Storyteller (Unidentified)
Appearances
Campus Files
Harvard's Secret Court
The higher-ups are concerned about one thing, and that is avoiding scandal.
Campus Files
Harvard's Secret Court
I myself have been married for 56 years. Unfortunately to four different women. You can work out a whole lot of s*** in the hours of Target.
Fresh Air
Best Of: 'The Pitt' Star Noah Wyle / 'Sinners' Director Ryan Coogler
Tacky at 120, pulse ox borderline at 90.
Fresh Air
Best Of: 'The Pitt' Star Noah Wyle / 'Sinners' Director Ryan Coogler
Neck contusion, larynx shifted to the right, no crepitance.
Fresh Air
Best Of: 'The Pitt' Star Noah Wyle / 'Sinners' Director Ryan Coogler
If this story had never happened... All of us wouldn't be here right now. Sammy wouldn't be here. Nana wouldn't be here. Wally wouldn't be here. Anyone that we know wouldn't be here.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Gunshots exploded through the silence, echoing violently between the trees. The creature staggered, jerking back but didn't fall. Instead, it retreated into the shadows, howling in fury as it circled us, staying just beyond our lights. Run, Jim shouted, his voice raw with panic. We turned, sprinting blindly back toward the trucks, flashlights bouncing wildly ahead.
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Branches whipped at my face, tearing skin as I stumbled through undergrowth. My breath came ragged, adrenaline scorching my veins. Behind us the creature moved through the darkness, shrieking again, impossibly fast and agile. Finally, the trucks appeared ahead, outlined faintly by the moonlight.
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i lunged into my vehicle slamming the door jim doing the same beside me tires spinning engines roaring we tore back onto the access road i glanced into the rearview mirror one final time catching a flash of pale eyes at the edge of the woods fixed on us as we sped away Days later, standing at Jim's cabin in Hill City, my hands shook as I packed my gear. He watched silently, his face grave.
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We'd spoken little about that night since returning, both unwilling to relive it. You won't come back, Jim said quietly. It wasn't a question. No, I replied, voice tight. Never again.
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As I pulled onto the main highway away from the black hills, I glanced toward the tree line one last time, unable to shake the feeling that somewhere out there, hidden deep in the shadows, pale eyes still watched, waiting patiently for another chance. The air was cold and sharp that morning, stinging the inside of my nostrils as I climbed slowly up the creek bed toward the ridge.
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The Selway Bitterroot wilderness was rugged country, dense pines and twisted cedars stacked upon steep hillsides, thick brush scraping against my legs with every step. Garrett and I had hunted these mountains plenty, but today something felt different. Maybe it was the silence, too heavy, like it was pressing down from above. Birds were scarce, squirrels absent. Even the creek seemed muted.
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Garrett had split off toward the higher ground an hour earlier, hoping to flush an elk toward my position in the gulch. We had tracking collars synced to each other's GPS devices for safety, though we'd never had reason to use them before. The screen on my unit showed him ascending steadily, climbing about 300 yards ahead of me. I paused to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my forehead.
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I checked the GPS again. Garrett had stopped moving. Strange, considering we planned to rendezvous further along the ridge. Just as I was about to radio him, I heard his scream. It ripped through the silence, sudden and ragged. Raw panic mixed with pain. Adrenaline flooded my veins, my heart slamming into my ribs as I took off running toward the sound.
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Fog pressed against the windshield again, blocking visibility, turning the road ahead into nothing more than vague shapes. My heart pounded hard enough to hurt and my chest felt tight, compressed under the weight of what I'd just seen. The creature's red eyes lingered in my mind, burned into my memory.
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My feet slipped in loose pine needles and damp earth, nearly pitching me face-first into the hillside, but I kept scrambling upward, ignoring the burn in my lungs. garret i shouted as loudly as i could manage listening for any response none came only the oppressive quiet somehow deeper than before i pushed myself harder gripping low hanging branches to haul myself up the steepening slope
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when i finally crested the ridge my legs trembled beneath me i stopped abruptly nearly falling forward as the scene unfolded before my eyes the dirt was disturbed violently clawed and gouged as if something heavy had thrashed across it
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garrett's bright orange glove lay shredded on the ground streaked dark red blood splattered across the pine needles in a chaotic pattern pooling in places then dragged upward along the trunk of a mass of douglas fir climbing impossibly high I forced myself to breathe steadily, eyes darting around for Garrett or some sign of what had attacked him. But there was nothing. No movement. No sound.
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Only the blood, gleaming fresh in patches, marking a grisly path upward into the trees. A sudden flicker of movement above caught my attention. Instinctively, I jerked my head upward, rifle raised. High in the branches, I glimpsed something pale and sinewy vanish quickly between trees. It moved silently, effortlessly, like something accustomed to traveling where nothing should be able to climb.
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I stared hard, trying to make sense of the figure I'd just seen, hoping it was my imagination playing tricks on me in the shadows. "'Garrett!' I yelled again, desperation cracking my voice." My words echoed emptily through the forest, returning unanswered. I paced nervously, scanning upward, helplessness gnawing at my chest. What could have dragged Garrett upward so swiftly?
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I couldn't imagine an animal capable of it. My eyes traced the dark smears higher and higher, disappearing into dense foliage. That's when I spotted Garrett's hunting cap, tangled in a branch far overhead. The fabric was ripped, soaked dark red at the edges, swaying slightly in the wind. I sank slowly onto my knees, unable to look away.
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Fear took hold, deeper and colder than anything I'd ever felt. whatever had taken garret was still out there watching from somewhere above the woods around me were silent and still but i knew with awful certainty that i was not alone i stumbled back into our camp just as dusk was settling over paradise meadows
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The thin orange glow of sunset faded quickly, replaced by a thick, impenetrable darkness that felt suffocating. My hands trembled as I struggled to light the fire. Matches slipped from my shaking fingers one after another until finally a flame caught the tinder crackling weakly to life. Sitting close to the small fire, I gripped my rifle tightly, eyes darting between the trees around me.
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I replayed those few horrifying seconds over and over, the shape unfolding, standing, watching me silently, then vanishing into the darkness above without even a whisper of sound. A cold sweat beaded along my forehead as I continued down Route 322 toward Chesterland. Every shadow moving past the truck became a new threat.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Every shadow seemed deeper than usual. Each movement of branches overhead pulled my attention sharply upward. My thoughts raced chaotically, replaying the image of Garrett's shredded glove, the blood-streaked trees, and that brief glimpse of something agile and impossibly pale swinging between the branches. I stared numbly into the fire, occasionally glancing down at my GPS unit.
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Garrett's signal was offline now, frozen at his last known location, a ghostly dot far upslope. Without any cell reception and darkness swallowing the landscape, hiking out tonight was impossible. I was stuck until dawn, trapped alone in the middle of nowhere, waiting. That's when the scratching started. At first it was subtle, a faint scraping, high in the trees.
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My muscles went rigid as I strained to hear better, holding my breath. Silence followed, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Just as I began to think I'd imagined it, the scratching resumed, clearer this time, deliberate and rhythmic directly above me. I slowly lifted my gaze upward, but the branches were too thick, the canopy too dense, revealing nothing.
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Yet the scratching persisted, a quiet, persistent rasping noise that slowly moved from one tree to another. My heart thudded painfully in my chest as I raised the rifle, aiming vaguely into the shadows. Who's up there? My voice echoed weakly through the trees, the question hanging unanswered. The scratching abruptly stopped. Silence fell again, heavy and absolute.
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I lowered the rifle slightly, blinking sweat from my eyes. Maybe it was just a squirrel or some nocturnal bird, but deep down, I knew that wasn't true. Animals didn't move like that, didn't wait and watch silently, calculating each movement. A sudden, piercing scream shattered the quiet, high-pitched and twisted, nearly human but distorted by pain.
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It echoed eerily through the valley, chilling my blood, squeezing my chest until breathing hurt. It sounded like Garrett's scream from earlier. Mocked, twisted and thrown back at me from somewhere deep within the forest. Panic surged through my limbs. I swung the rifle wildly around, spinning to check every direction.
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Something rustled overhead and I jerked my head upward just as a heavy wet object fell from the branches above, landing with a dull thud just beyond the fire's edge. My body froze, heart pounding loudly in my ears as I stared at the spot. Trembling, I slowly moved forward, rifle held tight against my shoulder, finger resting lightly on the trigger.
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As I drew closer, I noticed a faint blue glow flickering in the grass. My throat tightened in dread when I recognized it. It was Garrett's GPS collar. The screen cracked and splattered with fresh blood. Kneeling slowly, I picked it up, my fingers slick with crimson. The device felt impossibly heavy in my hand, evidence of something unnatural and terrifying above me.
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Instinct forced my head upward once again. With shaking fingers I raised my flashlight and aimed it toward the branches directly overhead. The beam sliced through the shadows, briefly illuminating a pale, elongated figure crouched upside down against the trunk. Its limbs were thin and twisted, impossibly long fingers gripping the bark.
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Reflective eyes stared unblinking, fixed directly on me, lips pulled back in a silent, predatory grin. I jerked backward, my breath catching painfully in my throat. The flashlight dropped from my numb grip, clattering to the ground, plunging the trees back into darkness. The image burned into my mind, seared in place. The creature still crouched above, waiting, observing.
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Instinctively I straightened up, alertness prickling down my spine. The car, an old sedan with a faded blue paint job.
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Every rustling branch, every flicker of fog across my headlights made me jump. I was barely breathing, each inhale shallow and strained. Then something else caught my attention. A blur, dark and impossibly quick, moved just beyond the edges of my headlights, weaving among the trees parallel to the road.
