My dad spent 30 years working for Wisconsin's Department of
Natural Resources, and when he retired last year, the one thing
he wanted most was more time in the woods.
Hunting had always been our bond, and with me leaving for
Air Force basic training soon, this late season deer hunt in
Michigan's Upper Peninsula felt like a farewell trip, something
important to both of us. Dad had chosen the Trap Hills
region of Ottawa National Forest.
It was isolated wild country. Back in town, locals in Berglund
gave us uneasy looks when Dad mentioned where we plan to hunt.
A cashier at the gas station even told us hunters went
missing up here once the snow began piling deep.
Dad laughed it off, thanked her politely, and we left.
The morning we arrived, fresh snow had buried everything knee
deep. Our pickup barely managed the
narrow logging roads. Dad parked the truck 3 miles
short of where he planned to set up camp, and we trudged through
untouched snow, each step slow and exhausting, our rifles heavy
on our shoulders. Our campsite was a small
clearing near Norwich Bluff. In the dim winter sunlight,
everything around us was stark white, sharp black branches
etched against a Gray sky. We'd barely unpacked when Dad
told me about an old deer stand he'd built decades ago with
friends, nestled high in the branches of a sturdy spruce half
a mile away. Let's go check it out, he said,
excited like I hadn't seen him in years.
As we walked, I felt uneasy, though I tried not to show it.
The woods were too quiet, the kind of silence that made your
ears ache. Not far from camp, I spotted
deer tracks, clear and fresh. Dad nodded approvingly and
suggested I scout ahead to find where the deer had bedded down.
Feeling proud of myself, I followed the trail, each print
crisp in the snow. But after just a few 100 yards,
I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks.
Hanging impossibly high in the branches of a tall Birch tree
was the skinned carcass of a deer.
No blood stained the snow beneath it.
Its limbs were splayed awkwardly, as though placed
there carefully. I stared, my stomach tightening.
There was no explanation for this.
I called Dad over, my voice shaking slightly.
When he arrived, his expression changed instantly.
All excitement faded, replaced by something colder.
It's probably just poachers, He said, examining the deer with
narrowed eyes. But his voice lacked the usual
confidence or someone's sick idea of a joke.
I knew Dad well enough to recognize when he was lying.
He glanced around, scanning the silent woods.
Let's keep this to ourselves, OK?
I nodded, and we made our way back to camp, both of us quiet.
Dad built a fire as night fell early, the woods swallowing us
in darkness. We cooked canned Stew and warmed
our hands by the fire. The silence deepened, oppressive
and heavy. Later, wrapped in sleeping bags
inside the tent, I lay awake. Sleep wouldn't come.
Something about that deer carcass had unsettled me deeply.
Dad shifted quietly beside me, restless too.
Hours dragged by. Then, through the thin tent
walls, I heard something move in the snow outside.
Not the crunch of steps, not the brush of branches.
Just a subtle shifting of snow, as if something were dragging or
sliding carefully around the tent.
Dad. I whispered, my heart pounding
in my ears. I hear it, He answered, his
voice barely audible. We waited, breath held tight,
listening. The movement circled the tent,
slow and deliberate. There was no sound of breathing,
no snapping twigs. Just absolute silence, except
for the gentle shift of snow being pressed under something's
weight. My chest tightened with fear.
Then the sound stopped. Morning arrived, pale and Gray
without any warmth. When we stepped outside the
tent, what we saw made my stomach twist again.
All our tracks from the day before had vanished completely,
erased. Instead, surrounding the camp in
a slow, careful circle were strange, deep hoof prints,
large, sharp cloven imprints pressed cleanly into the snow.
Nothing like any deer I'd ever seen.
Dad knelt beside one, tracing its outline with a finger.
His expression darkened, eyes hollow with concern.
This isn't right, he muttered quietly.
Dad, what made these? I asked, voice tight.
He shook his head slowly, standing back up, scanning the
silent forest around us. The empty trees seem to press in
closer, colder. I don't know, he finally
admitted. But tonight we sleep in the deer
stand. I didn't argue.
Something was deeply wrong in these woods, and for the first
time, I saw my dad frightened. Dad's old deer stand had been
built high up on a thick spruce about half a mile from our
campsite. It's weathered wood was faded
and cracked, worn down by years of harsh Upper Peninsula
winters, but it held together well enough.
When Dad reinforced the platform with fresh rope and timber from
nearby trees, I helped silently, too anxious to speak.
Something felt deeply wrong, as if every shadow between the
trees watched us. As evening approached, we
climbed up, rifles strapped to our backs, and settled onto the
narrow platform. From here, the woods stretched
endlessly around us, silent beneath a Gray sky heavy with
snow. Dad had insisted we sleep here
tonight, elevated above whatever had circled us in the dark.
Neither of us said it out loud, but we both knew it wasn't an
animal. Not any animal we recognized,
anyway. We huddled under thick wool
blankets, and Dad set our rifles carefully at arm's reach.
Darkness fell quickly, swallowing the world around us.
Cold seeped steadily through my clothes until my teeth
chattered. Dad didn't start a fire.
He seemed afraid to attract attention, his eyes constantly
scanning the woods, alert and tense.
Finally, after what felt like hours of silence, Dad spoke.
His voice was a low murmur, barely audible above the faint
wind rustling through the branches below.
You know Caleb, He said quietly. This isn't the first strange
thing I've seen out here. I stared at him in surprise,
waiting for him to continue. Years ago.
He said softly, staring into the dark trees.
I was hunting out here with my friend Mike.
Good hunter, tough guy. We'd tracked this big buck deep
into these hills. Mike took point and I held back,
waiting to flank. Suddenly, Mike just disappeared.
Dad swallowed hard, pausing when I got to where he should have
been. There was nothing.
No sign of him at all. Only his rifle snapped clean in
two. Beryl bent like something
grabbed and twisted it. Nobody ever found Mike.
I sat in stunned silence, shivering now from more than
just the cold. My dad wasn't one to make up
stories. His seriousness frightened me
deeply. I wanted to dismiss it, pretend
he was just trying to toughen me up, but the edge in his voice
told me otherwise. After that, neither of us spoke
again. I leaned my head back against
the rough bark, straining my eyes against the darkness.
My heart pounded at the slightest rustle of branches or
distant crack of ice. Each passing minute tightened my
nerves until sleep finally claimed me, uneasy and fitful.
A sudden motion woke me in the dead of night.
I opened my eyes, instantly alert.
Dad sat upright, rigid, staring silently into the forest beyond
our stand. My heart hammered in my chest.
Something was wrong. Dad.
I whispered, terrified to make even the slightest sound quiet.
He breathed, so soft I barely heard him.
It's back. Slowly, carefully, I leaned
forward, peering through the dark branches toward where Dad
was looking. At first I saw nothing, just
dense trees and shadows. Then something shifted,
something pale and thin among the trees.
It stood motionless, taller than any man, thin limbs stretched
unnaturally, visible only as patches of faint moonlight
reflecting on pale flesh. It made no noise, no sound of
breathing or movement. It just stood there, still as
death, watching us. My pulse pounded in my ears as
we stared helplessly. The thing didn't approach, it
didn't retreat. It just remained there, half
hidden by darkness and trees, letting us know it was aware,
that it knew exactly where we were.
