My name is Justin, and this is the story of how I lost my
friend in the woods of Arizona when I was 13.
It's a tale that still haunts my nightmares even after 20 years
have passed. Back then, our house was nestled
deep in the woods north of Peach Springs, and my friends Kyle,
Chris, and I love to camp during the summer break.
One particular summer, we decided to try something
different. Instead of camping together, we
decided to camp separately to see how we'd fare on our own.
I ventured far off from our usual camping spots, closer to
the open areas and meadows. It was the farthest from home I
had ever camped. Kyle chose to stay in one of our
familiar spots while Chris disappeared into the wilderness.
Fortunately, we had radios to communicate in case anything
went wrong. We all set off at 10 in the
morning, and Kyle radioed me around midday.
When he reached his spot, I called in sometime around 1:00
PM to check in. Worry began to creep in When we
hadn't heard from Chris yet, however, the radio crackled to
life and he reported that he had found a spot pretty late in the
day. I didn't recall the exact time,
but it was definitely late. We set up our tents, lit
campfires, and spent the warm summer night beneath a blanket
of stars. Everything seemed relatively
normal up to that point, but around midnight my radio started
making strange noises. It was as if one of the guys was
trying to talk to me, but the signal was terrible.
I picked up my radio to investigate, thinking it was
Chris, but it was Kyle on the other end.
He asked how we were doing and I replied that we were OK, but I
couldn't help but wonder why it had taken Chris so long to find
a spot. He claimed he was far away.
Beyond the nearby hills, which were about a mile away, Chris
was venturing deep into the wilderness.
I found it odd, but Chris assured us that the area was
great, so we went back to sleep. Around one or two in the
morning, however, I awoke just before dawn to the sound of
someone running past my camp. I assumed it was Kyle, but when
I unzipped my tent and looked outside, I couldn't see much due
to the darkness. I called out thinking Chris was
playing a prank, but he just kept running, not even turning
to look at me. He disappeared into the woods,
confused and irritated. I grabbed my flashlight and
scanned the tree line. There was nothing.
It was too late in the night for this nonsense.
I tried to contact Chris on the radio and he finally responded.
I asked him why he was running around my camp and he denied it,
claiming he was still at his own camp.
I insisted it was him, but he insisted it wasn't.
I swore I saw him not once, but three times that night, always
running past without acknowledging me.
As dawn broke, I contacted Kyle, who also had a restless night
due to Chris's strange behavior. Kyle told me that Chris had run
into his camp earlier and asked for help.
Kyle called into the woods to inquire, but Chris didn't
respond, repeating the same question over and over.
Frustrated, Kyle returned to sleep, only to try again later
with no response from Chris. Concerned, we decided to locate
Chris's camp to get to the bottom of this.
After about a mile of walking and following footprints in the
mud, we reached a clearing deep in the woods.
Chris's campsite was there, but it was in shambles.
His tent was torn apart, his belongings scattered, and his
radio thrown into the long dead campfire.
Trash was strewn everywhere. We searched for Chris for hours,
but found no trace of him. We decided to head back toward
the hills to get a better view of the area.
After a while, we saw him standing on top of a hill not
far from us, and relief washed over us.
We ran toward him, but something felt wrong.
Kyle stopped suddenly blocking my path and urged me to wait.
Chris, or whoever it was, smiled at us, an unnaturally wide grin
stretching from ear to ear. As we got closer, it became
evident that this thing was not Chris.
Its body was deformed, as if it had drawn everything toward its
center, leaving its arms, legs, and everything else unnaturally
skinny. It moved strangely, and its
facial expressions were off. Then it dropped to all fours and
started running down the hill, shifting into something beyond
our imagination. Its skin stretched tightly over
its Bony frame, its head elongated with a circular,
black, beady mouth. As it ran, it screamed in
Chris's voice, but it sounded robotic and unnatural.
To this day, I struggle to explain this experience to most
people, so I keep it to myself. If anyone in the comments has
any idea what we encountered or what happened to our friend,
please let us know. After watching your videos, I
was reminded of my near death experience with what I can only
assume was a skinwalker. I was about 18 years old when it
happened and I had decided to go on a camping trip with my
friends. We had seen a lot of videos
about skinwalkers and collectively we like to call
them Pig Skinny for reasons we couldn't quite explain.
I had always believed in the existence of Pig Skinny, so on
this camping trip I wanted to come prepared.
I brought my night vision goggles and my trusty Colt 45
for protection against anything that might come our way.
The first day of the trip went smoothly and we went to bed with
0 hiccups, but at one point during the night I heard what
sounded like footsteps outside of my tent, accompanied by an
eerie squeaking noise. I initially thought it was
probably my friends pulling a prank on me, pretending to be a
mouse or something like that. However, a chilling thought
crossed my mind. Could it be a pig?
Skinny shape shifted into something like a mouse?
Despite the absurdity of the idea, I couldn't shake off the
unease I felt in the morning. I asked my friends if they had
heard anything during the night, but to my surprise, none of them
had heard the noise. They all dismissed it as a mere
mouse. I was alone in my suspicion.
The second day of the camping trip took a strange turn.
My friend known as Carter suddenly disappeared while I was
grilling some hot dogs over the fire.
I didn't pay much attention at first, given that these were top
notch hot dogs, but then I heard a blood curdling screech echoing
from the woods. It sounded like someone or
something was being brutally murdered, or perhaps screaming
in terror. Ignoring my initial fear, I
grabbed my colt and knife and told my friends I'd be back.
I ran into the woods, desperately searching for
Carter, my closest friend. My eyes began to itch as I
continued writing this, but I must continue.
I started to smell a metallic, coppery scent in the air, the
unmistakable scent of blood. I had only heard about this in
stories, but now as I write this, I can feel the goosebumps
forming all over again. Despite the ominous signs, I
pressed on, hoping to find Carter.
As I ventured deeper into the woods, I found no trace of my
friend. The smell of blood and copper
grew stronger, but I pushed it to the back of my mind.
Eventually I decided to return to camp, thinking that perhaps
Carter would have made his way back.
However, when I arrived back at the campsite, I was met with a
horrifying sight. Everything was gone, except for
the head of a peculiar looking deer.