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I huddled closer to the fire, gripping my rifle until my knuckles turned white. I knew it was still up there, hidden in the darkness, watching me intently. Whatever it was, I understood clearly. I wasn't leaving this place unless it allowed me to. I barely slept, jolting awake every few minutes as if I'd been shocked. Dawn crept in slowly, pale light filtering through the branches above.
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The fire had burned down to gray ashes, and the morning air felt damp and heavy, chilling me straight to my bones. My body ached from exhaustion, muscles stiff and nerves raw. I shoved a few supplies into my pack, moving quickly and quietly. My goal was simple, get out of the wilderness and find help.
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Each sound seemed amplified as I moved, twigs snapping under my boots, fabric scraping against brush. I felt exposed, vulnerable beneath the canopy that loomed overhead. My eyes constantly scanned upward, wary of any movement among the treetops. The silence broke abruptly, branches cracking violently above me,
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My head snapped upward, my heart nearly stopping as I saw glimpses of something pale and spindly moving swiftly through the branches, leaping easily between the trees, descending toward me. Panic exploded through my chest, adrenaline overriding the stiffness in my limbs. I sprinted blindly through the brush, branches clawing at my face and neck, not daring to look back.
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My foot caught on something hidden beneath fallen leaves, and suddenly I was tumbling downward. My shoulder slammed painfully into the earth, momentum rolling me down a steep, rocky incline. I crashed into brush, my vision blurring with pain. Struggling to my feet, I realized I'd fallen into a thick patch of twisted trees and undergrowth.
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Thorns dug into my arms, tangled branches grabbing at my clothes. Above me, the violent crashing continued, louder and closer. i raised my rifle unsteadily scanning the branches breathing raggedly as panic squeezed my chest i couldn't see clearly through the tangled foliage but i knew something was approaching rapidly another loud snap echoed from above
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Twigs and needles rained down around me, stinging my face. Through the gaps, I caught sight of it again. It crouched on a branch just overhead, its body thin and sinewy, limbs bent at unnatural angles. Its skin was colorless and stretched tight over elongated bones. Eyes, cold and reflective, stared down at me with intent.
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Curved claws flexed silently around the branch, each finger tipped with hooked nails darkened by dried blood. My heart thundered wildly in my ears. The creature shifted forward slightly, lips pulling back in anticipation. I raised my rifle, aimed directly upward, and squeezed the trigger. The gunshot shattered the silence. The recoil jolted painfully into my shoulder, ears ringing.
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An inhuman scream pierced the air, sharp and furious. The pale figure recoiled violently, losing its balance and tumbling awkwardly through the branches. Without waiting to see where it landed, I turned and scrambled desperately through the brush, forcing myself through the tangled mess of trees and thorns. My lungs burned painfully, each breath feeling like glass shards scraping inside my chest.
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I strained my eyes, trying to follow the fleeting shapes that seemed to pace me through the woods. were there more of them my chest tightened again fingers clutching the wheel so tightly my knuckles went numb each time i glanced over the movement stopped leaving only thick unmoving darkness i sped up engine roaring loudly diesel echoing off the tunnel of trees
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I ran wildly, stumbling, tripping, refusing to slow down until I burst free of the underbrush onto a familiar path. The trailhead to paradise lay just ahead, visible through the thinning trees. My strength gave out then, knees buckling as I fell hard onto gravel and dirt. Voices shouted nearby, distant at first, then suddenly close.
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Hands grabbed my shoulders, pulling me upright, concerned faces appearing in my blurred vision. hikers staring at me with wide eyes and urgent questions i tried to speak to explain about garret the creature the terror above the trees but words wouldn't come my throat tightened vision dimming as the adrenaline faded
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leaving only exhaustion and fear rescuers eventually arrived guiding me safely out of the selway bitterroot wilderness they searched for garrett for days scouring the ridges combing the woods they found no body no sign of him besides his shredded glove cap and gps Eventually, they stopped looking, labeling it a tragic wildlife attack.
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I moved away shortly afterward, abandoning Idaho and its forests for the bright lights of Boise, desperate for distance between myself and those towering trees. But despite leaving, despite moving hundreds of miles away, I know I'm not truly free. Even now, in the silence of my new home, I wake in the dark.
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listening to scratching sounds outside my window, convinced that whatever took Garrett, whatever lurked high above in those woods, has never stopped watching me. We'd been driving since dawn, and by the time the Ouachita Mountains began to swallow us, their jagged peaks and thick greenery felt like something from another world.
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I'd booked this trip, an isolated A-frame cabin tucked away in the heart of the Ouachita National Forest, mainly because the photos promised seclusion and a weekend free from distractions. I wanted us to disconnect, laugh, maybe even scare ourselves a bit. Turns out, I'd get far more than I'd bargained for.
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I remember pulling into a dusty gas station near the Talimina Scenic Drive to fill up the tank and grab some snacks before heading deeper into the wilderness. The cashier, a grizzled local with wary eyes, gave a strange look when I told him where we were going. He hesitated, then mumbled something about that old place, and shook his head, returning my change without another word.
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Tyler joked that we'd stumbled into a cheap horror movie set up. but Emily glanced at me uneasily. Maybe I should have noticed the worry etched on her face, but instead, I laughed it off. By late afternoon, our tires crunched down a gravelly forestry road, curving sharply into shadows cast by towering trees. The cabin emerged abruptly around the last bend. It was quaint, simple,
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and yet eerily picturesque perched like a forgotten dollhouse in a clearing surrounded by endless trees we unpacked quickly excited chatter filling the small rustic space nina was already poking around inspecting everything with her careful historian's eye Emily set about organizing our groceries, her thoughtful silence calming.
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Tyler cracked beers open, spilling foam on the worn hardwood floors and roaring with laughter as he teased us to lighten up. The first hours passed in comfort and laughter. As dusk painted the sky violet, Tyler and I shoved aside a heavy oak dining table to clear space near the stone fireplace. That's when Tyler stumbled slightly, nearly falling as a floorboard gave beneath his weight.
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As I approached the outskirts of Chesterland, something passed above the truck, casting a brief but unmistakable shadow across the moonlit road. My stomach lurched, and I involuntarily ducked my head again. Nothing landed, but the presence lingered, somewhere nearby, unseen but not gone. My radio crackled sharply, startling me.
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He knelt, tugging at the edge of a woven rug. Beneath, a strangely placed board creaked, loose and splintered at one end. "'Check this out,' Tyler called excitedly, grinning at his find. Emily's eyes narrowed, apprehension evident in her expression." "'Maybe we should leave it alone,' she murmured, wrapping her sweater tighter around her shoulders as if suddenly cold.
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Ignoring her caution, Tyler pulled harder, revealing a worn, rectangular trapdoor hidden beneath the floorboards. A tarnished iron ring sat flush with the warped wood. Nina knelt beside him, examining it curiously. This wasn't listed anywhere in the rental agreement, Nina noted quietly, clearly intrigued. She traced the ring gently. This looks old, like really old.
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Let's open it, Tyler suggested eagerly, grabbing the iron ring. Wait. Emily's voice was tight. She stepped forward nervously. We don't even know what's down there. Maybe it's boarded up for a reason? Tyler scoffed, dismissing her fears with a wave. It's probably just an old wine cellar. Come on, where's your sense of adventure? I chuckled, shaking off my own lingering doubts. It'll be fine.
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What's the worst that could happen? With an exaggerated grunt, Tyler lifted the trapdoor, revealing a pitch-black hole below. A musty, stale breeze sighed upward, making my skin prickle. Nina clicked on her phone flashlight and cautiously led the way down narrow wooden steps that creaked beneath our weight. At the bottom, the light wavered across bare earth walls.
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A single stone structure rose ominously from the packed dirt, a squat well encircled by rusted barbed wire and sealed meticulously with hardened wax. Symbols carved deep into its stone rim caught the weak light, strange markings older than anything I'd seen before. Don't touch it, Emily warned sharply. Her voice echoed oddly, almost distorted by the cramped cellar.
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"'It's sealed for a reason,' Nina added, softly but firmly. But Tyler laughed, a sound unnaturally loud and bold against the claustrophobic space. "'It's probably just superstition,' he declared dismissively. "'Whoever did this, they were probably trying to hide moonshine or something.'"
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Without hesitation, he grabbed a piece of rotted wood lying nearby and wedged it beneath the seal, leveraging his full weight. The wax cracked, then broke apart sharply, pieces scattering across the floor. The barbed wire groaned as Tyler pulled it aside, rust staining his hands. A strange silence fell, oppressive and unnatural.
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Emily trembled slightly, whispering something that sounded like a prayer. Nina stared wide-eyed, clearly uneasy. Even Tyler seemed hesitant, though he quickly hid his nerves behind bravado. "'See, nothing!' he laughed, stepping back, but none of us moved closer. That night, as we lay restless beneath unfamiliar quilts, sleep overtook us uneasily.
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The cabin creaked gently in the mountain breeze, lulling me into an uncomfortable half-sleep. But peace gave way quickly." in dreams darkness dragged me downward slipping into something deeper than sleep into choking silence and blackness a clawed hand cold and clammy wrapped around my ankle pulling me steadily downward
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Eyes blinked open around me, far too many eyes, glowing and unblinking in the dark. I fought and screamed without sound, trapped in the nightmare, until dawn finally broke through the small, dusty windows. When we gathered silently in the kitchen the next morning, I noticed the same haunted expression reflected on everyone's face.