Then, silently, almost imperceptible, it melted away
into the shadows, vanishing as quietly as it had appeared.
Dad exhaled sharply, releasing breath I hadn't realized he was
holding. Neither of us spoke until the
1st Gray hints of dawn crept through the woods, washing away
the night. We're getting out of here.
Dad finally said, voice flat and hollow now.
I climbed down from the deer stand, my legs trembling with
exhaustion and fear. Before we could pack, I glanced
toward a distant ridgeline, suddenly freezing in place.
Standing motionless atop the Ridge, clearly visible in the
weak morning light, was a figure.
A man dressed exactly like my dad.
I blinked in confusion. The clothes matched Dad's
perfectly. Same coat, same hat.
It just stood there, rigid, staring down at us.
I glanced quickly to my side. Dad was right beside me, eyes
wide with fear as he stared at the distant shape.
Dad. That's.
I started, my voice shaking. I see it.
He cut me off sharply. Don't look at it, Pack quick.
We moved fast, grabbing only our essentials, leaving behind
everything heavy and unnecessary.
My eyes flicked back toward the Ridge one last time as we began
our hike back toward the truck. The figure was gone, but I knew
deep in my gut it hadn't left. It was still here, somewhere
close, and it wasn't finished with us yet.
We moved quickly, the only sounds coming from our boots
crunching steadily through fresh snow as the morning sky turned
from dull grey to pale white. The silence between us felt
heavy, both of us too afraid to speak.
Dad led the way, rifle held ready, eyes darting constantly
through the trees. After a couple of miles, I began
to feel safer. The distant ridgeline where we'd
seen that strange figure standing like a twisted
reflection of Dad, was far behind us.
My muscles ached from exhaustion and the adrenaline slowly wore
away, replaced by a bone deep weariness.
Hold up a minute. Dad whispered, coming to a stop
near a dense cluster of Cedars. I'll be right back.
I nodded, watching him disappear behind a thicket.
Alone, I stood quietly, listening intently to the forest
around me. Seconds stretched into minutes,
but Dad didn't return. The tightness crept back into my
chest. Dad.
I called, my voice shaking slightly.
No answer. My heart pounded as I circled
the thicket, careful not to trip in the thick snow.
Dad wasn't there. Instead, at the edge of my
vision, something else moved. I turned sharply, eyes scanning,
desperate to see Dad stepping out from behind another tree.
But what I saw made my stomach twist painfully.
Standing about 50 yards away, near the trunk of a large
spruce, was my father, or something that looked horribly
like him. He stood perfectly still, his
back to me, head tilted strangely downward.
The familiar olive hunting jacket was unmistakable.
My voice caught in my throat. Dad.
I said again, barely above a whisper.
Slowly, stiffly, the figure turned around as soon as I saw
the face clearly. I recoiled instinctively, my
blood turning cold. It wore my father's clothes, but
the limbs beneath were grotesquely elongated, bones
pushing oddly beneath the fabric.
The face was thin and hollow, skin stretched tightly over
sharp cheekbones, eyes sunken and staring emptily.
It opened its mouth far too wide, but no sound emerged.
Then, without any warning, the figure dropped onto all fours,
its limbs bent at unnatural angles, joints shifting
grotesquely beneath the clothes as it began racing toward me, it
moved silently and impossibly fast, disturbing the snow
without any noise. Pure terror surged through me.
I turned and ran, legs pumping frantically, snow dragging at my
feet. My lungs burned, each breath
tearing painfully at my chest. I didn't dare glance back.
The thought of seeing that twisted shape closing the gap
between us pushed me faster. As I stumbled down a steep
slope. An idea flashed through my
panicked mind, the extra tense strapped to my backpack.
It might be my only chance. My fingers fumble desperately as
I pulled it loose, grabbing the lighter from my pocket and
flicking it frantically. It sparked once, then again,
finally igniting the corner of the fabric.
Flames erupted rapidly, sending thick smoke billowing upward.
I tossed the burning tent onto the snow covered ground behind
me. The creature recoiled sharply
from the sudden burst of fire and smoke, stopping its pursuit
momentarily. Circling in agitation at the
flames, I seized my chance and sprinted harder, adrenaline
driving me beyond exhaustion. My lungs heaved painfully as I
pushed through the last half mile to the truck.
I slammed into the door, wrenching it open and scrambling
inside, locking it behind me with shaking hands.
My pulse thundered wildly in my ears as I turned the key,
praying desperately for the engine to start.
It roared to life and without hesitation I threw it into
reverse, skidding sharply before regaining control.
I didn't stop, didn't slow down until the forest had given way
to open highway and the snow covered hills faded behind me.
Days later, search and rescue teams found our camp and the
deer stand, but never found Dad. Near the stand, authorities
recovered scraps of clothing and fragments of bone, scattered and
shredded. The official report listed him
as missing, presumed dead, no predator or animal identified.
In private whispers, though, locals said we'd gone into
Wendigo country. The forest swallowed secrets
easily. I never haunted again.
Growing up in western Massachusetts, I always felt
drawn to the mountains, especially the unforgiving peaks
of New Hampshire's White Mountains.
Mount Washington was the ultimate test, a granite beast
infamous for unpredictable weather and punishing storms.
They said conditions on its summit could change in a
heartbeat. I'd heard plenty of stories in
my time as a wilderness EMT, but to me, the challenge was part of
the allure. I was no novice to hiking or
cold weather. After serving as an Army combat
medic, I took pride in being ready for anything.
Solo hikes had become my therapy, my solitude.
They grounded me, kept my mind clear.
I was careful, meticulous, always packed with backup gear,
redundant plans and alternate routes etched clearly into my
mind. I didn't hike to get attention.
No social media updates, no pictures.
Just me, the elements and the silence.
In early March, I decided to tackle the Presidential
Traverse, a challenging winter trek across the presidential
range peaks. The weather forecast had
indicated mild conditions, with only minor snowfall expected
over the next few days. Enough to make it interesting, I
thought, but nothing dangerous for someone of my experience.
I intended to cross from Mount Adams southward over Washington
Summit, staying cautious but confident.
The first day was uneventful. Crisp air and clear skies made
the ascent toward Mount Adams enjoyable.
But on the second day, halfway across the open, windswept
Alpine tundra toward Washington, the conditions started
deteriorating fast. By noon, what had been predicted
as a mild snow flurry quickly turned into a dense whiteout.
Visibility plunged. Snow came down in thick sheets,
whipped sideways by an icy wind I could barely see 20 yards
ahead. The trail markers, Small stone
Cairns vanished quickly beneath the accumulating snow.
I'd studied the maps and knew there was a crude emergency
warming Hut nestled into a sheltered area just below
Washington's summit Ridge. It wasn't well known, omitted
from most trail guides, but locals and Sr. crews trusted it.
In desperate times I adjusted my compass, setting a direct
bearing toward the Hut, fighting through drifting snow, my
breathing steady but strained beneath my fleece neck gaiter.
It took me nearly two exhausting hours in knee deep powder before
the shape of the Hut finally loomed through the storm.