What sent shivers down my spine was that this deer had human
teeth. I chuckled nervously, thinking
it was a prank, but the disappearance of my friends
weighed heavily on my mind. As night fell, I decided to use
my $2000 night vision goggles to see in the darkness.
I spotted silhouettes in the tree line that resembled my
friends standing there. For a moment.
I slammed my fist down on the picnic table in frustration.
Out of nowhere, I heard a faint whisper from behind, saying it's
arrived. Panic surged through me as I
turned around, hastily unloading my colt on whatever was behind
me. It turned out to be Carter, but
something was dreadfully wrong. He had multiple bullet holes in
him and he wasn't talking. Fast forward three weeks, I was
back in my trailer on my own property, accompanied by my less
intelligent brother Randy. We were just relaxing at home
when I heard what sounded like bells ringing outside.
I peered out and couldn't believe my eyes.
There stood my friend Carter. I was almost certain I had
killed him with those massive 45ACP rounds, but evidently they
weren't strong enough. He stared at me intensely, and
as we locked eyes, it felt like years, centuries eons passed
between us. Then he turned and walked back
into the woods, disappearing from sight.
In reality, this story seems absurd.
A couple of weeks later, I did actually see my friends again,
and when I questioned them about that fateful night, none of them
had any recollection of us ever going camping.
It left me pondering whether I'd experienced some sort of time
lapse or time loop, or if the skinwalker had cursed us in some
way. What did I encounter that night,
and what did I shoot? The answers remain shrouded in
mystery, leaving me haunted by the unknown.
Ever since I was a kid, I've had this unshakable love for the
great outdoors, the rustle of leaves under foot, the distant
call of a loon, the fresh, earthy scent of the forest.
It's like music to my soul. So in the fall of 1982, when the
opportunity arose for one last camping trip before the grip of
winter, I couldn't resist. I lived in Manchester, NH, a
place not too far from nature's heart, but this time I was drawn
to Baxter State Park in Maine. I heard it was a slice of
untouched wilderness, perfect for someone like me who yearns
for a bit of solitude. I remember that day like it was
yesterday. My wife was busy at the hospital
and the kids were over at grandma's, leaving me to my own
devices without a second thought.
I called in sick at work, a small white lie for a much
needed break. I loaded up my old Bronco,
making sure to strap the canoe securely on the roof.
I felt a little guilty for sneaking away like that, but the
call of the wild was too strong to ignore.
The drive to Baxter State Park was a mix of excitement and
anticipation. I remember the way the sunlight
filtered through the autumn leaves, casting a golden glow
over the highway. It felt like I was driving into
a painting, one where the colors of fall were splashed across the
canvas of the world. Arriving at the park, I was
struck by its vastness and the sense of isolation.
It was exactly what I needed, a place to disconnect and just be.
I drove to my launch site, unloaded my canoe, and paddled
into the heart of the park. The water was calm, like a giant
mirror, reflecting the clear blue sky and the surrounding
forest. It was so peaceful, just the
gentle sound of my paddle dipping into the water and the
occasional bird call. After a few miles, I spotted the
perfect camping spot. It was a small clearing
surrounded by tall pine trees with a view of the lake.
I paddled towards the shore, feeling a sense of
accomplishment. This is it, I thought to myself,
my own little piece of heaven. Setting up camp didn't take
long. I pitched my tent, gathered some
wood for a fire, and unfolded my pack chair.
Sitting there with the fire crackling in the sun setting
over the lake, I felt a deep sense of contentment.
It was like all my worries and the noise of everyday life were
left behind, miles away from this tranquil spot.
As the day turned into night, the temperature dropped, but it
was a comfortable chill, the kind that makes sitting around a
fire all the more enjoyable. I roasted some marshmallows, a
childish treat that always brought back good memories.
Then, tired from the day's journey, I crawled into my tent.
I lay there for a while, listening to the sounds of the
night, a Symphony of crickets, and the occasional splash of a
fish in the lake. It was the perfect end to a
perfect day. But little did I know, as I
drifted off to sleep that the peacefulness of this place would
soon be shattered. That night in the Wilds of
Maine, I was about to face the most terrifying experience of my
life. That night I was jerked awake by
a noise. At first I thought it was just a
dream, but then I heard it again, a rustling sound, like
something moving outside my tent.
My heart started pounding and I lay there holding my breath,
trying to figure out what it could be in the deep woods.
Your mind can play tricks on you, especially at night.
Maybe it's just a raccoon or a deer, I whispered to myself,
trying to stay calm. But there was something about
the way the sound moved, deliberate and heavy, that
didn't feel right. I remembered reading about moose
and black bears in this area. Moose can be really dangerous if
you startle them. And bears, well, they're bears.
I kept telling myself that animals usually avoid humans,
but the thought didn't make me feel any better.
The noises stopped right outside my tent, and my heart skipped a
beat. It felt like whatever was out
there knew I was inside. I strained my eyes in the
darkness, trying to make out any shape or shadow, but it was
pitch black. The only thing I could hear was
the sound of whatever was outside, sniffing and breathing
heavily. It was one of those moments when
you're so scared you can't even move.
After what felt like an eternity, the creature, or
whatever it was, seemed to lose interest and moved away.
I heard the branches breaking as it disappeared into the woods.
That's when I realized it. The creature was walking on two
legs. I lay there wide awake now,
trying to make sense of it. People don't just wander around
in the middle of the night in places like this, I thought.
But what else? Walked on two legs and sniffed
around tents in the dead of night, the next day was a blur.
I tried to brush off the incident, telling myself it was
just a curious hiker, or maybe a park Ranger.
But deep down I knew it wasn't true.
The forest, which had seemed so welcoming and peaceful now felt
ominous, like eyes were watching me from every direction.
I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't alone as the
sunset, my unease, grew into real fear.
I kept thinking about the two legged creature from the night
before I decided to stay in my tent.
With my 45 revolver close, I wasn't much of A gun guy, but
out here it felt necessary. It's probably just my
imagination, I kept telling myself, but the fear wouldn't go
away. Night fell and the forest around
me came alive with sounds. But this time it was different.
I could hear movement all around my tent, shadows cast against
the fabric in the moonlight, Sniffing, snorting low, grunting
and raspy breathing. It was like nothing I'd ever
heard. My mind raced with panic.
What's happening? I thought.