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Static filled the cab, growing louder, drowning out even the growl of my engine. A voice cut through the static, fragmented, unintelligible at first, then clearer, disturbingly familiar. It was a voice I recognized immediately, my own, distorted and panicked, repeating words I hadn't yet spoken. My hands shook harder, and I switched the radio off, plunging the cab into silence.
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No one spoke until Nina glanced around, visibly shaken, and asked quietly, Did you guys have that dream? Emily paled, nodding slowly. Tyler didn't respond. I called his name, glancing toward his room. Silence answered me. His bed was empty, neatly made, shoes still neatly placed by the front door, as if he'd stepped out for just a moment and vanished without a trace.
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None of us knew yet that we'd broken a seal, unleashing something beyond our darkest imagination. something that was already quietly stirring beneath our feet hungry and awake sunlight poured through the cabin windows but it felt hollow and distant drained of warmth tyler's absence hung heavy filling every corner every silent pause between our hesitant words
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We searched frantically at first, shouting his name into the sprawling forest, scanning desperately for any signs, footprints, torn clothing, anything, but found nothing except oppressive silence. After hours of fruitless wandering, we returned to the cabin exhausted and shaken, our nerves frayed like bare wires.
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Emily paced the kitchen quietly, her voice faintly trembling as she whispered prayers under her breath. I watched Nina pour over her phone and sketchpad, her fingers flying through pages as she compared the strange symbols we'd found on the well to something online. Her expression darkened with each passing minute. What is it? I finally asked, my voice hoarse.
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She didn't answer immediately, just held up her phone screen toward me. The markings on the well, they're similar to old Choctaw and Caddo symbols, she whispered. They talk about something called the Throat of Fire beneath the stone. It's mentioned in old folklore as a place where spirits, dangerous spirits, were imprisoned. Emily stopped pacing, her eyes wide, voice shaking. You mean demons.
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slowed to a stop alongside ours passenger window lowering with a tired mechanical whine inside sat a middle-aged couple their faces illuminated by the dim glow from the dash the woman leaned slightly toward the open window her pale face bearing an amiable smile beneath eyes that were oddly vacant distant even Evening, she called out, her voice cheerful but hollow, like rehearsed friendliness.
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I rubbed my forehead hard, exhaustion pressing down like an invisible weight. That's insane. It's just an old well. No, Nina said, voice tight. We broke a seal that someone went to great lengths to create. The barbed wire, the wax. It was intentional. I wanted to argue, to dismiss it as folklore nonsense, but Tyler's empty bed and shoes by the door mocked me, forcing dread into my bones.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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That evening, after Emily went to bed, I sat alone by the fireplace, guilt gnawing at my stomach. I drifted off without realizing, only to wake abruptly, standing upright, feet numb, the air stale and earthy. Panic surged through me. I was downstairs, in front of the open cellar. How had I gotten here? Nina stood behind me, frozen, eyes filled with fear. "'Jared,' she whispered.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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"'What are you doing?' My lips parted to answer, but instead of words, a low chant slipped from my mouth, deep and resonant, words I didn't recognize. They echoed horribly in the cellar's gloom, almost as if someone else spoke through me. Terrified, I snapped my mouth shut, backing away from the opening." That wasn't me, I stammered, shaking uncontrollably. I didn't.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I know, Nina breathed, carefully approaching me. But something spoke through you. We quickly slammed the cellar door shut, barricading it with furniture before retreating into an uneasy silence. The air felt heavy, electric, humming softly beneath our feet. None of us slept well. At dawn, Emily's voice woke us, hysterical from her bedroom.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Nina and I rushed in to find her gripping the edge of her mattress, sheets tangled around her feet, her face pale and drenched in sweat. It was Tyler, she gasped. He was here, in the room, whispering to me. His voice, it came from the floor. He kept telling me he's trapped down there. We exchanged frightened glances, each moment becoming clearer.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The thing we had unleashed wasn't content just to haunt our sleep. It was seeping into our waking world, clawing at the edges of our minds. None of us dared say what we were all thinking. It was coming for us next. As the day wore on, I felt a slow unraveling within me. Dark whispers flitted through my thoughts, visions of the well appearing uninvited every time I blinked.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Just ahead, the lights of Chesterland finally came into view, dimly glowing through the fog like a beacon. The faint comfort they offered pushed me forward. When I finally turned into the brightly lit Sunoco station on Mayfield Road, my relief was overwhelming. My legs felt weak, trembling as I parked the truck near the pumps and switched off the ignition.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Each time I glanced toward the cellar, my heart thundered painfully, dread pooling thickly in my gut. Desperate for answers, Nina climbed the cabin's narrow attic stairs, hoping to find more clues about the previous occupants. Hours later, she returned downstairs, pale and clutching a faded leather-bound diary tightly against her chest.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It belonged to someone named Martha Kincaid, Nina began softly. She lived here in the early 1950s. Her husband found the well, opened it like we did. Afterward, he changed, became violent, obsessive. She says repeatedly that something wanted to wear them, to walk in their bodies. Did she say how to stop it? Emily asked desperately. Nina's gaze lowered to the diary in her hands. No, she whispered.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The entries just end abruptly. Silence fell like a shroud over us again, oppressive and smothering. Emily crossed herself, lips moving silently in prayer, eyes fixed nervously on the trapdoor. Nina stared blankly at the diary, but something inside me had already begun to fracture. That night, I dreamt again. Only this time, there was no well.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Instead, Tyler stood silently in front of me, skin pale and translucent, eyes glassy and wrong. He opened his mouth, a sickening black fluid spilling forth as countless insect legs extended slowly outward, twitching and crawling toward me. I jolted awake, screaming and thrashing, pinned by terror and revulsion. The room was dim, moonlight filtering weakly through gauzy curtains.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Emily's figure stood at the foot of my bed, her face white, frozen in terror. "'Jared!' she whispered horrified. "'What did you do?' I looked down. My hands were stained dark, crimson and wet, blood. I staggered back, feeling something warm and metallic on my tongue. My hands trembled violently." "'What did you do?' she asked again, voice barely audible.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I couldn't answer, the words locked behind horror in my throat. Instead, my gaze landed on the cellar door, standing open once more, yawning wide, waiting patiently. Nina rushed in, seeing the blood, the cellar, my shaking hands. Her face went ghostly pale. "'Jared,' she breathed, "'it has you.' I collapsed, overcome with guilt and terror." "'Chain me,' I begged. "'Lock me up, whatever it takes.'
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Nina nodded grimly, understanding crossing her face. Without hesitation, she found rope, dragging a wooden chair into the kitchen and binding me securely. Emily knelt beside me, her eyes wet with tears, clutching my trembling fingers. I saw the marks on her arm, deep scratches, scratches I knew I'd made. "'I'm sorry,' I whispered, heart-shattering.'
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I didn't mean... It's not you, Emily said softly. It's the thing we set free. Hours passed painfully slow, tension thickening around us, a malevolent presence just beyond sight, pressing closer. My vision blurred as consciousness slipped.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Before I fell away completely, I caught Emily's desperate prayer, Nina's frightened murmuring, and beneath it all, something deep beneath the cabin stirred hungrily, whispering my name. I woke to the taste of iron and the raw ache of rope burns cutting deep into my wrists. The cabin felt colder now, the air charged with a silent, waiting dread.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Silence settled again, heavy and oppressive. Taking several deep, shaky breaths, I stepped down onto the pavement. Cold air bit into my lungs. I had to see the damage, had to confirm that it was real, that this wasn't some waking nightmare. Slowly, dreading what I might find, I walked around to the front of the truck, peering upward at the aluminum box above the cab. The sight froze me in place.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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My vision cleared slowly, revealing Nina crouched by the fireplace, her phone illuminating ancient symbols she'd hastily sketched from the diary. Emily stood by the front window, eyes bloodshot, arms wrapped around herself as if trying to hold her sanity together with sheer force. "'It's getting stronger,' Nina muttered, glancing up as she noticed me awake. Her voice cracked slightly."