It was smaller than I had expected, nothing more than a
rectangular timber structure, it's flat, snow covered roof
barely visible. I quickly approached, relieved
to find shelter. The wooden door swung open
easily. The latch was broken.
Inside, darkness and cold air greeted me.
I clicked on my headlamps, scanning the room.
There wasn't much inside. A cot bolted to the floor, an
old stone fireplace with a black and steel chimney, and walls
lined with rough timber. I removed my backpack, preparing
to settle in and make hot food. Then my headlamp swept across
the walls. I froze, an uncomfortable chill
crawling down my spine. Carvings.
Crude, deep etchings covered the Timbers, scratched frantically
into the wood stick figures thin, bent and distorted.
Around them were taller shapes, elongated and twisted,
unmistakably crowned with antlers.
The carvings repeated, becoming more chaotic the further they
went. Beneath some figures were small,
strange symbols I vaguely recognized as Algonquin
pictographs. I leaned closer, running gloved
fingers along the gouges in disbelief.
Whoever had made these carvings had done so forcefully,
desperately, as if driven by madness or fear.
Then, illuminated by the narrow beam of my headlamp, a single
word stood out clearly among the chaotic drawings.
Wendigo. My heartbeat a little faster.
The word was familiar. I'd heard it whispered jokingly
among guides and trail veterans around campfires and Sr.
briefings. A mythical Algonquian creature
born of starvation, cold, and madness.
Supposedly it haunted these mountains, consuming the lost.
I'd always dismissed it as folklore, spooky campfire
nonsense. But alone in this Hut, with the
storm raging outside and these unsettling images carved
violently around me, it felt disturbingly real.
Shaking myself clear, I forced rational thought back into my
mind. Someone had simply spent too
much time trapped here, alone, scrawling nightmares into wood.
Maybe hypothermia or cabin fever had gotten the better of them.
Still, I found myself glancing repeatedly at the carvings as I
lit my small stove and cooked a quick meal, the strange figures
seeming to shift each time the flame flickered.
I climbed into my sleeping bag on the cot, gripping my knife
out of instinct. Wind battered the Hut.
Snow hissed softly against the walls.
Around midnight, something jolted me awake.
A single loud thud rattled the back wall.
I sat upright, heart hammering. Silence.
I waited, breath held, straining my ears.
Another heavy impact shook the wall again, harder this time.
My mind raced for explanations. Falling ice, shifting snow.
No trees stood nearby, no branches to break or fall.
Outside was open tundra and rock, nothing that could slam
into the Hut like that. Yet it had happened twice now,
heavy and deliberate. I gripped the knife tighter and
listened, my breath forming clouds in the cold air.
My ears ached from the silence that followed, desperate to hear
footsteps or movement, anything that might explain the noise.
Rationally, there was nothing, just the steady pounding of my
heart. I stayed that way until dawn
finally crept into the cracks around the wooden door,
exhaustion tugging at me, but sleep and impossibility.
I forced myself up and gathered my courage, approaching the door
and pushing it open cautiously outside.
My breath caught painfully in my throat.
The snowfall had erased all traces of the path I'd taken.
My footprints were gone completely, but fresh tracks,
impossibly large, elongated footprints unlike any animal I'd
ever encountered, circled the Hut, approaching close and then
pulling away into the snowbound nothingness.
My stomach twisted as I turned back inside, shutting the door
firmly behind me, heart thudding in my chest.
That's when I saw them clearly. Claw marks, long and deep, were
carved violently into the inside of the hut's door.
They hadn't been there before. Something had been inside with
me. My pulse pounded in my ears as I
stared at those impossible gouges carved deep into the
wooden door from the inside. They weren't superficial
scratches. They were long, ragged furrows
cut with force and precision. Whatever had made them had been
inches from me during the night, separated only by the thin
fabric of my sleeping bag and the feeble beam of my headlamp.
I stepped back, heart racing, and turned my eyes again toward
the crude drawings covering the walls.
The twisted stick like human figures, the looming antlered
shapes the word Wendigo scratched repeatedly into the
woods, stood out vividly now, mocking my earlier skepticism.
I forced myself to breathe slowly.
Panic wouldn't help me survive this.
My training kicked in. Assess your surroundings, manage
your resources. Make a clear plan and stick to
it. Right now, survival meant
getting off this mountain as soon as possible.
I grabbed my pack, checked my gear methodically, and pushed
out into the biting cold. Morning had broken, Gray and
heavy snow continuing to swirl softly around me.
The landscape was featureless, an empty white expanse blending
seamlessly with an equally pale sky.
The trail I had followed here was invisible under deep powder.
My earlier footprints were erased completely, replaced by
something else entirely. My stomach lurched as I saw the
tracks circling the Hut again, clearer now in the dim daylight.
They were impossibly large, sunk deep into the snow as if
whatever made them had unnatural weight. 4 elongated toes
protruded from each print, claw tipped and widely spaced.
I knelt to examine them, fingers trembling slightly as I felt the
compacted snow beneath whatever had left these tracks had
approached the Hut multiple times during the night, pacing
around it silently. Then the tracks veered off
sharply, leading out into the open tundra to the southwest.
I pulled out my compass, hoping to find my bearing, but the
needle swung erratically, refusing to settle.
Frustrated, I tapped it, trying to steady my hand.
After several attempts, the needle finally stopped spinning,
pointing uncertainly southward. I had no choice but to trust it.
I had to descend toward the Lakes of the Clouds Hut, closer
to safety. I started walking slowly,
navigating carefully around snow, buried boulders and hidden
dips in the terrain. The world felt closed in,
oppressive and endless, blank canvas of disorienting white.
Minutes passed slowly, each step deliberate, cautious.
Then my stomach twisted again in sickening recognition.
I was passing the Hut again. I stopped dead, disbelief
clawing at the edges of my mind. I'd walked straight, following
the compass, yet somehow I'd circled back to the warming Hut.
I swallowed hard and forced down a wave of panic.
This was impossible. The tundra was featureless, but
I knew navigation well enough. My route should have been clear.
Gritting my teeth, I altered my direction.
Bearing slightly eastward this time, I'd skirt around whatever
unseen obstacle had turned me back before.
My breathing was shallow, ragged, driven as much by fear
as exertion. I pushed on, snow crunching
beneath my boots. 15 minutes later I saw it again, the Hut
still silent, standing bleakly against the horizon, I felt a
deep, instinctive dread take hold of me.
It was as if the landscape itself refused to let me go,
holding me prisoner in an endless loop.
Was I hallucinating from cold or exhaustion?
No, I still felt lucid, alert, but trapped in a nightmare.
The wind began to pick up, gusting and sharp bursts,
driving needles of ice into my exposed skin.
Shivering uncontrollably, I was forced to retreat back into the
Hut. Darkness would return
eventually, and if I was still lost out here, when night fell
again, my chances of survival would plummet back inside.
I stared bitterly at the familiar carved warnings on the
walls. Then a cold realization spread
through me. Among the carvings near the
fireplace was something new, something I was certain had not
been there before. A skeletal figure, tall and
gaunt, crowned with a deer skull and long, twisted antlers
beneath it. Scratched deep into the wood
were two words, frantic and ragged.