The shadows seem too tall, too big to be any animal I knew.
And there were so many of them. I counted at least five, maybe
6. Moving around my tent.
Fear gripped me like a vice. In my wildest dreams, I couldn't
have imagined a situation like this.
I was surrounded, trapped in my tent, with only a thin layer of
nylon between me and and what? I didn't know.
And that was the scariest part of all.
I lay there in my tent, frozen with fear, surrounded by these
things. They were all around me.
They're growling and snorting, getting louder and more intense.
I could feel every hair on my body stand on end.
My heart was racing so fast it felt like it would burst out of
my chest. I kept thinking, this can't be
real. This stuff only happens in
horror movies, but it was happening right there in the
middle of the main woods. I had to make a decision, and I
had to make it fast. I remembered my 45 revolver, my
only protection. I grabbed it, my hands shaking.
I wasn't even sure if I could use it, but it gave me a tiny
bit of courage. Then, without warning, the
growling turned into something like a chorus, A terrifying
sound that seemed to come from everywhere.
It was like they were communicating, preparing for
something. And then it hit me.
They were planning to attack. I couldn't just sit there and
wait for it to happen. I had to do something, anything.
In a moment of pure adrenaline, I fired the revolver straight up
into the air. The shot echoed through the
night, and for a second everything went silent.
That was my chance. I didn't think.
I just acted. I tore through the tent, not
even bothering to unzip it, and ran as fast as I could through
the dark woods, heading for the lake where my canoe was.
Branches whipped against my face as I ran.
I could hear them behind me, their footsteps pounding on the
forest floor. I didn't dare look back.
I just kept running. My lungs were burning and my
legs felt like Jelly, but fear pushed me forward.
Finally, I reached the canoe. I threw it into the water with a
strength I didn't know I had, and jumped in, paddling
furiously. I didn't stop to catch my
breath. I just needed to put as much
distance between me and those creatures as possible.
Once I felt I was far enough, I stopped paddling and looked back
towards the shore. My blood ran cold at what I saw.
There on the riverbank were six figures.
They were crouched down, their eyes reflecting in the
moonlight, watching me. They looked like giant coyotes
or wolves, but there was something off about them.
And then, one by one, they did something that made my heart
stop. They began to stand on their
hind legs. They stood there like humans,
but they were anything but human.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
It was like a nightmare come to life.
The howling started, then a chilling sound that echoed
across the lake. I turned the canoe around and
paddled as hard as I could, not stopping until I reached my
truck. I drove home that night, not
stopping for anything. When I got back, I couldn't
bring myself to tell anyone what had happened, who would believe
me. I knew what I saw, but it was
too incredible, too terrifying to be real.
But it was real, and it changed me.
I haven't been back to the woods since that night, and I'm not
sure I ever will. The wilderness was my sanctuary,
but now it's just a reminder of the night.
I came face to face with something inexplicable,
something that defied all logic and reason.
That night in Baxter State Park, I learned that some mysteries
are better left unsolved. Let me start by giving some
background. I'm a 24 year old guy, totally
into anything outdoors, camping, swimming, ice skating, you name
it. If it's outside, I'm there.
This story, though, It's about one outdoor adventure that
turned into something straight out of a horror movie.
It happened back in November 2016 in the Colorado Rocky
Mountains National Park. My buddies Jay, John, and Alyssa
were as psyched as I was for this trip.
We all shared this crazy love for the wild.
I'd heard those stories you know, about people vanishing in
national parks, but I brushed them off.
It won't happen to us, I thought.
Boy was I wrong. Prepping for the trip was a
blast. I remember packing up my gear,
making sure we had everything, tents, food, and of course extra
warm clothes. Can't underestimate the Rockies
in winter, right? Plus, I had this special item,
Dragon breath style shotgun shells, a gift from my cousin.
I didn't know then how crucial they would be.
The drive from our hometown in Berks County, Pennsylvania, to
the Rockies was nothing short of epic.
Three days on the road, we swap driving duties, stopping at
motels that look like they were stuck in the 80s and eating at
gas stations with questionable hygiene standards.
But it was all part of the adventure.
As we got closer to the Rockies, the scenery changed
dramatically. The mountains rose like giants
covered in snow, making our excitement soar.
When we finally arrived, the site took my breath away.
The vast, snowy landscape was like something out of a
postcard, but it was more than just pretty.
There was this wild, untamed feeling about it.
It made me feel alive. We found a spot to set up camp
about 17 miles deep into the park.
It was a good place, surrounded by trees and with a clearview of
the sky. Setting up the camp was fun.
Everyone knew what to do as we worked.
We joked around, laughing and just enjoying being away from
the hustle of everyday life. By the time we got the tents up
in the fire going, it was getting dark.
We grilled some hot dogs and beans, classic camping food.
Everything seemed perfect. But as the night grew darker,
something changed. I decided to step away from the
campfire to take a leak and that's when I felt it.
A chill ran down my spine, and it wasn't from the cold.
I had this eerie feeling we weren't alone, something about
the way the shadows danced around the trees, or maybe the
way the wind howled a little too mournfully, I shook it off, not
wanting to freak out my friends. I mean, they weren't exactly the
type to believe in ghost stories or creepy legends, so I kept my
mouth shut. But deep down, I knew something
was off. As I zipped up my jacket and
headed back to the warmth of the fire, I couldn't shake the
feeling that something was watching us, hiding in the dark,
waiting. And that night, as I crawled
into my sleeping bag, I couldn't help but wonder what was out
there in the vast, unexplored darkness of the Rockies.
I lay there listening to the crackling of the fire and the
occasional rustle of the wind through the trees.
The others were chatting softly, their voices a comforting
background hum. But I couldn't fully relax.
Every little sound seemed amplified, every shadow a
potential threat. It was silly, I told myself.
We were just a bunch of friends on a camping trip, nothing more.
Yet as I closed my eyes, trying to sleep, I couldn't help but
remember all those stories I had heard.
Stories of hikers who went into the woods and never came back,
Stories of strange creatures and unexplained phenomena.
I had always dismissed them as just that, stories, but lying
there in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, those tales felt a
lot more real. I must have eventually drifted
off, because the next thing I knew I was jolted awake by the
sound of something moving outside the tent.