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The symbols, they're a ritual, a binding. Martha mentioned a Choctaw elder named Joseph Tallchief. He helped them seal it originally. Then we need him, Emily whispered urgently, stepping forward. Before it's too late. My head pounded, reality wavering around me. The demon lingered, whispering at the fringes of my mind, pushing at the boundaries of my consciousness. Please, I croaked.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Do something. Nina stood abruptly, gripping her keys tightly. I'll find him. Stay awake. Fight it, Jared. I nodded weakly as she rushed out into the fading daylight. As the door slammed shut, Emily knelt beside me, eyes wet, voice a trembling whisper. It's going to be okay. We'll fix this. But as darkness descended over the forest, the cabin became a prison.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Shadows deepened and stretched impossibly, climbing walls and seeping along the ceiling. Emily lit candles, placing them around the room, her lips silently moving in prayer. I felt a heaviness pressing from beneath the floorboards, cold and ravenous. Suddenly, the cellar door creaked loudly, unlatched itself, and swung open slowly, blackness bleeding upward.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I tried to cry out, but terror held my voice captive. Emily froze, eyes wide and locked onto the open cellar, trembling violently. Don't listen, I begged hoarsely, desperate tears stinging my eyes. Whatever you hear, don't trust it. She stepped closer, entranced, face pale as a ghost. It's Tyler, she whispered, grief-stricken. He's down there.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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No, I pleaded, fighting against my restraints, rope-tearing skin. It's not him. But she leaned closer, mesmerized, staring into the abyss. He needs help, she whispered weakly, the cellar's darkness reflecting in her glassy eyes. Then Nina burst back into the cabin, panting, dragging someone else behind her, an elderly Choctaw man whose face seemed carved from weathered stone.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Joseph Tallchief stepped forward, gripping Emily's shoulders firmly. It's deceiving you, he said sternly. Don't listen to the voices. They've tasted your fear. Emily shuddered, clarity flooding her eyes as she staggered back from the cellar's edge. Nina rushed to free me, quickly loosening the ropes. My wrists burned, but adrenaline numbed the pain.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Joseph knelt swiftly by the cellar opening, his eyes scanning the symbols urgently. The seal must be reforged, he said grimly, but the cost is high. Cost? Emily whispered fearfully. He met her gaze solemnly, blood and sacrifice willingly given. The weight of his words sank into the room. Nina shook her head, lips pressed thin. There must be another way. Joseph shook his head gravely.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The first sealing required it. The second demands no less. The darkness beneath us stirred violently, the cabin shuddering as if enraged. The candles flickered erratically, shadows writhing upward like grasping hands. My stomach twisted, fear closing like a fist around my throat. We'd unleashed this. I'd unleashed it. A harsh wind blew upward, whispering a chorus of voices.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Tyler's laughter, Martha's sobbing, then something guttural and inhuman, ancient and ravenous. Emily stepped forward, eyes suddenly calm and resolved. It should be me. No! I shouted desperately, staggering to my feet. Emily! But she'd already grabbed Joseph's knife, slicing open her palm decisively. Blood dripped heavily onto the cellar door.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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there etched into the grime and road dust were massive wing prints unmistakably defined across the metal the prints stretched easily six feet from tip to tip veined and bat-like detailed and precise no feathers
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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sizzling and evaporating instantly into black smoke joseph began chanting fiercely in his native tongue urging the symbols awake nina wept quietly holding emily's other hand tightly the cellar screamed a horrific unbearable wail shaking the walls A shadow erupted upward, coalescing into Jared, no, into something wearing my face. A twisted mirror, grinning cruelly, eyes black and hollow.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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You can't trap me again, it hissed, voice layered, echoing hideously. I'll wear each of you until the world falls quiet. My vision spun, stomach churning violently. Emily stood firm, unyielding, her blood dripping steadily onto the ancient stone. The symbols glowed faintly, pulsing with each syllable of Joseph's chant. The demon lunged forward, reaching desperately for Emily.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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With all my strength, I grabbed the imposter's form, my own distorted flesh burning like acid under my grip. It twisted violently, shrieking, fighting to escape. "'Seal it now!' I roared desperately." Emily closed her eyes, whispering one final prayer. Blood streamed freely, pooling around the cellar entrance. The symbols blazed fiercely, illuminating the entire cabin.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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A force surged upward, pulling violently downward, wrenching at the creature and myself. I clung desperately to a floorboard, fingers slipping, splintering wood digging into my flesh. With a final savage pull, the cellar slammed shut, the air suddenly still. Silence rang out, deafeningly complete. Slowly, painfully, I raised myself upright, shaking violently.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The cellar door was sealed, fused shut as if it never existed. Emily was gone, vanished completely. Nina knelt silently on the ground, tears streaming unchecked down her face. Joseph stood quietly, hands clasped together, murmuring a quiet blessing. The authorities came days later, drawn by the smoke rising from a fire we started before leaving, burning the cabin to ashes.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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ensuring no one would ever unseal that nightmare again nina and i returned home separately unable to face one another our friendship buried with emily in that awful place in the quiet moments afterward i tried to share our story posting photos of those carvings desperate for someone to believe me But each time, my files corrupted, images dissolving into meaningless static.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Eventually I stopped trying. Tonight, sitting alone in my dark apartment, I'm exhausted, haunted by Emily's courage and Tyler's laughter, each echoing faintly behind my eyes. Before drifting into sleep, I whisper Emily's name into a disconnected phone number, foolishly hoping she'll answer, forgive me somehow. But every night the dream returns, unending darkness, hungry limbs dragging me down.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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no resemblance to any bird i'd ever seen at the center of the impressions were deep indentations clear marks of clawed hands gripping the aluminum my skin went cold stomach twisting painfully from behind me came the sharp click of a lighter
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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And each time Emily's voice softly warns from somewhere far below, don't dream, whatever you do, don't dream. I was 15 when we moved into that place. Mom said it was temporary, just a small duplex on the edge of nowhere until she could get back on her feet. After she left my stepdad, we couldn't afford much, and this place was cheap, real cheap.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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A two-bedroom, two-bath unit in rural Arizona, right next to an abandoned private airstrip. I remember standing in the gravel driveway that first day, staring at the old windsock hanging limp off a crooked pole, the air still and dry. We were in the middle of nowhere, and that wasn't an exaggeration. Just desert, cactus, and sun-bleached hangars that hadn't seen a plane in years.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The layout of the place was weird. When you stepped inside, the entire back of the house was visible straight through a narrow hall and an open-plan living room and kitchen. The first bedroom, mine, was on the right, then the guest bathroom, and finally my mom's room at the end of the hallway. All three doors lined up like tombstones, exactly eight feet apart.
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I remember measuring once, just because something about the spacing bothered me. Too perfect. But the worst part wasn't the layout. It was how quiet everything was. At first, it was the kind of silence you crave when you've lived around chaos. But by the third or fourth night, it started to feel unnatural. Like the house was holding its breath, waiting for something.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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then the doors started slamming i was lying in bed one night not even asleep yet when it happened for the first time all three doors on the right side of the hallway mine the bathroom and my mom's slammed shut at the exact same moment the sound echoed down the hall like a shotgun blast
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i sat straight up heart pounding mom yelled from her room and i heard her feet hit the floor we both thought someone had broken in we searched the whole house nothing no sign of wind windows were shut the a c was off there was no draft no pressure change no explanation
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just three doors that had violently shut on their own it kept happening once twice a week always at night always those same three doors we started keeping them cracked open with rubber wedges but the wedges would be thrown across the hallway and the doors would still slam Toby, our golden lab, started acting strange right around that time.
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i spun around so quickly i nearly lost my balance a young gas station attendant leaned against the wall cigarette dangling loosely from his lips he eyed me carefully then glanced up at the marks above the cab his expression changing instantly to recognition what happened to you out there he asked quietly taking a slow drag his voice was low cautious
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He'd always been high energy, barked at everything, even tumbleweeds. But he changed, stopped playing, stopped exploring. One morning I found him sitting in the living room with his nose jammed into the corner of the wall, not moving, not asleep, just hiding. I called his name three times before he even blinked. I tried to pull him away, but he let out this low, shaky growl. Not angry. Terrified.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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That was the first time I felt it. A pressure in the air. Not like heat. Heavier than that. Like someone was standing behind me but refusing to speak. I didn't tell Mom. She was already stressed enough, working late shifts and trying to act like everything was fine. But I knew. I knew something was wrong with that house. Then came the day that everything changed. It was summer, dry and miserable.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I got home from school, grabbed a sandwich and flopped onto the couch, still in my shoes. Toby curled up on the floor in front of me, facing the hallway. It was the first time in weeks he'd stayed close to me. I must have dozed off because the next thing I remember was screaming, not mine, Toby's. He yelped so loudly I jumped off the couch, heart hammering.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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My eyes flew open just in time to see his body being dragged across the tile by something I couldn't see. His nails scratched deep grooves into the floor as he fought it.
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his back legs were stiff his mouth open in terror it looked like something had him by the tail and was yanking with every bit of strength it had i bolted forward shouting his name but the second i stepped into the hallway i felt it cold not a little chilly cold freezing like stepping into a walk-in freezer. I looked down at my arms and saw goosebumps rising instantly. I could see my own breath.
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In July, in Arizona. Then came the smell. It hit me like a punch in the throat. Rotting eggs and burned hair. I gagged and stumbled back, pulling Toby into my arms. He was shaking, whining, tail limp. The air felt thick, wrong, like the molecules didn't want to be there. The temperature snapped back a few seconds later and the smell vanished with it. But something had been there.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Something strong enough to throw a 70-pound dog across the floor. Something cold and angry. That night I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed with the light on, staring at the ceiling. Toby refused to leave the corner of my room. Around three in the morning, I heard it again. Footsteps. Not outside. Inside. Walking down the hallway toward my room. Heavy. Slow. Like boots dragging across old tile.
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I didn't breathe. The steps stopped just outside my door. The knob creaked like someone was testing it. I sat up, grabbed my bat from under the bed, and tiptoed to the door, flung it open. Nothing. Just an empty hallway. Quiet. Still. The next morning, I noticed something weird about the stereo. We had this old Panasonic system my stepdad left behind when he moved out.
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It hadn't worked in years, but that morning it was on. Static blaring from the speakers. No lights on the control panel, just static. I went to turn it off and noticed something underneath the white noise, something low and rhythmic. Voices, not clear words, not music. Wailing. Layered, chaotic screaming. Hundreds of voices overlapping. Crying out in agony.
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I turned the volume down but the noise stayed the same. Eventually, I unplugged the system. The sound kept going for almost 10 seconds before it finally died. And that's when I realized, we weren't alone in that house. We never had been. After the stereo incident, I stopped pretending everything was normal. I didn't tell mom, not yet. But something had shifted in me.
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I hesitated not knowing how much to share, how much would sound insane. Hit something big, I finally replied. My voice was hoarse and barely audible even to myself. He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing slightly. Yeah, you're not the first man. Seen those same marks before, drivers come through here sometimes looking just like you, shaking, pale as a ghost. What the hell is it?
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Like a blindfold had been ripped off. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't focus. Every corner of the house felt like it was hiding something. And Toby? He wasn't just scared anymore. He was deteriorating. He barely ate. He drank only when I brought the bowl to him. I don't think he left the living room for more than a few minutes a day.