Stay inside. I clenched my fists, feeling a
helpless anger building. Someone or something was toying
with me. My instincts screamed to run, to
fight, to escape, but I had nowhere left to go.
Outside, the wind rose to a steady howl.
The temperature dropped sharply, bitter cold seeping into the
small structure. Night was returning, and dread
settled into my bones. I prepared my gear, tightening
straps, checking my ice axe and knife, laying them within easy
reach. I knew one thing with absolute
certainty. Whatever had left those
carvings, whatever had circled me during the night, it was
still out there, somewhere close, waiting patiently as
darkness reclaimed the mountain. The silence inside the Hut grew
unbearable, pressing on my senses like a physical weight.
And then, in the dead quiet, something scraped slowly across
the roof. I held perfectly still, my head
cocked toward the ceiling, muscles taut with tension.
The scraping overhead was slow and methodical, the sound of
something heavy being dragged carefully across the hut's roof.
My heart hammered in my chest so loudly it seemed impossible that
whatever was up there couldn't hear it.
The dragging stopped abruptly, replaced by silence.
Not a peaceful silence, but one filled with a terrible
anticipation. Then, without warning, snow and
debris burst down through the chimney, scattering soot and ash
onto the stone hearth below. I spun around, grabbing my ice
axe from beside the cot. My headlamps beam shook as I
aimed it upward, illuminating the stone flu.
A sickening dread twisted in my stomach.
A pale, elongated hand slowly extended downward from within
the chimney bone. White skeletal fingers curled
around the bricks. The fingernails were blackened
and cracked, chipped and splintered, scratching against
stone. As the hand reached further
down, my breath caught painfully in my throat.
Something else emerged above the hand.
Long, thin antlers, impossibly twisted, jutting from the
shadowed chimney shaft. My blood went cold.
The carvings on the walls were not symbolic.
They were warnings. The word Wendigo, etched in
frantic repetition, flooded my thoughts.
Those Algonquian legends I dismissed rushed back to haunt
me. A creature born of starvation
and madness, endlessly hungry, always seeking the warmth of the
living. I snapped into action.
My body moved on instinct, training, overcoming paralysis.
I lunged forward, grabbing the small metal fuel canister from
my stove kit, twisting open the nozzle and spraying it directly
upward into the chimney. The pungent chemical odor filled
the small Hut, instantly stinging my eyes.
The pale hand retreated slightly, twitching violently.
I flicked my lighter and hurled it upward into the chimney.
Flame roared upward, igniting the fuel in a brilliant, violent
burst of heat and light. A deep, guttural hiss erupted
from within the flu as the flames surged upward.
I stumbled backward, coughing as soot and smoke filled the small
space above. Something heavy scrambled and
scraped its way off the roof, retreating into the storm
outside. For several long minutes I sat
crouched by the cot, axe gripped tightly, lungs aching, staring
upward into the darkness. Silence returned to the Hut.
The fire in the chimney died quickly, leaving only faint
wisps of smoke curling upward. My ears strained against the
suffocating quiet, desperate for any sign the thing had truly
fled. My nerves were shredded, and my
limbs trembled from exhaustion and terror.
The rest of the night passed in near total stillness, broken
only by occasional gusts of wind rattling the hut's wooden frame.
I stayed awake, gripping the axe tightly, my back pressed firmly
against the wall opposite the chimney.
Dawn arrived slowly, the faint Gray light filtering through
gaps in the timber. Cautiously I rose, my body stiff
and weak from fatigue and cold. Outside, a calm had settled over
the mountain, a bitter clarity after the chaos.
Whatever held me trapped the day before was gone.
I felt it instinctively. Something had changed.
The oppressive sensation of being watched was absent.
I gathered my gear and pushed open the Hut door.
Cold air rushed in, sharp and painful against my frost nipped
skin, but it felt cleansing, reassuring.
I wasted no time setting out southward again.
My compass pointed true, now steady in my hand, leading me
away from that cursed shelter. After an hour of careful
navigation, shapes emerged in the distance, bright orange
jackets standing out starkly against the monochrome
landscape. A search and rescue team had
ventured upward from the Lakes of the Clouds Hut, scanning the
Ridge. I called out, my voice raw and
weak. Waving an arm desperately, they
rushed forward, helping me to sit, wrapping me in a thermal
blanket. Relief flooded my body, a heavy,
exhausted relief, unlike anything I'd ever known.
Between trembling breaths, I tried to explain, to warn them
about the Hut, about what I'd seen.
At first they listened politely, nodding sympathetically.
But as I spoke of claw marks, carvings and antlered things
emerging from chimneys, their expressions became guarded.
They exchanged quick, uncertain glances, convinced I was
suffering from hypothermic hallucinations.
Only later, after I was safely down the mountain, warmed and
stabilized, did I learn what the rescue team discovered when they
returned to inspect the Hut. The SAR leader came to my
hospital room, visibly shaken, to quietly share the details.
Inside the warming Hut, exactly as I had described, they found
bricks torn loose from within the chimney.
Deep gouges marred the inside of the door, matching my
description precisely. The Hut had been hastily boarded
shut, the chimney permanently sealed, the leader confided
quietly. It was not the first strange
incident there, merely the most recent.
He offered no explanations, just quietly advised that I never
speak openly about what happened.
Months passed. I relocated S away from
mountains and snow, far from the memories of that endless night.
But some things never leave you entirely.
To this day, I still keep that ice axe tucked safely in a
closet, the handle stained dark from soot and fire, a silent
reminder of the cold and the claws and the antlers descending
slowly toward me in the dark. I'd spent most of my adult life
in places like this, quiet, remote, and rugged.
It's a life I chose, a solace I found in the vast, untamed
corners of the country. Before the New Mexico Department
of Game and Fish, I was a Yellowstone field researcher,
comfortable with the profound silence of trekking alone
through vast stretches of forest and Backcountry.
I'd face down Grizzlies and spend weeks with only wolves for
company. But my assignment, now simple
enough on paper, felt different from the start.
Collar elk and collect biological samples in the Gila
Wilderness. Following a shocking and
unexplained 40% drop in population.
The HeLa is no Yellowstone. Though Yellowstone has a certain
rugged grandeur and openness to its wildness, The HeLa is
rougher, somehow, more primal and less forgiving.
Dense, thorny forests tumble into shadowed canyons that seem
to swallow the light, and the terrain conspires to make you
feel like an intruder. It feels untouched, not in a
pristine way, but in a way that suggests even the locals know
better than to go too far in. I'd made camp 3 miles off the
main trail last night near Turkey Feather Pass, and it
pushed even farther N this morning toward the headwaters of
Bear Wallow Creek. My objective was to collar elk
in an area where motion triggered.
Cameras had picked up something deeply odd.
Herds breaking apart in blind panic, scattering for no
discernible reason. It didn't match the behavior of
any known predator, wolf, lion, or bear.
By noon I reached the area I'd marked on my map, an open
Meadow, a serene looking clearing ringed by a silent
congregation of old growth spruce and ponderosa pine.
My boots sank slightly into the soft, dark earth, still damp
from recent rains. I paused to get my bearings and
check my gear. Tranquilizer rifle strapped
securely over one shoulder, tagging supplies in my backpack
and the biological sampling kit secured to my belt.