My heart raced as I strained my ears, trying to identify the
sound. Was it just an animal or
something else? I lay there frozen, not daring
to move as the sound grew closer.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.
I waited, holding my breath, but nothing happened.
After what felt like an eternity, I convinced myself it
was just a deer or some other harmless woodland creature.
I forced myself to relax and eventually fell back into a
restless sleep. The next morning, I woke up to
the sound of Jay and John laughing.
Outside, the sun was shining and the air was crisp and clear.
It was a new day and the fears of the night before seemed silly
in the light of day. We had a whole day of hiking and
exploring ahead of us, and I was determined to make the most of
it. As I stepped out of the tent, I
was greeted by the stunning beauty of the Rockies In the
morning light. The trees were covered in a
light dusting of snow and the sky was a brilliant blue.
It was going to be a good day. I could feel it.
We spent the day hiking, taking in the breathtaking views and
enjoying each other's company. The strange feeling from the
night before was gone, replaced by a sense of peace and
contentment. As the day turned into evening,
we made our way back to camp tired but happy.
That night, as we sat around the campfire laughing and sharing
stories, I felt grateful for my friends and the incredible
adventure we were on. I looked up at the stars shining
brightly above us and felt a sense of awe at the vastness of
the universe. It was a perfect moment, one I
knew I would remember for the rest of my life.
But as I lay in my tent that night, the feeling of unease
returned. I couldn't shake the feeling
that we weren't alone in the woods, and as I drifted off to
sleep, I couldn't help but wonder what the next day would
bring. The morning sun peeked through
the trees as we started our second day in the Rockies.
I woke up feeling refreshed, the unease from the previous night
seemingly just a fragment of my imagination.
We cooked breakfast over the fire, eggs, bacon, the works.
But as we ate, I couldn't help but notice something odd.
The usual sounds of the wilderness, birds chirping,
leaves rustling, were absent. It was like nature itself had
gone silent. John, still a bit hungover from
the night before, was the first to break the silence.
Man, it's eerily quiet today, he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
Alyssa nodded in agreement. Her brows furrowed in concern.
Jay, ever the Joker, just laughed it off, saying we were
scaring ourselves over nothing. But I wasn't so sure.
I remember the stories about predators silencing the forest.
Was something out there with us? As the day progressed, the
silence grew more and more unnerving.
We tried to brush it off, focusing on our hiking and the
beauty around us, but the lack of any wildlife sounds was
impossible to ignore. It felt like we were being
watched, like something was stalking us from the shadows of
the trees. The thoughts sent shivers down
my spine. Later that afternoon, while John
was off being drunk and Jay and Alyssa were setting up for the
evening, I decided to explore a bit on my own.
I walked a little ways away from camp, the silence around me
almost deafening. Then, out of nowhere, I stumbled
upon something that stopped me dead in my tracks.
It was John. He was lying there, motionless.
An icicle? No, not just an icicle.
Something far more sinister, protruding from his neck.
My heart raced as I knelt beside him, a sense of dread washing
over me. This wasn't an accident.
Something had attacked him. Something strong, something
deadly. I stood up, my mind racing with
thoughts of cryptids and monsters I'd heard in stories.
Was it a skinwalker, A Wendigo, or something else entirely?
I remembered the tales of the Wug, a creature I never believed
in until now. The shock of finding John like
that left me numb. I knew I had to tell Jay and
Alyssa, but how could I break such horrific news?
They needed to know, though, for our safety.
I took a deep breath and headed back to camp, my every step
heavy with the weight of what I just seen.
When I got back, I found Jay and Alyssa chatting by the fire,
oblivious to the nightmare unfolding around us.
I mustered up all my courage and told them about John.
Their reactions were a mix of disbelief and horror.
Alyssa's face went pale and Jay just stood there speechless.
The atmosphere around the campfire turned from one of
adventure to one of mourning and fear.
We decided to stick together for the rest of the evening.
No more wandering off alone. As darkness enveloped our
campsite, the eerie silence became more pronounced.
We tried to distract ourselves with light conversation and
jokes, but the mood was somber. Every snap of a twig or rustle
of leaves sent a jolt of fear through us.
We were on edge, expecting something to jump out of the
darkness at any moment. That night sleep was elusive.
We took turns keeping watch the fire, our only source of comfort
and protection. I remember lying in my tent,
listening to the crackling of the flames and the quiet
breathing of my friends. I couldn't help but feel a sense
of guilt. Maybe if I had been more
vigilant, more aware of our surroundings, John would still
be with us. As the night dragged on, my
thoughts wandered to the creature that might be lurking
out there. What did it want?
Why had it targeted us? I clutched the shotgun close the
shells my cousin had given me, suddenly feeling like a
lifeline. If that thing came for us, I was
ready to fight. The first light of dawn brought
some relief. We were all exhausted, both
physically and emotionally. We knew we had to leave to get
out of these woods and away from whatever horror had claimed
John's life. But leaving also meant facing
the reality of what had happened, and that was a journey
of its own. As we packed up our gear, the
silence of the forest felt like a heavy blanket smothering us
with its presence. We were no longer just campers
on an adventure. We were survivors, marked by an
experience that would change us forever.
The way back home was going to be a long one, both in miles and
in the memories we now carried with us.
The morning after we found John was one of the toughest I've
ever faced. We were all shaken to the core,
barely speaking as we packed up our camp.
The silence of the forest was still oppressive, making us feel
like we were trapped in a horror movie.
I couldn't shake off the feeling that something was watching us,
waiting for the right moment to strike.
As we were about to leave, Alyssa, who had gone a little
way off to be alone, came running back, her face ghost
white. She was shaking and could barely
get the words out. I saw it, she whispered, her
voice trembling. A huge creature, at least 12
feet tall, staring at us from the tree line.
My blood ran cold. This was no ordinary animal.
This was the thing that had killed John.
We decided to stick together and make our way back to the car as
quickly as possible. I took the lead, shotgun in
hand, ready for whatever was out there.
The tension was unbearable. Every step felt like it could be
our last. We kept our eyes peeled,
scanning the trees, expecting the creature to jump out at any
moment, but the forest remained silent, almost as if it was
holding its breath. We walked for what seemed like
hours, our pace quick, our hearts pounding.
The sense of being followed never left us, adding to our
fear. I tried to stay strong for Jay
and Alyssa, but inside I was just as scared as they were.