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If I tried to drag him down the hallway toward the bedrooms, he'd plant his feet and whimper like I was taking him toward a firing squad. That's when I started digging. The place we lived in wasn't exactly listed on Google Maps. The airstrip didn't have a name anymore, just private property, no trespassing signs, half buried in weeds.
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but I found the original parcel info through the county assessor's website. The property was registered to a man named Elliot Warren, a retired pilot. Apparently, he'd built the strip in the late 70s and ran a hobbyist aviation club until the early 2000s, when it shut down under unclear circumstances. But it was his son, Daniel Warren, who kept showing up in articles.
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Not many, just enough to give me that sick feeling in my gut. Three overdose deaths, all unsolved, all within a five-year window. Two in Prescott, one here, on this very property. Official cause in every case, accidental overdose. But there were no records of prior drug use for any of the men. No rehab, no known addictions.
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Just three guys in their early twenties who suddenly stopped breathing in their sleep. Quiet deaths. Neat ones. But it wasn't until I started searching old forums and message boards that things got worse. I found a post from over a decade ago. Buried on a dead aviation site. Someone had written, Warren's kid had a thing for putting stuff in people's drinks. Stay out of the hangar.
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That's where he took them when they passed out. That one sentence kept repeating in my head. Stay out of the hangar. And it made sense, in a way I wish it hadn't. That hangar always felt off. I'd never stepped foot inside it. Even walking past it made the hair rise on my arms. I always felt watched. Not just the eerie kind of watched, but targeted. Like whatever was in there knew me by name.
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As the days passed, the house's energy shifted from creepy to hostile. It started with the spiders. At first it was just one black widow, curled in the upper corner of the kitchen cabinet. Then I found another in my shoes, a brown recluse under my pillow. My mom stepped into the shower one morning and screamed. There were three of them crawling along the drain.
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She tried to laugh it off, but she couldn't hide the look in her eyes, that raw, quiet fear. Two days later she was bit. She thought it was just a rash at first, but her leg swelled up like a balloon. Red, hot, and weeping. I drove her to urgent care, and the nurse said the venom had started breaking down her skin tissue. You got lucky, she told my mom.
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If you'd waited another day we might have been talking skin grafts. Then my little brother Ben got sick. It started as a red eye. Then it swelled shut and he couldn't stop crying. The doctor at the ER took one look and immediately called for a specialist. They told us the infection was so advanced it could have destroyed his optic nerve. Another day or two and he might have gone blind.
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My voice cracked, revealing more fear than I intended. He shrugged uneasily, glancing back up at the marks. Nobody knows. Been stories out there for years. Folks around here call it the flyer. Comes around every few months, chases trucks down that same stretch of road. Usually at night, when nobody else is around. His words sent a fresh wave of dread washing over me. What does it want?"
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No one could explain how it had spread that fast. I wanted to believe it was just bad luck, but that house had stopped being subtle. One night, I woke up gasping, out of nowhere. It felt like someone had their hand on my chest. I reached for the lamp, flipped it on, and froze. The closet door, always shut, was wide open, and inside something moved, not scurrying, not scratching, shifting.
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I grabbed the bat from under my bed and stepped forward, heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst. Nothing, just empty hangers and dusty shoes. But I knew something had been in there, watching. That was the same night the wall over my bed changed. I didn't notice it until the next morning, when the sunlight caught the wall at the right angle.
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there was a word scratched faintly into the drywall just above my headboard i had to step onto my mattress to read it mine i stood there for a long time just staring every cell in my body wanted to run to scream to wake mom up and make her pack But something deep inside me, the same thing that had kept me from looking under the bed all those nights, told me it wouldn't matter.
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We were already inside its web. That weekend, I finally snapped. I grabbed my flashlight and headed out to the hangar just after sunset. I didn't tell Mom, didn't even say where I was going. I just waited until she went to bed and slipped out the back door. The hangar was quiet. Massive. The metal siding creaked in the wind.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The big industrial roll-up door was chained shut on one side, but the pedestrian side door was just latched. I opened it slowly and stepped inside. It was colder than I expected. My flashlight flickered the moment I crossed the threshold. The air smelled stale, like gasoline and mildew. Dust swirled around my ankles as I walked across the concrete floor.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Everything in me screamed to turn back, but I didn't. I made my way toward the far end of the hangar, where the breaker box was mounted on the wall. That's where the garage buttons and light switch were too, glowing softly from their built-in lights. At least they should have been glowing. They weren't. That's when I realized why. Something was blocking them.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A shape, roughly human-sized, stood directly in front of the breaker box. My light cut through the space around it, but not through it. It was darker than dark. Like my flashlight beam was getting swallowed whole. I stopped. My legs wouldn't move forward, and then it tilted its head. Not much. Just enough to let me know. It saw me. And it was waiting.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I don't know how long I stood there in that hangar, just staring at it. That thing, whatever it was, wasn't a shadow. Shadows don't watch you. They don't tilt their heads like animals studying prey. And they sure as hell don't block light. But this thing? My flashlight hit it directly and the beam stopped. It just ended.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
like the air in front of it was a solid wall i couldn't move my chest tightened every hair on my body stood on end i felt like if i breathed too loud it would charge then without a sound it did it didn't run it didn't float one blink and it was right in front of me inches from my face
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
i didn't even see it move my flashlight dropped from my hand and clattered to the floor plunging the hanger into near total darkness except for what little light from the moon made it through the slit above the door i wanted to run but my legs were locked and now i could see it its face Not fully human, not really anything. It was wrong. Features that didn't line up.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The mouth was too wide, the skin looked like melted wax, and its ears were too small, pressed tight against its skull like they were afraid to exist. But the worst part was its eyes. I'll never forget them. Not red, not glowing, just black. So black. Like pits in the world. But not empty. Alive. At the center of each was a faint, milky gray pupil, spinning slowly like a drain.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
He paused, exhaling smoke slowly into the foggy air. Some say it likes the engines. The diesel sound draws it in, attracts it somehow. Others say it's just waiting for someone unlucky enough to stop, to step out of the truck like you did tonight. Nobody's sure, but whatever it is, it's not good. He stubbed out his cigarette, eyes darting toward the darkened road behind me. Be careful heading back.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I felt like if I looked too long, I'd fall in. My brain screamed for me to look away, but I couldn't. That's when I understood. Its eyes were holding me in place. I wasn't paralyzed because of fear. I was trapped because this thing had reached inside me. I could feel it digging, not with fingers, with thoughts. Memories started flashing, my worst ones.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Toby yelping, my mom screaming when she got bit, Ben crying in the ER, blood in the sink, the word mine scratched above my bed. It was flipping through my life like a photo album, feeding, I was slipping. My knees buckled, my head spun. I felt like I was outside my own body, watching this thing peel me apart from the inside out. Then, like a spark in the void, I remembered something.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My grandmother. When I was little she told me a story, some backwoods Appalachian thing, about how evil sometimes walked on two legs, and that if I ever came face to face with it, I should call on God, not just think it. Say it. Out loud. As if my life depended on it. Back then I thought it was superstition. But now, with this thing boring its eyes into me, it was the only thing I had left.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I tried again. My throat was locked. The thing's face was still inches from mine. Expressionless. Watching. Finally I pushed out a whisper. I... I rebuke you. In God's name. Nothing. It didn't flinch. I said I rebuke you, I said louder. In God's name. Still no reaction. Then I screamed it. I rebuke you in the name of God. The effect was immediate.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Its face twitched. Then it jerked backward like I'd hit it with a shovel. Its mouth opened. Not in a roar, but in a soundless scream. The air around me changed. Pressure slammed into my ears. My teeth rattled. Then the sound came. It was like every hurricane, every tornado, every freight train I've ever heard, all at once. It wasn't a roar, it was a howl of hate.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A scream that felt personal, like it knew me, like it hated that I existed. And then it charged. But instead of hitting me, it passed through me. I collapsed. The cold. God. I'll never be able to describe it. It wasn't just temperature. It was a presence. Like drowning in ice. My lungs seized. My heart stopped. I'm sure of it. For a second, I thought I was dead. Then it was gone. Just like that.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The air snapped back to normal. The hanger lights flickered back on. The breaker buttons on the wall glowed again, soft and orange. I sat there on the cold concrete, gasping like I'd run a marathon in a snowstorm. My whole chest burned. My arms were covered in goosebumps. But I could feel it wasn't there anymore. Not in that moment. I grabbed my flashlight, still blinking from the floor, and ran.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I don't even remember how I got back into the house. I just remember bursting through the back door and falling to my knees. Mom was in the kitchen. She looked up, startled. What was that noise? I stared at her, shaking, and realized she hadn't heard any of it. Not the screaming, not the wind, nothing. Something outside, I said. I think it was just a coyote or something. She narrowed her eyes.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
You look like you've seen a ghost. I didn't say anything. Just went to my room and locked the door. We moved out two months later. No dramatic ending. No priest. No exorcism. Mom said she was tired of the place. Said she needed a fresh start. I didn't argue. Years later, I drove by the old airstrip, just to see it. The duplex was still standing, the hangar still there, the windsock was gone.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But as I passed the gravel drive, I saw something that stopped me cold. A yellow lab, sitting in front of the hangar door, perfectly still, staring into the corner, just like Toby used to. I grew up in the shadow of these mountains, spent my childhood hiking ridgelines, hunting elk, and camping beneath the stars of the Selway Bitterroot Wilderness.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