Everything was accounted for. The first sign that something
was profoundly wrong hit me about 50 yards into the
clearing. It was the quiet and unnatural,
suffocating quiet. I've spent enough time outdoors
to know that silence often signals danger, the tense pause
before a predator strikes. But this was different.
It wasn't a pause. It was a vacuum, as if sound
itself was being actively suppressed.
I scanned the tree line slowly, my hand resting on the stalk of
my rifle, but there was nothing. No shapes moving through the
brush, no flicker of a tail, no signs of disturbance.
I nearly stumbled on the first elk without seeing it.
It lay perfectly still, collapsed in the tall grass as
if it had simply laid down for a nap.
Kneeling, I touched its flank gingerly.
Cold, stone cold. Rigor mortis had already set in,
the limbs stiff as iron, suggesting it had been dead for
days. But that was impossible.
The grass beneath the massive body was fresh green and
completely undisturbed. There were no signs of a
struggle, no churned up mud, and more unnerving still, no wounds.
No blood, no bite marks from predators, not even a scratch.
Nothing. As I rose and looked around the
Meadow, a cold knot tightened in my chest.
There were more. Five additional elk lay
scattered evenly across the clearing, forming a near perfect
circle with the first one. Each was positioned in the same
bizarre, Placid state, lying down, legs stiffly extended,
neck stretched out and eyes wide open, staring at the empty sky.
Their tongues protruded slightly, a grotesque uniform
touch to an already surreal scene.
I forced my training to take over, pushing back the rising
tide of dread. I moved from one carcass to the
next, a grim circuit around the clearing documenting the same
inexplicable symptoms. No trauma, no scavenging, no
apparent cause of death. Methodically, my hands moving
with a precision that bolide the tremor in my gut, I took tissue
samples, hair samples, blood samples from each animal.
I labeled each glass tube with meticulous care, the scratch of
my pen the only sound in the unnerving stillness.
The whole time, I fought off the distinct and terrifying feeling
that the forest had gone even quieter, as if it were holding
its breath, watching me. It took me an hour to finish.
The samples were critical and needed to get to the lab
immediately. But when I tried my satellite
phone, the signal struggled, flickering with a single weak
bar before dropping out completely.
No connection. I tucked the precious samples
securely into a cooled pouch in my pack and stood, knowing I
would have to carry them out myself tomorrow morning.
As dusk began to bleed through the trees, I made camp just
outside the Meadow, seeking the meager shelter of a thick spruce
stand. I wasn't hungry, I wasn't tired.
I was coiled tight, every instinct screaming at me to pack
up and get out now. But logic, the scientist in me,
held me back. There had to be a rational
explanation, a localized disease, a toxic fungus, an
environmental poison. I couldn't abandoned my
assignment without more data. I lay awake long after darkness
fell, staring at the thin nylon of my tent wall, listening.
The forest had finally begun to stir again, the faint rustlings
of nocturnal animals, the distant soothing murmur of the
Creek. Normalcy was returning.
Then everything went quiet once more.
In that absolute silence came a sound I know I will never be
able to erase from my memory. A long, piercing scream that
erupted from somewhere high above the Ridge.
It wasn't human. It wasn't elk, Mountain Lion,
bear, or coyote. I've heard every sound the North
American wilderness can produce, and this was none of them.
The scream rose in a sharp, agonizing crescendo, a sound of
pure terror and malice. And then it abruptly cut off,
leaving a void of silence that felt deeper and more threatening
than before. My heart hammered against my
ribs as I sat bolt upright, my hand closing around the cold
steel of my tranquilizer rifle. Then came a sudden sharp snap of
brush. close maybe 20 yards out. Another followed, slightly off
to my right. Whatever was out there was
moving, deliberately, circling my tent at irregular intervals.
Each crack of a branch, each crunch of leaf litter sounded
heavy, intentional. This was no deer wandering by.
With a trembling hand, I clicked on my high lumen flashlight,
tore open the tent flap, and blasted the beam into the trees.
I saw nothing, just the stark white trunks of aspens, the deep
shadows between them, and empty spaces where something should
have been standing. Slowly, methodically, I swept
the light in a full circle around my campsite.
Nothing moved, but I knew with a certainty that went deeper than
sight that something was there, watching me from just beyond the
edge of the light. I zipped the tent closed again
and waited, my back pressed against my pack, rifle in my
lap. My eyes were wide open in the
oppressive dark, fully aware I wouldn't sleep another minute
until daylight came. At the first pale hint of dawn,
I abandoned any pretense of scientific duty.
My fingers, clumsy and shaking, fumble with my gear.
It wasn't the morning cold that caused the tremor, but a raw
edge. Dread I'd never experienced
before, not even when I'd been bluffed, charged by a grizzly in
Yellowstone. Every instinct I possessed
shouted at me to leave, to put as much distance as possible
between myself and the clearing of dead elk, between me and
whatever had patiently circled my tent during the long, dark
night. I set out quickly, heading South
along a narrow game trail that would eventually lead toward the
Ranger station near Bonner Canyon.
As the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows through the
trees, I forced myself to breathe evenly, to rationalize
my fear, exhaustion, solitude, and overactive imagination
playing cruel tricks. But no amount of logic could
erase the memory of that scream echoing through the darkness.
By midday, I came across a cluster of elk bones scattered
across the trail. I knelt to examine them, and a
fresh wave of ice flowed through my veins.
The bones were entirely clean, unnaturally stripped of every
shred of muscle, sinew, and ligament.
What remained had been carefully arranged in precise anatomical
order, the ribs laid out in a perfect parallel fan, the
vertebrae aligned in a neat, delicate column.
There were no teeth marks from scavengers, no evidence of
insects. The scene felt clinical,
sterile, almost purposeful. It wasn't a kill site.
It was an exhibit. I stood back up, the acidic
taste of bile rising in my throat.
A sudden sound behind me, a heavy footstep, the definitive
crunch of a boot on gravel. It was so close it sent a jolt
of electricity up my spine. I spun around, pulse leaping,
scanning the trees and the trail behind me.
Nothing. Only silence.
I exhaled sharply, my breath clouding in the air.
I tried to convince myself I'd imagined it, but the forest
around me felt suffocating, oppressive.
I started walking again, faster this time.
After only a few steps, the sound returned, a distinct
rhythmic crunch on the forest floor, matching my stride
perfectly. I took one step.
A second later, a step echoed mine.
I took three quick steps. Three quick crunches answered.
I stopped dead. So did it.
I tested it again and again, raw panic clawing at my throat as
the horrifying pattern continued.
This wasn't an echo or a coincidence.
It was deliberate, mocking mimicry.
Unable to stand it any longer, I broke from the trail, veering
sharply into the dense undergrowth.
I plunged through thorny cat claw Acacia, the spines ripping
at my pants and legs, drawing blood.
I didn't care. I welcomed the pain, something
tangible to anchor me against the rising wave of unreasoning
fear. The footsteps behind me ceased
for a moment, only to be replaced by the heavy snapping
and crunching of something much larger forcing its way through
the brush nearby, paralleling my course.
Desperation surged through me. I pressed forward, ignoring the
pain, until the forest floor gave way to a steep, rocky
slope. I scrambled up, loose scree
slipping and clattering beneath my boots.