As we near the car, I felt a sudden chill run down my spine.
It was the same feeling I had the first night, the feeling of
being watched. I spun around, shotgun ready,
but saw nothing. That's when it happened.
Out of nowhere, an icicle, sharp and deadly, flew past us,
missing me by inches. I knew then that the creature
was here, and it was after us. I yelled at Jay and Alyssa to
run to the car while I distracted it.
They hesitated, not wanting to leave me behind, but I insisted.
Go, I shouted. I'll hold it off.
They ran, and I turned to face the creature.
It was like nothing I had ever seen before, towering over me,
its eyes burning with a yellow light.
It was the stuff of nightmares. I knew.
I had to act fast. Remembering the dragon breath
shells, I aimed and fired. The creature let out an ear
piercing screech as the flames engulfed it.
It staggered back, but didn't go down.
I fired again, hitting it in the chest.
The creature fell to the ground, writhing in agony.
Its screams were like nothing I had ever heard, filled with pain
and rage. But then it grew quiet, and I
knew it was over. The creature was dead.
I stood there panting, my heart racing.
The adrenaline was pumping through my veins, and for a
moment I couldn't move. I had just killed this this
monster. The realization of what had just
happened hit me like a ton of bricks.
I looked around, the silence of the forest now feeling like a
blanket of heaviness around me As I made my way to the car, my
mind was a whirlwind of thoughts.
I couldn't believe what had just happened.
It felt surreal, like a scene from a movie.
Not something that could happen in real life, but the weight of
the shotgun in my hand and the burn of the cold air in my lungs
told me this was very much real. When I reached the car, Jay and
Alyssa were waiting for me, their faces a mix of relief and
terror. We didn't speak.
What was there to say? We had just survived something
unthinkable. We got in the car and started
the long drive back to civilization, leaving the
nightmare of the Rockies behind us.
The drive was silent, each of us lost in our thoughts, processing
the events of the past few days. I kept replaying the encounter
with the creature over and over in my head, trying to make sense
of it, But there was no sense to be made.
We had encountered something otherworldly, something that
defied explanation. As the miles passed, I realized
that our lives would never be the same.
We had come to the Rockies as carefree friends on a camping
trip, and we were leaving as survivors of a horror that few
could understand. The weight of John's death and
the encounter with the creature would stay with us forever.
I looked out the window, the landscape passing by in a blur.
The world seemed different now, more mysterious and more
dangerous. I knew that I couldn't go back
to my old life, not after what I had experienced.
There were things out there in the dark, unknown corners of the
world, and I couldn't ignore them.
As we approach the outskirts of civilization, the first signs of
life appearing around us, I made a silent vow.
I would find out more about these creatures, these cryptids.
I would learn how to fight them, how to protect others from the
horrors that lurked in the shadows.
This was my new purpose, my new path.
The Rockies had changed me, and I knew I couldn't turn back.
The journey ahead would be long and fraught with danger, but I
was ready. I had to be.
For John, for my friends, and for myself, this was just the
beginning. The drive back from the Colorado
Rockies was the longest journey of my life.
We were all silent, each lost in our own thoughts.
The car felt like a small moving bubble in a world that had
suddenly become vast and unknown.
I kept glancing in the rearview mirror, half expecting to see
that monster following us, but all I saw was the road
stretching behind us, empty and quiet.
Once we got back to civilization, it felt like we
were returning from a different planet.
The normalcy of everyday life seemed strange and distant.
People going about their daily business had no idea of the
horrors that existed in the shadows of the world.
I felt disconnected, like I no longer belong to this ordinary
world. I dropped Jay and Alyssa off at
their homes. We said goodbye, but there were
no promises to meet up or keep in touch.
We had shared something that had changed us all, and I think we
each needed time to process it on our own.
The bond that had brought us together as friends had been
overshadowed by the dark events of the trip.
In the weeks that followed, I tried to return to my normal
routine, but it was impossible. Images of that night, the
creature and John's lifeless body, haunted me.
I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, and every shadow
made me jump. I knew I couldn't keep living
like this. Haunted by fear and memories,
About three months after the trip, I finally sat down with
Alyssa and told her everything about John, how he died, and
what had happened with the creature.
She listened quietly, her face pale.
When I finished, she didn't say much, just nodded.
I could tell she was processing, trying to fit this new,
terrifying piece of the puzzle into her understanding of the
world. After that day, we lost touch.
The weight of what had happened was too much for any of us to
bear together. Jay and Alyssa's relationship
didn't survive the aftermath of our trip.
The strain of what we had experienced was too great.
We all dealt with it in our own ways.
Jay threw himself into work, Alyssa moved to another city,
and I I took a different path. I started researching about
cryptids, the supernatural, and anything related to what we had
encountered. I found online forums,
communities of people who had experienced similar things, and
then I found out about Sam White Owl and his group of hunters.
They were people who dedicated their lives to hunting down and
dealing with creatures like the one we had encountered.
It took a while, but I managed to get in touch with them.
They were wary at first, understandably so, but after I
shared my story, they began to open up.
I learned that what we had experienced wasn't unique.
There were others, many others, who had faced similar horrors.
These hunters. They weren't just enthusiasts,
they were survivors. Warriors in their own right,
fighting a hidden war against the shadows.
I started training with them, learning how to track how to
fight, and most importantly, how to survive.
It was hard, physically and mentally, but every time I felt
like giving up, I remembered John, The terror in Alyssa's
eyes and the resolve in Jay's voice that kept me going.
Months turned into a year I became proficient in ways I
never imagined. I learned about different
cryptids, their weaknesses, and how to hunt them.
But it wasn't just about the hunt.
It was about understanding these creatures, respecting the danger
they represented. As I immersed myself in this new
world, I realized that our encounter in the Rockies wasn't
just a random event. It was a part of something
bigger, a world hidden just out of sight of the ordinary.
I had a role to play in it now, a purpose that went beyond just
surviving. I often think back to that
camping trip, to the innocence and excitement we had felt as we
set out. We had been looking for an
adventure, but we found so much more.
We found a reality that was terrifying and awe inspiring and
equal measure. Now, as I prepare for another
hunt, another foray into the unknown, I feel a sense of
clarity. The fear is still there, but
it's different now. It's a fear that sharpens my
senses, focuses my mind. I'm no longer just a victim of
the darkness, I'm a guardian against it.