If I were you, I'd find another route, With a tight nod, he slipped back into the brightly lit station, leaving me alone again in the oppressive quiet. I stared at the wing prints one last time, pulse hammering loudly in my ears. Slowly, reluctantly, I climbed back into the cab, locking the door tightly behind me. I knew I had no choice.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The Idaho backcountry never scared me, it felt like home. But that October, everything changed. I parked my truck near the Magruder Corridor trailhead at dawn, double-checking my gear one last time. My pack was stocked for a week, lightweight tent, food, water purifier, and my rifle, a Remington 700 with a high-powered scope. It was elk season, and I wanted to fill the freezer before winter.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Solo trips were always my favorite, but as I strapped on my pack, I felt something shift in the quiet around me. The birds were silent, not a single rustle or chirp. That alone should have warned me. The first two days passed without seeing much sign of wildlife. Usually there'd be tracks or scat, something, but the trails were oddly pristine, untouched.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My unease started to build on the third morning as I made my way up toward Bear Creek Pass. Sunlight filtered weakly through low-hanging clouds, and the forest was dense and cool, cloaked in a damp stillness. I stopped to scan a nearby ridge for movement. Adjusting my scope, I carefully glassed the slopes ahead.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Something strange caught my eye, a shape suspended high in a lodgepole pine about thirty feet off the ground. At first, I assumed it was a bear cache, maybe an elk carcass hauled up by a mountain lion. But as I focused the lens, my stomach tightened. It wasn't an animal. It looked human.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A limp figure in worn jeans and a faded flannel shirt hung loosely from one arm, feet dangling like a forgotten puppet. I felt sick, heart racing as I adjusted the scope. Had someone gotten hurt climbing? Had a hunter fallen from a stand? Just as I convinced myself the poor bastard was long dead, the figure slowly, impossibly slowly, lifted its head and turned it toward me. My mouth went dry.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My body refused to move, frozen with disbelief and horror. Then it smiled. It wasn't a normal smile, not a friendly grin, not even a grimace of pain. It was an unnatural stretching of the mouth, a grotesque widening that revealed too many teeth. Too sharp. Too white. Wet. It stared straight through the scope into my eyes, as if it knew exactly where I stood.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I dropped the scope in panic, stumbling backward against a fallen log. My breath came in shallow bursts, fogging in front of my face. When I managed to look up again, the figure was gone. The tree branches swayed gently, empty and mocking. Adrenaline took over. I had to get down from that ridge, put distance between me and whatever I'd just seen. I moved quickly down the trail, rifle grip tight.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Every shadow now held menace, every creaking tree a hidden threat. That night, I set up camp near Deep Creek. Darkness closed around me like a physical weight. I huddled in my tent, rifle by my side, trying to rationalize the encounter. Maybe exhaustion had gotten to me. Maybe it was just shadows playing tricks. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't forget that hideous smile.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Sleep came slowly, troubled by anxious dreams. Then I woke sharply sometime after midnight. A noise, quiet yet distinct, echoed above my tent. Dragging, like something heavy being slowly pulled along the branches overhead. I lay perfectly still, straining to listen. The dragging continued. No footsteps, no cracking branches, just that endless scraping across the bark.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Pine needles pattered softly onto the tent fabric above my head, my pulse hammered in my ears. I grabbed my flashlight and unzipped the tent. Cold air rushed in as I stepped out, rifle pointed upward, sweeping the beam through the black canopy. Nothing. The beam caught only tangled branches and shadows that danced with the wind. But there was no wind. The dragging paused.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Soon, I'd have to head back down Route 322, right through that same foggy darkness again, toward whatever was still waiting out there for me. I sat motionless inside the cab, staring blankly at the fog-laden windshield. Minutes ticked by, the diesel engine idling steadily beneath me, the rhythmic vibration traveling up my legs. My heart wouldn't settle, and dread pooled heavily in my stomach.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Silence pressed against my ears until it hurt. Hello? My voice was thin, swallowed immediately by the wilderness. Nothing responded. I forced myself to breathe, lowered my rifle slightly, trying to calm my shaking hands. Then, directly above me, something shifted with deliberate slowness. I looked straight up, heart pounding, flashlight trembling in my grip.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
There, hanging silently from the branches just out of clear sight, was a hint of pale, sickly skin, long fingers curled around pine bark, and those same worn jeans and faded flannel sleeves. It swung ever so slightly, mockingly gentle. The flashlight beam was shaking so badly I couldn't get a clear view. But I didn't need to. I knew it was watching me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
And just beyond the beam's reach, hidden in shadow, I saw the glint of too many teeth stretching into that monstrous grin. At dawn, the forest felt hollow, stripped of life and color. Every tree seemed taller, closer, leaning over me in silent mockery. Exhaustion made my thoughts sluggish, tangled like a nest of roots, but adrenaline forced me onward.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I broke camp hurriedly, stuffing gear back into my pack, eager to leave Deep Creek far behind. my rifle was heavier now i carried it tightly muzzle raised ready for whatever might drop from the canopy my plan was simple head north toward magruder ranger station report what i'd seen and never look back
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But the miles stretched endlessly through tangled wilderness, the trails now barely recognizable beneath thick mats of fallen pine needles. The eerie silence amplified every breath, every footfall, and soon paranoia took hold. Every snapping twig, every rustling leaf stopped me in my tracks. But each time I scanned the trees, nothing revealed itself.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It felt like something was trailing me, patient, invisible. hanging in the branches and watching my every move. My skin prickled with awareness, a feeling so intense I spun around several times, rifle pointed upward, whispering useless threats to the empty air. Around noon the trail turned muddy near a creek bed.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Typically this spot would be crisscrossed with elk prints, moose tracks, even wolf paw marks. But today the earth was eerily smooth, undisturbed, as if nature itself had retreated from this place. I crouched, uneasy, brushing my fingertips over the unnatural stillness. When I looked up, I froze again.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A freshly killed elk hung above me, suspended fifteen feet off the ground, its neck bent sharply backward. Its antlers tangled grotesquely in the branches. The carcass wasn't torn open by teeth or claws. It looked stretched, twisted, as if some immense force had wrenched it upward through branches too dense and narrow to allow it. No blood dripped, no entrails dangled.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It just hung there, impossibly, staring at me with dead eyes wide and glassy. My stomach clenched and bile rose in my throat. Whatever had put it there was powerful, inhumanly powerful. Every primal instinct screamed for me to flee. Forget the elk, forget the hunt, forget pride, just escape. But before I could move, a noise filtered through the trees behind me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I spun, rifle ready, heart thudding painfully. There on the trail stood a figure, a weathered old trapper, half hidden by shadow and brush. His beard was tangled, face creased with age, eyes sunken and wary. He raised his hand slowly, showing he meant no harm. "'You saw it, didn't you?' His voice rasped softly, barely audible over my own panicked breathing." I didn't lower my rifle completely.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
What is it? What did I see? He hesitated, eyes shifting nervously toward the trees, then spoke quietly, almost reluctantly. We call it the Taker. Folks around Darby, Hamilton, even down toward Elk City, they all got stories. Old-timers talked about it more, before the disappearances started getting too frequent. It don't leave tracks, it don't bleed, and it don't hunt like nothing else you know.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
He glanced upward briefly, then met my eyes with an intensity that rattled me. It stalks you from above, takes what it wants, and leaves the rest behind like trash in a tree. He pointed upward. I forced myself not to follow his finger, terrified I might see movement among the branches. You saw it smile. Means it marked you. He shook his head gravely. Best leave now.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I didn't want to go back that way, not tonight, not ever. But there were no good alternatives. Route 322 was the only feasible way home without adding nearly an hour to my trip. Reaching under the passenger seat, I grabbed the crowbar I kept tucked there, gripping the cold metal tightly. It provided little comfort.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Don't stop till you're clear of these woods. before i could ask another question he turned and vanished into the thick brush footsteps unnervingly quiet fading quickly into nothingness my pulse hammered against my temples i was alone again more vulnerable than ever my heart sinking at his words it marked you night fell quickly in these mountains
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My original plan to reach Magruder Station felt impossible now, with darkness already closing around me. Reluctantly, I set up a hasty camp in a small clearing near Lost Horse Ridge, my back pressed against a large granite outcropping. The illusion of security was all I had left. I didn't light a fire. I sat inside my tent, rifle in my lap, ears straining for the slightest noise.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It didn't take long. A familiar voice drifted softly from the darkness. At first I thought it was imagination or fear twisting normal sounds into horrors, but it came again, clearer, achingly familiar. Caleb, help me. My chest tightened painfully. I recognized the voice immediately. My brother Jake, who'd died in an avalanche three winters ago. My rational mind screamed the obvious.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It couldn't be Jake. But the voice was exact. Same timbre, same hesitant way he'd spoken when he was alive, as if lost somewhere in the trees and begging for rescue. Caleb, please. It hurts. Jake. My voice broke on his name, betraying the dread and despair that swirled inside me. The rifle trembled in my hands. Then another voice joined the first.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My own voice, distorted and whispering, threaded with malice. I see you. I see you. I see you. Fear surged through me, turning every muscle rigid. It was mocking me, using my own voice to taunt and torment.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
the whispers circled the tent never touching the ground always above rustling branches rushing gently against fabric trying to coax me out into the night i squeezed my eyes shut refusing to answer to acknowledge them Silence stretched unbearably long, my heartbeat deafening until suddenly all noise ceased completely. Minutes passed, long enough that hope crept in.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Then slowly, tentatively, I pushed open the tent flap and looked outside. All my gear sat neatly packed and stacked beside my tent, arranged as if lovingly prepared for travel. A sickening dread filled me. It was impossible. I'd scattered my belongings carelessly in haste, frantic to set up camp. My pack was zipped tight, my boots arranged carefully side by side. My rifle was gone.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I stood frozen, staring helplessly at the carefully arranged items as realization seeped coldly into my bones. Something had been inside my camp, inches away, separated only by thin fabric, silently moving around me, unafraid. My breath came in ragged gasps. I raised my eyes slowly, reluctantly, upward into the dark branches above.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I switched off the radio completely, afraid it would burst to life again with another twisted imitation of my voice. Instead, I opened the voice recorder on my phone and placed it on the dashboard. If something happened to me, someone needed to know what I'd seen. Taking a long, shaky breath, I shifted into gear and turned the truck back onto Route 322, heading east again.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Dangling gently from a branch directly overhead, silhouetted against the faint starlight. was a small noose woven crudely from sinew. It swung softly, mocking my vulnerability. A message clearer than words. The trapper's voice echoed in my mind. The taker marked you. Above the noose, deeper in shadow, I sensed more than saw it waiting patiently, watching with that terrible, inhuman grin.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Thought we should warn you. There's a nasty accident just ahead, over the hill. Traffic's completely backed up. Beside her, the man stared forward silently, barely blinking, his thin lips slightly parted. He hadn't moved or glanced in my direction since they stopped, and his unnatural stillness sent goosebumps skittering across my arms. "'Oh,' I managed, trying not to reveal my unease.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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At first light I ran, with no rifle and only a hunting knife strapped to my belt. i abandoned my gear and sprinted down the narrow trail toward elk's summit trailhead the mountains seemed to close tighter around me their steep slopes clawing upward channeling me deeper into shadows the forest pulsed with menace every towering pine a silent sentinel hiding whatever watched from above
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Fog rolled in steadily, blotting out the ridgeline ahead, swallowing my path until only a pale, ghostly tunnel remained. My breath burned in my chest, ragged and desperate. Fear propelled me forward, even as exhaustion seeped into my bones, dragging me down.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Sixteen miles lay between me and the trailhead, sixteen miles of isolated wilderness haunted by something that moved effortlessly above, unseen, relentless. Around midday, voices began filtering through the mist, soft and indistinct at first, drifting down from the treetops like whispers on the wind. I didn't dare look up, didn't dare slow down.