Halfway up the incline, I paused to catch my breath, my lungs
burning, gripping the rough stone for support.
And that's when I saw it. Below me, standing motionless
under a deep rock overhang, was a figure unlike anything I had
ever encountered in life or in nightmare.
It was tall, impossibly so, at least 7 feet, with unnaturally
elongated limbs draped in what looked like ragged patchwork
animal hides. Its body was emaciated,
skeletal, the outline of its rib cage clearly visible beneath the
tattered skins. But the head, I couldn't clearly
make out its features. There was only a hollow,
absolute darkness beneath what appeared to be some sort of
ceremonial hood fashioned from antlers and bone.
I was frozen, my breath trapped in my chest.
It didn't move or speak. It just remained perfectly
still, a silent, tenebrous shape observing me from the shadows of
the overhang. My paralysis broke.
In a surge of pure adrenaline, I turned and lunged upward,
scrambling desperately over the jagged terrain.
My pack caught on a jutting piece of granite, and without a
second thought I shrugged out of the straps, letting it fall
away, my precious supplies scattering down the rocks.
I couldn't afford to stop, couldn't dare to look back.
My lungs felt like they were on fire and my legs screamed in
agony, but the terror drove me relentlessly forward.
Behind me, the sound began again, the clear, rhythmic
footsteps, steady and unhurried, crunching on leaves and breaking
twigs. Whatever it was, it moved
effortlessly through the same obstacles I struggled to
navigate. I saw a narrow crevice between
two massive boulders and stumbled into it, pressing
myself flat into the gap, my chest heaving, sweat streaming
down my face. The approaching footsteps slowed
and finally stopped just beyond my hiding spot.
I held my breath, willing myself silent listening.
And then I heard it. The low, rasping sound of slow,
measured breathing just on the other side of the rock.
It was so close I imagined I could smell its breath, a
rancid, earthy odor, sour and ancient.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears like a drum, a frantic countdown
to inevitable discovery. But discovery never came.
Instead, I remained wedged there, tense and rigid as
daylight gradually faded into the deep purple of twilight.
The breathing never shifted, never retreated.
It simply lingered, a patient, terrifying presence in the dark.
All I could do was wait, eyes wide, muscles aching, knowing I
had no choice but to endure the night.
The first pale streak of dawn cut through the sky, and I
forced my stiff, aching body from the narrow gap.
Dried blood crusted the deep scratches on my legs.
I stepped gingerly into the open, bracing myself for the
figure that attract me relentlessly.
But the space beyond the boulders was empty, silent.
Nothing moved. I started cautiously downhill,
trying to Orient myself toward the Bonner Ranger cabin.
My abandoned pack, along with my map, SAT phone and supplies lay
scattered somewhere on the slope behind me, but I knew this part
of the wilderness well enough to navigate by instinct.
I moved slowly at first, fighting dizziness and
exhaustion, every snapping twig making me jump, my head
constantly swiveling to glance over my shoulder.
The figure was gone, yet the sensation of being watched never
subsided. Hours passed.
With each mile my pace quickened as the harsh rocky landscape
gave way to more forgiving terrain.
Gradually landmarks became familiar, the long abandoned
logging Rd. the crooked stump where the trail forked.
Finally, just before noon, I stumbled upon something that
made me freeze mid step. There, lying open and perfectly
centered on the trail, was my field notebook.
My chest tightened. I knew for a fact I'd packed it
securely in a side pocket of my pack.
Yet here it sat, miles from where I dropped it, untouched
except for one small detail. The elastic band that held it
closed was missing. Kneeling cautiously, I examined
it, half expecting some sinister message scrawled across its
pages. But they were pristine,
Undisturbed. A cold dread worse than anything
before ran down my spine. This wasn't just a monster, it
was intelligent. It was toying with me.
Carefully, I placed the notebook in my pocket and continued on,
forcing myself not to dwell on the impossible logistics of how
it had gotten there. The air felt oddly cold for
midday, though the weather had been mild.
My breath began to condense visibly before me.
I pulled out the portable thermometer clipped to my
jacket. It read 64°F, yet I shivered
uncontrollably from a chill that felt like it was radiating from
the inside out. By the time I finally reached
the Ranger station, dusk was creeping over the wilderness
again. The small wooden cabin stood
alone, silent and empty. The door was unlocked as it
always was, a common refuge for emergencies.
I stumbled inside and without hesitation barricaded the door
with a heavy wooden table, shoving it tight against the
frame until it wouldn't Budget. Only then did my legs finally
give out. I sank to the cabins rough
wooden floor, my body shaking with a violence I couldn't
control. Exhausted, dehydrated and
physically drained, sleep took me swiftly.
Darkness claimed my consciousness, a black,
dreamless void, free of movement, free of fear.
It felt mercifully empty. I awoke early the next morning,
still curled on the floor, blessedly untouched.
Outside, the world had returned to normal.
Birds were singing. Sunlight filtered gently through
the cabins dusty windows. Gathering what remained of my
strength, I UN barricaded the door, stepped outside and began
the final long trek out along the service Rd.
Within hours, a forest patrol truck spotted me limping down
the dirt Rd. They rushed me to the district
office where I handed over the carefully preserved samples.
The next two weeks were a blur of debriefings and medical
checks, of trying to regain normalcy, to erase the memories
of that shadowed Canyon, the figure beneath the rock
overhang, the circle of elk frozen stiff, their wide open
eyes staring endlessly at nothing.
When the lab results finally arrived, my supervisor, a
grizzled man named Frank, called me into his office.
His expression was grim as he placed the report on his desk
between us. Rachel, He began, his voice low.
The elk you found, something happened to their bodies on a
cellular level. The tissues showed evidence of
flash freezing, the kind of rapid crystallization of
intracellular water that normally only happens in
cryogenics, or sudden exposure to sub zero conditions.
But it was mild out there, right?
I nodded slowly, my throat dry. Yes, temperatures were in the
60s. He hesitated, drumming his
fingers on the desk. And there was something else.
Their adrenal glands were flooded with stress hormones.
The levels were, well, they were physically impossible, higher
than any biological Organism should be able to produce.
They were literally scared to death and then frozen solid in
an instant. His eyes full of a deep, weary
concern fixed on mine, He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice
until it was almost a whisper. Listen, Rachel, this isn't the
first time something inexplicable has come out of the
HeLa. There are old reports, stories
from ranchers we always dismissed as folklore.
If I were you, I'd request reassignment somewhere closer to
civilization. He didn't have to tell me twice.
I never minded the quiet, not when I was overseas and
certainly not now that I was running snow plows for Arizona
Department of Transportation along Arizona's White Mountains.
Some of the guys complained about the night shifts, said the
isolation got to them. But after four tours in
Afghanistan with an engineering unit clearing IEDs from lonely
mountain roads, this felt peaceful.
Until tonight, anyway. It was mid-april, technically
spring, but this late snowstorm had blown in like a slap across
the face, burying Route 273 beneath 2 feet of thick, wet
powder. Dispatch had called me in after
dinner, a four hour job at most, they'd said.
Simple enough, clear the route, get home by sunrise.