So to all those who listen to creepy stories and think they're
just tales, remember this. The world is vast and full of
mysteries. Some are beautiful and some are
terrifying. And if you ever find yourself
facing the ladder, know that you're not alone.
There are those of us out there fighting to keep the darkness at
Bay. Stay safe, stay aware, and
always respect the unknown. The moon hung low in the sky,
casting a pale light over the aging facade of the Maple Grove
assisted living facility as I settled into the worn leather
chair in the sunroom. The quiet of the night was
almost tangible, broken only by the occasional rustling of
leaves outside. Working the overnight shift had
always been my preference, the stillness, the solitude.
It gave me a chance to think, to breathe.
I've been in this line of work for years, moving from one
facility to another. Each had its own character, its
own set of stories and secrets. But Maple Grove, it was
different. Something about it always kept
me on edge, like a cold whisper down my spine.
It was well past midnight when I first heard it.
A faint crackling sound, like static from an old radio.
Following the noise led me to Mr. Henderson's room.
He was sound asleep, his chest rising and falling under the
thin blanket. The radio on his night stand,
however, was a different story. It buzzed with static, the dial
glowing eerily in the dark room. But the thing was, I knew for a
fact it had been turned off during my rounds earlier.
I clicked it off, chalking it up to faulty wiring, or perhaps an
old man's forgetfulness. The facility was quiet again as
I resumed my rounds, my footsteps echoing softly in the
empty hallways. That was until I heard the
static again, this time coming from Missus Thompson's room down
the hall. Just like before, the radio was
playing static, the room otherwise silent and
undisturbed. I stood there, a chill running
down my spine. It wasn't just the radios, it
was the feeling that hung in the air, thick and unshakable.
Mr. Henderson and Missus Thompson were among our less
mobile residents, unlikely to get up in the night, let alone
fiddle with their radios. And yet here I was, turning off
their radios in the dead of night.
The next few weeks were unsettling.
Both Mr. Henderson and Missus Thompson's health declined
rapidly, and soon they passed away.
It was a natural part of life in an assisted living facility, but
something about their deaths felt ominous, like a dark cloud
hanging over Maple Grove. The incidents with the radios
were just the beginning. Over the years, I'd become
accustomed to the oddities that seem to accompany places like
these. The unexplained noises, the
fleeting shadows at the corner of your eye, the feeling of
being watched. But Maple Grove was different.
It felt as if the very walls held secrets, whispers of the
past that echoed through the halls.
As I sat there night after night, I couldn't shake the
feeling that I was not alone, that the residents who had
passed on hadn't quite left us. The creeks and groans of the old
building seemed to carry their voices, their stories.
In the stillness of those nights, I often found myself
wondering about the thin veil between life and death, about
the souls that lingered in the in between.
I didn't know it then, but my time at Maple Grove was just the
beginning of a journey into the unknown, a journey that would
take me to places far more unsettling, to encounters, far
more chilling. But that's a story for another
night. For now, the quiet of Maple
Grove and its unseen inhabitants would suffice.
The transition from the quiet corridors of Maple Grove to the
sprawling grounds of the Pine Ridge summer camp was like
stepping into a different world. The camp, nestled among rolling
hills and dense forests, felt alive.
It's very air, humming with the whispers of nature.
But beneath its idyllic surface, something else lurked, something
ancient and unnerving. My first encounter with the
farmhouse came on a crisp autumn day.
The building, an original structure from the Land's former
life as a farm, stood isolated at the edge of the property.
It's wooden facade, weathered by time, held a kind of stoic
grace. But as I stepped inside, guided
by the camp's director, a chill ran down my spine.
And this building is the haunted one, she said with a half joking
tone that didn't quite reach her eyes.
The farmhouse had a reputation among the staff and campers, a
collection of tales and experiences that turned it into
something of a legend. I'd always been a skeptic, the
kind of person who needed to see to believe.
But as I walked through the creaking halls of that old
house, something felt off the air, was heavy, laden with an
unspoken history. It wasn't long before I had my
first real taste of the farmhouse's secrets.
One evening, while locking up, I heard voices low, murmuring
conversations, as if a group of old men were having a discussion
in the very next room. I followed the sound, my heart
pounding in my chest, only to find the room empty, the
conversation ceasing the moment I entered.
Word around the camp was that the farmhouse didn't like to be
alone. Housekeepers often reported
hearing footsteps behind them, only to turn around to nothing
but empty space. The doors would swing open on
their own, lights flicker without cause, and shadows seem
to move just at the edge of vision.
The shamans who frequented the camp for retreats spoke of a
different energy within the farmhouse.
They described waking up to ghostly faces, staring back at
them in the dead of night, a sensation of being watched, of
being not quite alone. They believed the farmhouse was
a beacon for spirits, a place where the veil between worlds
was thin. I tried to rationalize it, to
find logical explanations for the unexplainable.
But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months,
my skepticism began to waver. There were too many stories, too
many experiences that defied explanation.
One night, while making my rounds, the reality of the
farmhouse hit me full force. The basement, a place I'd
avoided out of an unspoken fear, called to me as I descended the
narrow stairs. The sound of construction echoed
in the darkness, but the moment I flicked on the light, the
noise ceased, leaving only the oppressive silence of the empty
room. Standing there in the dim light
of the basement, I felt a presence, as if someone was
standing just over my shoulder. It was a feeling of not being
alone, of being watched by unseen eyes.
The stories I'd heard, the whispers of ghostly encounters,
suddenly felt all too real. I left the basement quickly, my
heart racing, my mind struggling to process what I'd experienced.
The night air outside felt like a reprieve, the stars overhead a
reminder of the world beyond the farmhouse's walls.
In the days that followed, I found myself drawn to the
farmhouse, as if it held answers to questions I hadn't yet asked.
I spoke with the shamans, listen to their stories of spiritual
encounters and energies beyond our understanding.
They spoke of respect for the spirits, of understanding the
balance between our world and theirs.
The farmhouse became a sort of mystery to me, a puzzle I felt
compelled to solve. But with each passing day, each
unexplained occurrence, I realized that some mysteries
were not meant to be solved. The farmhouse, with its creaking
floors and whispered secrets, was a reminder of the unknown,
of the thin line between the scene and the unseen.