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"'You're almost there,' one voice crooned sweetly, eerily familiar. "'Just look up and see,' another laughed softly, sharp and cruel. "'Why won't you look at me?' The voices multiplied, my brother's voice, my own voice, and others I didn't recognize, swirling and echoing through the mist. Each word twisted through me, cold and merciless, tightening around my sanity.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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My lungs heaved and my boots stumbled over roots and stones slick with dampness. Still, I refused to pause. Then abruptly the whispers vanished, replaced by a sudden heavy silence. Ahead, something cracked sharply, not overhead but behind me, close and deliberate. I froze, every muscle locked, terror surging through my veins. Slowly, painfully, I forced myself to turn.
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In the gloom behind me, silhouetted by the fog, a pale shape dropped silently from a pine tree onto the path barely ten feet away. Its body unfolded slowly, joints creaking softly as it rose, limbs impossibly long and thin.
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bending backward in places they shouldn't its pale skin stretched tight over jutting bones wet and glistening as though freshly peeled my throat closed trapping a scream its face was human only in mockery eyes narrow slits impossibly dark fixed hungrily upon me its mouth spread slowly into that familiar grotesque grin too wide filled with far too many teeth each sharp white and wet
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It didn't lunge or attack, instead it stood silently, patiently, savoring my terror. The world narrowed around us, time stretched impossibly thin. My shaking hand found the emergency flare tucked inside my vest. Slowly, praying desperately, I drew it out. With a swift movement, I ignited the flare. Red fire burst violently into life, bathing the creature in stark lurid light.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Its grin never faltered. The sudden blaze illuminated the canopy above, revealing a nightmare that stole my breath entirely. Every branch, every limb overhead was gouged with deep drag marks, hundreds of them crisscrossing chaotically. Entire sections of bark were stripped bare, the marks forming intricate, obscene patterns that no animal could make.
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My headlights sliced into the darkness, illuminating empty stretches of damp asphalt and trees looming closely on both sides. The fog had thinned, but the silence outside was even heavier. Not a single sound broke through. No rustling leaves. No animals in the underbrush. Just the constant hum of my tires on the road.
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The forest canopy itself was scarred by the creature's endless passage, proof that it had stalked these woods far longer than anyone imagined. You see, it hissed softly, its voice like dry leaves rustling. Now you see. I didn't wait for another word. I hurled the burning flare at its feet and bolted, running blindly through the fog-shrouded trees.
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Branches clawed at my face, brambles tore at my clothes, but nothing slowed me down. The creature laughed softly above, effortlessly gliding through the branches, matching my frantic pace, always just out of sight, always grinning down from darkness. My lungs burned, my legs threatened to collapse. Every instinct told me it would end here, that the taker would finally close its jaws around me.
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But then, impossibly, miraculously, the trees thinned, and I burst from the forest edge onto the gravel road of Elk Summit Trailhead. A camper truck idled nearby, two startled hikers stepping back as I stumbled toward them, screaming for help. The woman caught me as I fell, holding me upright, her face stricken with shock at my panicked state. Please, I gasped, pointing wildly toward the treeline.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It's following me. It, it. But the forest behind was still, silent. The hikers exchanged worried glances, eyes wide with recognition, and ushered me quickly into their truck. Back in Darby, after hours spent shaking and recounting my story at a small roadside diner, the couple finally spoke quietly, their voices low and troubled.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
"'You're not the first,' the man murmured, staring sadly into his coffee cup." We lost our nephew up there last year. Search parties combed every inch. Nothing found except his boots. Way up high, tangled in branches. Nobody could explain it. That night, I didn't sleep. I sat alone in a motel room, every curtain tightly closed, every door locked.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
but peace never came instead nightmares claimed me whenever exhaustion briefly won always i dreamed of that awful grin teeth gleaming mocking me from the branches above months have passed yet it never truly left me I sold my hunting gear, burned the rest, and swore never again to enter those mountains.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But still, on nights when silence settles heavy around my house, I wake suddenly, heart racing, to the sound of something dragging slowly, deliberately across my roof. And sometimes, in those moments, I find scattered pine needles on my pillow. Silent reminders that it still watches from above, patient, grinning, and endlessly waiting.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My eyes kept darting upward, scanning the black sky, wary of any movement above. Each mile passed painfully slow, tension knotting tighter inside me. I approached the section of road near Welshfield where the creature had first appeared, my chest tightening. The engine suddenly sputtered, power faltering briefly, causing my heart to leap into my throat. Gauges flickered.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
the lights dimming for a fraction of a second no please i whispered begging the truck not to fail me now the engine sputtered again louder this time the headlights flickered once more then faded completely plunging me into absolute darkness I fought to maintain control as the truck slowed rapidly, the steering heavy in my hands.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Panic surged through me as the truck rolled to a dead stop, completely powerless, sitting helplessly in the middle of the deserted road. I froze, hardly daring to breathe. Slowly, I reached for the flashlight, clicked it on, and aimed the weak beam forward, illuminating the foggy road ahead. At first there was nothing, just black pavement and pale mist drifting lazily over the ground.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I needed to get away, badly. The city had been chewing me up, bit by bit, day after relentless day. Emails, deadlines, traffic that never moved. All of it blended into a toxic cocktail I could feel eroding me from the inside out. A couple of nights in the woods, away from everything and everyone, seemed like exactly the kind of detox I needed.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Then the beam caught something standing motionless in the road, about twenty yards ahead. It was there, waiting. Its thin frame stood upright, perfectly still. Massive, leathery wings draped from its shoulders, hanging limply at its sides. The creature was facing me directly, the dull glow of its red eyes fixed firmly on my truck.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I picked a place near Navajo country, tucked away deep in northern Arizona. The trailhead was barely a trailhead at all, just a rusted sign, half hidden in weeds, marking a path so faint it could have been mistaken for a deer track. That suited me perfectly. If it wasn't popular, I'd have real solitude, genuine peace.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I parked my old Subaru off to the side and grabbed my backpack from the back seat. It was quiet, just the faint whispering of pines in the gentle morning breeze, and for the first time in months, my shoulders felt lighter. I checked my phone out of habit. Zero bars. No surprise there, but even my GPS app flickered erratically, glitching between coordinates.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I shook my head, switched off the device completely, and slid it into a pocket. I wouldn't be needing it anyway. The hike started easy enough. The trees, tall ponderosa pines and dense green junipers, created a welcome shade against the early sun. The air was crisp, sharp with the scent of resin and earth.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
For the first half hour, my tension unwound steadily with each step, my mind clearing of the urban clutter I'd carried with me. But as I walked deeper, something subtle shifted in the air. The sounds, the birds, insects, even the wind, dropped away like someone had dialed down the volume.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Silence took over, so dense it felt oppressive, pressing against my ears until my own breathing seemed loud and alien. I forced myself onward, convinced it was just my imagination running wild. After all, the solitude was exactly why I'd come. Yet I couldn't shake the feeling of being observed, the sensation crawling up the back of my neck, prickling the skin under my collar.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
At first, I thought maybe it was an animal, something curious yet cautious, watching from a safe distance. But animals didn't produce a silence like this, a total absence of life. The further I went, the stranger things became. Twigs were scattered oddly along the sides of the trail, arranged in crude triangles, purposeful shapes that set my teeth on edge.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Further along, the bark of a few large trees was shredded, scored deep with long, parallel gouges. They looked too deliberate. too high off the ground for any animal I knew. I brushed my fingers across the wounds in the wood and felt a shiver ripple down my spine. I reached what should have been my campsite by mid-afternoon, according to the map I'd printed.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But when I got there, the clearing wasn't a clearing at all. It was dense, wild brush, a twisted tangle of roots and branches that seemed intent on denying me entry. I checked my map again, confused. The coordinates lined up perfectly, yet nothing matched what I was seeing. I sighed and decided to backtrack slightly, figuring I'd made a simple mistake.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But when I turned around, the path behind me had shifted somehow. The pines I'd just passed through had closed in tighter, forming a different route than I remembered. My pulse quickened. I could have sworn I'd come straight through those two large trees, but now, there were three, clustered too close to have allowed my passage.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