But the storm was heavier than forecasted, visibility dropping
and the temperature already down into the teens.
It felt colder every minute, even inside the cab.
The wipers clicked steadily as I ease the plow along the dark
highway, snow banks building on either side.
Tall stands of spruce and fir crowded the road, thick branches
bowed low beneath snow that kept falling.
The cab heater fought hard against the cold outside, but I
could still feel the chill seeping through the windows, ice
forming on the edges of the glass.
My headlights barely pierced the swirling white shadows,
flickering through my peripheral vision each time the beams swept
across the trees. I was near Crescent Lake when I
saw the car, a silver Subaru Forester, nose crunched into a
drift on the side of the road. Hazards flashed dimly, nearly
hidden beneath a mound of fresh snow.
I slowed the plow and rolled to a stop behind the vehicle, the
engine idling low. It wasn't uncommon for people to
underestimate these storms and end up stranded, especially this
close to the reservation boundary.
Dispatch, this is Kyle Moreno, I said into the radio mic.
Got an abandoned vehicle near mile marker 47.5 comma Route 273
looks stuck. Good, gonna check it out.
Static buzzed back at me, faint voices lost somewhere in
between. Reception had been spotty all
night. I logged the vehicle's location
into my notebook, zipped up my jacket, and stepped outside.
The wind hit like frozen nails, bitter and stinging, numbing my
cheeks. Instantly.
I trudged over to the Subaru through knee deep drifts,
flashlights slicing through the darkness.
The driver's side door hung wide open, snow blowing in sideways,
already starting to pile up on the empty seat.
The keys still dangled from the ignition, chiming softly with
each gust of wind. I leaned inside, scanning
quickly. A wallet sat untouched in the
cup holder, flipped open to a tribal ID Desiree N White River,
26 The photograph showed a young woman smiling shyly, dark eyes
looking out with quiet warmth. I glanced up and felt my chest
tighten. A large smear of blood stained
the fabric, seat, dark and already partially frozen,
trailing out onto the snow outside.
Swallowing hard, I stepped back and swept the flashlight beam
around the Subaru, looking for signs of struggle or a crash
victim. That's when I saw the tracks.
Bare footprints, not boots or shoes.
Bare feet pressed deeply into the snow, the toes splayed wide,
unevenly spaced, as if limping or stumbling.
The tracks LED straight from the driver's side door, away from
the road and into the dense woods below the embankment.
I stood frozen for a moment, listening to the crack of
branches shifting under the heavy snow in the distance.
My training told me to follow, to look for someone who might be
hypothermic or injured, but my gut twisted in apprehension.
Something felt wrong. It wasn't just the absence of
shoes or the bitter cold that nagged at me.
It was the unnatural spacing of those footprints, stretched and
uneven like whoever made them wasn't walking normally, wasn't
even walking comfortably. Dispatch.
I called again into the radio, urgency edging into my voice.
Possible injured motorist footprints going into the woods.
Request immediate assistance. Only static responded, an empty
hiss that seemed to mock me from the silent cab.
I took a few tentative steps toward the tree line, flashlight
beam trembling slightly in the wind.
The footprints LED downward, plunging straight Into Darkness,
swallowed by dense fir trees whose branches tangled together
like grasping hands. Snow drifted steadily, quickly
filling and softening the sharp edges of the prints.
I hesitated at the tree line, flashlight trembling slightly in
my grip. The darkness was impenetrable,
dense and oppressive. Deep shadows moved with the
wind. Branches creaked under the
weight of snow, and somewhere further in, a single branch
snapped sharply, quick, brittle, as if stepped on by something
heavy. Every nerve in my body warned me
to stop, to step back. It wasn't cowardice.
I'd faced worse fear than this in deserts thousands of miles
away, but something deeper, older, a feeling more instinct
than thought. I retreated slowly, still facing
the woods, then hurried back to the plow, slamming the heavy
door shut and locking it behind me.
Snow swirled angrily against the windows, as if annoyed that I'd
escaped back to shelter. Dispatch, this is Moreno.
I said again, throat tight. Need someone out here ASAP.
I've got blood on scene. Footprints leading into the
woods. Injured person suspected.
The static wavered briefly, then silence.
I set the mic down, heart hammering.
I stared through the windshield at the dark wall of trees, snow
obscuring everything now except for the faint, irregular
depressions marking where Desiree had fled into the night.
And as I shifted the plow back into gear and slowly continued
forward, I couldn't shake the sensation that something out
there in the frozen darkness had watched the whole thing unfold,
waiting patiently for me to return.
I'd moved on from the abandoned Subaru, but my mind wouldn't let
it go. The image of those barefoot
tracks kept replaying in my head, the blood on the seat
vivid behind my eyes. The radio still wasn't working,
nothing but static hissing back at me.
Each time I tried dispatch. It felt as if the snowstorm had
cut me off entirely from the rest of the world, trapping me
alone along Route 273. It was just past midnight and
visibility had fallen to less than 50 feet.
Snow piled up relentlessly, thickening into heavy drifts
along the edges of the road. The cab was getting colder,
despite the heater running at full blast, the windows slowly
fogging with condensation. Every mile crawled by, painfully
slow. My headlights cut feebly through
the swirling flakes, illuminating only glimpses of
empty road ahead. As if the world outside had
shrunk down to nothing. The plows engine suddenly
sputtered, jolted, then went silent, taking every electrical
system with it. The cab went dark, headlights
out, dash lights off, heater silent.
I tried the ignition, twisting the key, then pressing the
starter repeatedly. Nothing, not even a click.
It felt as though someone had simply flipped a switch, killing
everything at once. My breath plumed out into
visible mist as the warmth drained from the cab.
Already feeling the bite of the cold seeping inside, I grabbed
my flashlight and stepped out cautiously.
Wind immediately ripped at my face, snow stinging my eyes.
The beam of my flashlight flickered through swirling
powder as I circled the front, popped the hood, and checked
beneath. Battery terminals secure belts
intact. No leaks.
I couldn't find a single visible cause for the sudden shutdown.
Frustration gnawed at me, mixing with unease.
Something like this should never have happened.
Not all at once, not without warning.
As I stood staring helplessly at the silent engine compartment, I
heard it clearly. A sharp, sudden inhale from
somewhere down the slope. Not quite animal, definitely not
human. It was a wet, strangled intake
of breath, followed by the distinct sound of a large branch
snapping underweight. I turned, flashlight shaking in
my hand as I swept the tree line.
My beam skittered nervously over snow covered spruce, searching
for movement. Only darkness and snow, thick
and endless. But something shifted, a shadow
just beyond where my beam reached whatever it was.
It was tall, upright, moving slowly between the trees.
Careful and quiet, I hurried back to the cab, locking the
doors behind me. My pulse throbbed rapidly in my
throat, ears ringing with adrenaline.
I tugged open the lock box beneath the seat, removing my
Ruger 357 and gripping it firmly, comforted by the weight
in my hand. I stared out through the
windshield, trying to calm myself, watching snow pile up
across the glass. Nothing moved.
Nothing stirred outside, but the silence didn't feel empty.
It felt intentional, like something was choosing not to
make noise. The forest outside was quiet,
frozen, almost waiting. Then the entire plow shifted
suddenly, just a small tilt at first, as though something had
stepped onto the bumper at the back.