As the seasons changed and the chill of winter settled over the
camp, the farmhouse seemed to grow more restless.
The voices grew more frequent, the shadows more pronounced.
It was as if the building itself was alive, a keeper of stories
and secrets that spanned beyond the confines of time.
I came to accept that the farmhouse was more than just an
old building on the campgrounds. It was a place where past and
present collided, where the veil between worlds was at its
thinnest, and though I never fully understood its mysteries,
I learned to coexist with the spirits that called it home.
In the quiet of the night, as I walked the grounds of Pine
Ridge, the farmhouse stood as a silent Sentinel, a reminder of
the mysteries that lay just beyond our understanding.
And though I would soon find myself drawn into even deeper
mysteries, the farmhouse would always remain A pivotal chapter
in my journey into the unknown. As the days at Pine Ridge summer
camp turned into weeks, I began to feel the weight of its hidden
stories, each more unnerving than the last.
The farmhouse, with its whispered secrets and ghostly
presences, was just the tip of the iceberg.
The entire camp seemed to be a canvas for the unexplained in
the Erie. It started with the newer
buildings, a stark contrast to the rustic charm of the
farmhouse. These structures, modern and
functional, shouldn't have been the setting for anything out of
the ordinary. Yet they were.
The loft apartment perched above the camp's main hall was a hot
spot for unexplained occurrences.
Staff and guests alike reported hearing noises that defied
explanation. A bed creaking when no one was
there. Soft footsteps in the dead of
night, objects falling with no one around to 'cause it one
morning. The camp's kitchen staff,
pardoned veterans of countless summer seasons, were shaken by a
sound that chilled them to the bone.
They described it as a banshee's whale, a scream so piercing and
unnatural that it seemed to come from another world.
The camp was hosting a retreat group of shamans at the time,
deep in their rituals of connecting with ancestors.
The scream seemed to coincide with their practices, adding a
layer of mysticism to the already thick air of mystery.
The cabins scattered around the campgrounds were relics of a
bygone era, no air conditioning, old bunk beds, the kind of place
that could have been the setting for a classic horror movie.
Rumors among the staff spoke of strange noises at night, like
the distant sounds of farm animals, which was odd given the
camp's distance from any working farm.
The counsellors, usually rational and grounded, shared
stories of screams and howls in the night, sounds they
attributed to coyotes, but were unlike any coyote I or anyone
else had ever heard. One particularly unsettling
incident occurred during the summer.
Late at night, three staff members heard what they
described as a vicious animal fight, a cacophony of howls and
cries that seemed to end in a whimper of pain.
Driven by a mix of concern and curiosity, they went searching
for the source. They swore the noise was right
behind them in the trees, but when they reached the spot, they
found nothing. No trace of a fight, no blood,
not even a sign of disturbance. As the summer progressed, these
events became more frequent, more intense.
The feeling of being watched, the unexplained sounds, the
fleeting shadows, they all contributed to a growing sense
of unease among the campers and staff.
The camp's isolation. Once a peaceful retreat from the
world, I began to feel more like a barrier separating us from the
safety and normalcy of the outside world.
And yet, despite the fear and the unease, there was a part of
me that was fascinated by these occurrences.
They challenged my understanding of the world, pushed the
boundaries of what I considered possible.
I found myself drawn to these mysteries, eager to uncover the
truth behind the shadows of the camp.
But as I would soon learn, some mysteries are better left
unsolved. The deeper I delved into the
camp secrets, the more I realized that we were not alone.
There were forces at work here, ancient and powerful, and they
were not to be trifled with. The camp, with its rustic cabins
and sprawling forests, was a place where the past and the
present intertwined, where the veil between worlds was thin and
easily crossed. And as the summer gave way to
fall and the leaves began to turn, I knew that my time at
Pine Ridge was far from over. The mysteries of the camp called
to me, beckoning me deeper into the shadows, and I, unable to
resist their call, stepped further into the unknown.
The spectres of Pine Ridge summer camp, as haunting and
perplexing as they were, seemed almost trivial compared to the
ghost I'd unwittingly invited into my life years ago.
Her name, as I'd come to call her, was Phyllis.
The story of how Phyllis came to be a part of my life is one of
foolishness, A youthful error that followed me like a shadow.
It started back in Wisconsin, in the reckless days of my late
teens. A friend and I, fuelled by the
invincibility of youth and the buzz of a few too many drinks,
found ourselves wandering a graveyard.
One night, amid the solemn rows of headstones, under a sky
blanketed with stars, we stumbled upon an old maintenance
shack. Inside we found discarded
headstones, relics of lives long past.
One in particular caught my eye. A weathered stone with the name
of a woman. Something old timey.
Starting with an R in a moment of misguided bravado, I hoisted
the headstone into my arms and took it home.
It wasn't long before I realized the gravity of my mistake.
My apartment, once a sanctuary, became a place of unexplained
noises and a constant feeling of being watched.
It was as if the air itself had thickened, charged with an
unseen presence. I named her Phyllis after the
name on the headstone, as a way to humanize and perhaps pacify
whatever spirit I had disturbed. The sense of unease followed me
everywhere. Shadows seemed to move just at
the edge of my vision, and the feeling of being followed was a
constant companion. It reached a point where I could
no longer deny the reality of what was happening.
With the help of a friend and my now husband, I returned the
headstone to its rightful place, hoping to put an end to the
haunting. But Phyllis, it seemed, had
grown attached. The disturbances lessened, but
never entirely ceased. My husband and I began to half
jokingly blame every unexplained event on Phyllis, from misplaced
keys to flickering lights. It became our way of coping with
the inexplicable. When I started working at Pine
Ridge, I thought I'd left Phyllis behind, but it wasn't
long before I realized that she had followed me.
The same unexplained phenomena that had plagued my apartment
began to manifest at the camp. It was a different setting, but
the same eerie feeling. The realization that Phyllis was
more than just a figment of my imagination, That she was in
fact a presence that had latched on to me, was both terrifying
and oddly comforting. There was a familiarity to her
hauntings, a reminder of a past I couldn't entirely escape.
As the summer wore on, the line between Phyllis's antics and the
other supernatural occurrences at the camp began to blur.
