar shattered the silence, very much like the one
we'd heard weeks ago. It reverberated through my rib
cage, urgent and furious. My brother fumble with the
flashlight, nearly dropping it in that half second of wild,
swinging light. I spotted a hulking outline at
the far end of the pasture, partially masked by shadow.
Before we could get a better look, the roar came again.
It wasn't closing in. It felt more like a warning.
My brother yanked me backward and we sprinted for the house.
My feet barely registered the ground.
I expected to feel hot breath at my back or sense the pounding of
massive footsteps behind us, but that didn't happen.
Once we reached the porch, we dared to glance over our
shoulders. The pasture lay still and dark,
the cattle jittery but not in full panic.
The creature, if it had followed at all, had melted back into the
night. The next day, our parents noted
how rattled we looked, but no miraculous conversion happened.
Still, the two of us had our proof.
At least in our own minds, we knew something had chosen our
property as part of its domain. I asked myself if we should call
the police, or maybe some wildlife official, but all I had
was a murky outline and a roar that defied any normal
explanation. In the end, we settled into an
unspoken deal. We'd be more careful, move
quietly around the lower fields and leave it to its own
territory. Over time, the Knights became
calmer for us. I never forgot the heft of that
roar, or the powerful shape that left me trembling, but it seemed
content to keep its distance if we kept ours.
I like to think our land holds more than meets the eye, a slice
of raw wilderness where man doesn't fully reign.
Sometimes I still wonder if I should have fought harder for
the world to believe my story. Then again, maybe this strange
truce was exactly what let life go on, and that was enough for
me.