My heart pounded louder, breath shallow.
I turned slowly, staring through the dark rear window.
A scraping sound echoed softly, long, rasping, like something
hard and sharp dragging itself along the steel siding of the
plow. It moved slowly, deliberately,
from the back toward the driver's side.
Then came the heavy, distinct thump of footsteps in snow.
They stopped just beside my window.
I gripped the revolver tighter, raising it slowly.
My breathing turned ragged, shallow puffs of vapor rapidly
fogging the glass. I stared out at the snow blurred
night, too terrified to move or look away.
Slowly, a shape appeared, a tall figure, thin and impossibly
gaunt, emerging silently from the swirling snow.
My stomach nodded as the flashlights dim.
Reflection illuminated a rib cage stretched tightly beneath
pale, stretched skin. Arms hung unnaturally long,
knobby joints protruding through emaciated flesh.
Its head, something between an elk skull and bare bone, rose
into the beam. 2 immense antlers jutted skyward each time sharp
and twisted like dead branches. My breath caught, a strangled
noise in my throat. I sat, frozen, fingers clenched
around the revolver, my whole body tense with dread.
It stopped there, directly outside the window, dark, empty
sockets turned towards the cab. For a long moment it stood
motionless in the swirling storm, almost a statue carved
from ice and bone. Then, slowly and deliberately,
it raised one elongated, skeletal hand and tapped a
single finger against the glass. Tap, tap, tap.
I didn't move, didn't breathe. The tapping echoed painfully in
my ears, the revolver trembling uselessly in my grasp.
Every muscle in my body urged me to fire, to scream, to flee, but
my instincts held me still. Then, from the trees behind the
plow, another sound cracked through the night.
A second inhale, deeper, wetter, more guttural.
The figure outside the window tilted its head toward the
sound, as if listening. It dropped its hand, turned
silently, and stepped away, disappearing into the snowstorm.
I stayed rigid, frozen in the seat, watching the snow pile up
against the windshield until my limbs began to cramp.
Hours passed, or minutes, I couldn't tell.
Nothing returned to the plow. I could only sit there in
agonizing silence, trapped in darkness, knowing that whatever
had been outside, whatever was still out there, hadn't left me.
It had merely stepped back, waiting somewhere out of sight.
The hours crawled by. My watch read 4:19 AM, but it
felt like time itself had stopped.
Every muscle in my body ached from the tension of remaining
perfectly still, cramped into the freezing cab.
My breath frosted heavily on the inside of the windshield,
blocking most of my view outside.
The cold seeped into my bones despite layers of clothing
biting deep into my skin, but I barely noticed.
I couldn't stop replaying that skeletal shape in the tapping
finger on the glass, couldn't silence the memory of that
thing's empty, hollow stare. I shifted slightly, just enough
to ease the ache in my legs. My hands still gripped the
revolver, my knuckles stiff and white.
I hadn't moved from the driver's seat in hours, hadn't dared look
away from the window. Outside, snow continued piling
up in thick, oppressive layers, further isolating me.
I strained my ears for any noise, any movement in the
frozen silence. Nothing.
Just my own shallow breaths filling the cab with vapor and
the faint groaning of metal as the plow settled beneath the
weight of the snow. But then a quiet click.
Almost lost beneath my breathing, I twisted my head
toward the passenger door. The handle jiggled softly, once,
twice, as if being tested from outside.
I lifted the revolver, aiming shakily toward the door.
My heart pounded violently, blood roaring in my ears, but
the movement stopped. No entry, no attempt to force
the handle further. Just a sudden, empty silence, as
if the intruder had decided against it.
I couldn't move, could barely breathe.
Every nerve in my body burned with adrenaline, pulse hammering
rapidly through my veins. Minutes passed, then an hour,
maybe 2. I didn't lower the revolver,
didn't relax. My exhaustion blurred into
numbness, eyes heavy but unblinking, fixed on the shadowy
windows. Eventually, dawn began to break.
Thin shafts of pale Gray sunlight filtered through gaps
in the ice crusted windshield. Slowly, stiffly, I leaned
forward, squinting into the murky half light.
Snowdrifts nearly buried the plow, and everything outside was
blanketed white and silent. The dark tree line was still
empty. No movement, no skeletal
figures, nothing but endless snow.
Taking a long, ragged breath, I forced myself upright and
unlocked the driver's door, pushing it open with trembling
hands. Cold air bit into my face,
snapping me awake, alert. I stepped unsteadily out into
knee deep snow, stumbling slightly as my numb legs tried
to regain their feeling. I circled cautiously around the
plow, pistols still raised, ready.
What I saw stopped me in my tracks, breath hitching
painfully in my throat. The side mirrors were shattered
metal twisted and bent outward, jagged edges glinting in the
weak morning sun. The passenger door hung Askew,
violently wrenched away from its hinges, as though something
unimaginably strong had tried to pull it loose.
Deep, irregular scratches gouged the metal siding, forming
patterns that looked like long claw marks.
Dragged through the paint. And around the entire vehicle,
circling endlessly, relentlessly, were the same
barefoot prints I'd seen back at the abandoned Subaru.
But these were different now. Wider, deeper, impossibly large
and elongated. They didn't walk away.
They only circled again and again, overlapping in places, as
though whatever made them had paced endlessly, patiently,
around the plow all night. I backed away, stumbling out
onto the road, revolver still gripped tight in my hand.
Panic swelled in my chest. Without thinking clearly, I
turned and staggered down the road, away from the plow, away
from the circling footprints, away from whatever had waited
all night just outside my window. 2 miles I walked, legs
heavy, clothes frozen stiff. I didn't feel the cold anymore,
only the deep, penetrating numbness.
Finally, headlights appeared through the swirling snow,
cutting toward me. Another ADOT plow.
I collapsed to my knees on the icy pavement as the other driver
jumped out, rushing toward me. He said something.
I couldn't make it out. His voice sounded distant,
distorted, lost in the noise inside my head.
His face blurred and swam before me as he reached down, grasping
my shoulders, yelling my name. His eyes widened as he looked
down at my revolver, still tightly clenched in my trembling
hand. What happened, Kyle?
He shouted, voice cracking. Where's your truck?
I tried to speak, to explain, but words wouldn't form.
Instead, I found myself repeating a single hoarse
sentence. Don't follow those footprints.
That's not her out there. Not anymore.
Later, I sat shivering beneath blankets in the warmth of a
rescue vehicle, watching silently as emergency crews and
tribal police combed the snow around my abandoned plow.
They found nothing. No sign of the missing woman, no
skeletal figures. Just a single bloody footprint
on the floor of my cab, too large, too elongated to belong
to any human. Days later, the official report
listed exposure, exhaustion, and possible hallucinations due to
hypothermia. The missing woman was never
found, and I refused to return to Route 273 again.
But every time I closed my eyes, I saw those footprints circling
endlessly around me through the snow, patient and hungry in the
darkness. And even now, in the safety of
my home miles away, I know with absolute certainty that whatever
had stalked me out there on the frozen highway hadn't truly
left. It was still waiting, somewhere
beyond the snow line, bidding its time.