Was it Phyllis opening doors and whispering in the night?
Or were there other spirits at Pine Ridge with their own
stories? To tell?
The truth, I suspected, was a mixture of both Pine Ridge, with
its deep history and secluded location.
It was a magnet for the supernatural, a place where
spirits, both benign and malevolent, seem to converge,
and Phyllis, with her mischievous ways, had become a
part of that tapestry. I often wondered about the
nature of Phyllis's attachment to me.
Was it the act of taking her headstone that bound her to me?
Or was there something deeper, a connection forged in the
recklessness of youth and the solemnity of death?
The answer, I feared, was something I might never fully
understand. As I walked the grounds of Pine
Ridge, the rustling leaves and the distant calls of nocturnal
animals, my only company, I felt Phyllis's presence beside me.
It was a strange comfort, a reminder that in a world filled
with mysteries and shadows, I wasn't alone.
Phyllis had become a part of my story, a ghostly companion on my
journey through life. And as the campfires burned low
and the campers retreated to their cabins, I knew that she
was there, watching over me in her own enigmatic way.
The summer faded into fall, and the chill in the air grew more
pronounced. The camp grew quieter, the
laughter of children replaced by the whispering winds and the
creaking of old buildings. And through it all, Phyllis
remained a constant in the ever changing tapestry of Pine Ridge.
My time at the camp had taught me many things, but perhaps the
most important was the understanding that the past is
never truly gone. It lingers in the shadows, in
the whispers of the wind, in the spirits that walk beside us.
Phyllis, with her silent footsteps and her unseen gaze,
was a testament to that truth. And so, as I prepared to leave
Pine Ridge at the end of the season, I knew that Phyllis
would be coming with me. She was a part of my story now,
a ghostly thread woven into the fabric of my life.
As I looked back at the camp, it's buildings bathed in the
soft light of the setting sun, I couldn't help but feel a sense
of anticipation Wherever my journey took me.
Next Phyllis would be there, a reminder of the mysteries that
lurk in the shadows of the stories that remain untold.
And in that knowledge I found a sense of peace, a reassurance
that, in a world filled with unknowns, some mysteries were
meant to be embraced. The final days of summer at Pine
Ridge summer camp were tinged with a sense of foreboding, the
kind that creeps up on you like a shadow.
At dusk, the laughter and shouts of campers had faded, leaving
behind a quiet that was almost unnerving.
It was in this stillness that the camp secrets seem to grow
louder, more insistent, as if demanding to be heard.
I had come to accept that the camp, with its ancient trees and
weathered buildings, was a place out of time, a realm where the
veil between the natural and the supernatural was perilously
thin. The experiences of the past
weeks, the whispers in the night, the ghostly presences,
the unexplained noises had left me with a deep sense of unease,
a feeling that something was lurking just out of sight.
One of the most unnerving occurrences happened at the
campground. This area, once just an open
field, had taken on a life of its own.
I had always felt a certain apprehension about the
campground, a place that seemed to be a focal point for the
unexplained activity that plagued Pine Ridge one night.
Driven by a mix of curiosity and dread, I decided to venture out
to the campground. The darkness was almost
palpable, the only light coming from the faint glow of the moon.
As I walked. The crunch of gravel under my
feet seemed impossibly loud, the silence around me almost
oppressive. It was then that I heard it, a
low, murmuring conversation, the voices unmistakably masculine
and unsettlingly close. I froze, straining my ears to
catch the words. But the conversation was
elusive, the words slipping away just as I thought I could grasp
them. Feeling a surge of fear and
curiosity, I moved toward the sound, my heart pounding in my
chest. But as I approached, the voices
faded into the night, leaving behind a silence that was even
more unsettling. This wasn't the first time
voices had been heard at the campground.
Over the years, there had been numerous reports of unexplained
sounds, of conversations and laughter that seemed to come
from nowhere. But each time the source
remained elusive, the voices disappearing as quickly as they
appeared. As I stood there in the dark and
silent campground, I couldn't help but feel a sense of
connection to the past, to the stories and spirits that had
become a part of Pine Ridge. It was as if the camp itself was
alive. It's history woven into the very
fabric of the place. The rest of the night passed in
a blur, the darkness around me seeming to grow deeper, more
impenetrable. When I finally made my way back
to my cabin, the first light of dawn was just beginning to break
over the horizon. The experiences of that summer
at Pine Ridge had changed me, had opened my eyes to the
mysteries that lay just beyond the veil of the everyday.
I had come to understand that some things were beyond
explanation, that some mysteries were meant to remain just that
mysteries. As I packed up my belongings
preparing to leave Pine Ridge for the last time, I knew that
the camp would stay with me. It's secrets and spirits, a part
of my story. The hauntings of Pine Ridge,
both real and imagined, had become inescapable, a reminder
that the world was far more complex and mysterious than I
had ever imagined. Driving away from the camp, the
early morning light casting long shadows across the landscape, I
couldn't help but look back. Pine Ridge, with its dense
forests and quiet buildings, seemed to watch me go, a silent
guardian of the secrets it held. The memories of that summer
would linger. The unexplained phenomena, the
feelings of being watched, the ghostly encounters.
They were imprinted on my mind, a part of me now, and I knew
deep down that they would always be there, haunting me in quiet
moments, reminding me of the thin line between the known and
the unknown. As the camp disappeared from
view, I felt a sense of closure, but also a profound curiosity.
The mysteries of Pine Ridge had sparked something in me, a
desire to explore the unexplained, to delve into the
secrets that lay hidden in the shadows of the world.
The road ahead was open, leading me away from Pine Ridge, but the
experiences I had there would always be a part of me.
They had taught me to look beyond the surface, to question
the nature of reality, to embrace the unknown.
And so, as I drove into the rising sun, I knew that my
journey was just beginning. The world was full of mysteries,
and I was eager to discover them, to uncover the secrets
that lay waiting in the shadows. Pine Ridge had been just the
beginning, a doorway into a world of endless possibilities.
As the miles rolled by, I thought of Phyllis, my ghostly
companion, and wondered what adventures lay ahead for us.
The road was long, the world vast and unexplored, and I was
ready for whatever lay ahead, armed with the knowledge that
the world was a far more mysterious place than I had ever
imagined.