You're just tired, I whispered, the words barely audible in the thick silence. You're seeing things. I made camp anyway, clearing space among the roots and fallen pine needles. Darkness crept in quickly, far faster than I'd anticipated. The forest grew even quieter, the oppressive stillness deepening until it felt like a tangible presence around me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I shuddered uncontrollably, the crowbar slipping slightly in my damp palms. My mind raced desperately for options, but every escape seemed impossible. It began walking forward, one slow, deliberate step after another, closing the gap silently. In the flashlight beam, I saw its face clearly for the first time. Skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, pale and translucent.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I built a small fire, the flames crackling reassuringly, casting flickering shadows on the trees around me. Eventually, fatigue won out over paranoia. i crawled into my tent and zipped myself inside sleep came uneasily in fits and starts fractured by dreams filled with long-limbed shadows creeping along my tent walls then sometime after midnight i woke abruptly
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
my eyes shot open ears straining into the darkness footsteps circled outside my tent slow deliberate barefoot on dry pine needles my heart hammered painfully adrenaline sharpening my senses to an unbearable edge i lay motionless barely daring to breathe The footsteps stopped right outside the thin nylon barrier. A low sound reached me, breathing, slow and deliberate.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A soft exhale brushed the fabric of my tent, as if something on the other side were sniffing, taking in my scent. Fear coiled in my stomach, heavy and sharp. Gathering every ounce of courage, I unzipped the tent flap just enough to peer into the darkness. Shining my flashlight in a sudden burst of defiance, the beam swept over empty space. The breathing ceased instantly.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Heart-pounding, I leaned forward slightly, angling the flashlight down toward the ground. Fresh footprints stood stark against the dry soil. Elongated toes, narrow arches. Not quite human, but not entirely animal either. I jerked the flashlight beam around the clearing, sweeping it between tree trunks, but saw nothing but shadows dancing mockingly on the bark.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I retreated back inside, hands shaking violently as I zipped the tent shut. Sleep never returned. I huddled there until dawn broke, faint and cold, promising safety it couldn't possibly deliver.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
when morning came the silence remained thick and stifling as ever whatever had been outside my tent hadn't truly left it lingered in the trees watching waiting and i knew with grim certainty the forest wasn't going to let me leave not without a fight The morning sun was a sickly muted glow behind the trees, offering little warmth and even less comfort.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I staggered out of my tent, joints stiff from hours spent tense and unmoving, every muscle coiled tight from the previous night's terror. My campsite was exactly as I'd left it, but the footprints, the long, twisted impressions of bare feet, circled relentlessly, a chilling reminder of the unseen presence that stalked the shadows.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I packed up my gear hastily, eyes constantly scanning the surrounding woods. Logic screamed at me that whatever it was had to have moved on, had to have lost interest. But instinct whispered darker truths. It was still here, waiting, watching. With no clear path and nowhere else to go, I started moving downhill, hoping the small creek I'd seen yesterday would lead me to safety.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Maybe a road, or an open clearing, anything other than this claustrophobic maze of trees. But the landscape mocked my optimism. looping cruelly. The creek twisted and bent in impossible patterns, doubling back on itself until I found myself standing, breathless, exactly where I'd started hours ago. I stopped and stood still, fighting a rising wave of panic.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The silence was deafening, no wind, no rustle of leaves, no chirping birds. My breath echoed harshly, painfully loud in my own ears. Every instinct screamed that this silence was unnatural, predatory. It was then I heard it, a low, clicking sound, rhythmic and deliberate, echoing faintly from somewhere behind me. My pulse spiked, adrenaline racing. I turned slowly, eyes straining into the gloom.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The forest seemed empty, motionless, yet the clicking persisted, dry and brittle like bones being tapped together. Hello? My voice cracked, hollow and uncertain, disappearing into the oppressive silence. In response, the clicking abruptly stopped. Seconds dragged on painfully. Just as I turned back, a faint whisper broke through the stillness, carrying softly through the trees. Hello?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Its mouth hung partially open, teeth gleaming wetly in the faint light. The wings twitched slightly with each step, their veined membranes glistening. Panic clawed viciously at my chest as it approached. I raised the crowbar, heart thundering, preparing for whatever hopeless fight awaited.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My heart lurched violently. The voice, it sounded exactly like mine. The inflection, the slight uncertainty, the pitch, perfectly mimicked. I spun around, frantic, eyes darting between trees, but saw nothing but endless trunks and shadows. What the hell? I whispered, backing up slowly. This wasn't possible. Was I losing my mind already?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Another whisper drifted closer, echoing my panic again in my own voice. What the hell? I bolted. Panic surged through my limbs, driving me blindly through the underbrush. Branches tore at my skin, sharp rocks hidden beneath moss threatened to twist my ankles, but I ran until my lungs burned and vision blurred. Finally, stumbling over a fallen log, I collapsed to my knees, gasping for breath.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The forest around me seemed to close tighter, the trees looming above me like silent judges. Blood trickled down my face from a cut above my eye. I blinked away sweat and blood, scanning the shadows. My heart nearly stopped when I caught sight of it for the first time. It stood motionless among the trees, tall, emaciated, and horribly twisted.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Its body was humanoid yet wrong, elongated limbs covered in uneven patches of coarse fur and sickly pale skin. Its face was even worse. A distorted pale imitation of human features stretched awkwardly, as though wearing someone else's skin. Its eyes shone faintly, reflecting the dim sunlight like those of an animal, yet it stood erect, completely still. I froze, my throat too tight to scream.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The thing tilted its head slowly to one side, studying me. Its mouth opened slightly, revealing teeth too sharp, too numerous, packed into a jaw not meant to hold them. Slowly, deliberately, it took one step toward me. I stumbled backwards, scrambling away, eyes locked on its unnatural gait.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It moved in jerks and twitches, almost as though it was mimicking human movement from memory, poorly and grotesquely. i broke eye contact for just a second and when i looked up again the thing was closer far closer than it should have been its limbs bent at strange angles its body twisted grotesquely around a tree peering at me from behind the trunk still silently observing "'Stay back!'
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I shouted, voice trembling. It simply stared, its eyes empty of comprehension or mercy. Desperation pushed me to my feet. I grabbed a stone from the ground and hurled it toward the creature. It struck the trunk next to it with a loud crack, sending splinters flying. But the thing didn't flinch.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The creature was just a few feet away now, its skeletal fingers reaching forward, fingertips brushing against the grill of the truck. I braced myself, eyes locked onto the thing's empty red gaze. Then blinding headlights suddenly flashed behind me, slicing through the darkness, bathing everything in harsh, white light. A horn blared, loud and urgent.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It merely shifted, vanishing momentarily behind the tree trunk, emerging again closer, far too close now.' I turned and sprinted again, this time in sheer animal panic. My feet pounded the forest floor in a chaotic rhythm, my chest aching from exertion and terror.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Behind me, the forest erupted into a cacophony of horrific sounds, voices overlapping, distorted screams, animal cries merging into a terrifying chorus. Each voice was unmistakably mine, yet twisted, tortured, mocking. The creature wasn't chasing me, not exactly, it was playing, toying with its prey. Eventually, I collapsed against a broad tree trunk, gasping, dizzy with fear and exhaustion.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The voices had stopped, leaving only the oppressive silence again. I was utterly, completely alone, trapped in a nightmare from which I couldn't wake. Hours passed. Darkness began to close in again. I gathered the remains of my shattered courage and built a small, trembling fire, desperate for any source of comfort.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I sat huddled by the flickering flames, knife clenched tightly, afraid to even blink. When the voices began again, they came softly, almost soothingly, this time familiar voices from my past. My mother's gentle tone called to me from just beyond the firelight, inviting me closer, urging me to step into the darkness. My own voice echoed hers, calm, reassuring, telling me that the danger had passed.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My mind wavered, momentarily drawn toward the comforting illusion. But beneath the soft words, I heard the dry clicking return, sharper this time, closer. The illusion shattered. I gripped the knife harder, knuckles white. It was out there, watching me. Whispering lies and voices stolen from my memories, waiting patiently for me to falter, to trust, to let my guard down even for a moment.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Shivering violently despite the fire, I realized I was already losing my sanity. I needed to escape, soon, or I'd never leave these woods alive. And as the clicking drew closer, I understood with cold clarity, I was being hunted, and dawn might not come fast enough. At dawn the forest was drenched in a ghostly fog, blurring the trees into dark, looming shapes.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I hadn't slept, hadn't dared close my eyes, but the faint gray light was enough of a signal that it was time to move. My hands trembled as I hurriedly packed my gear, leaving behind everything non-essential, desperate to shed weight. The thing was out there, close, patient, waiting for the smallest slip-up. I stood at the edge of my dying fire, breathing shallow and quick.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Silence surrounded me, but it wasn't the comforting silence of solitude. It was oppressive, suffocating, waiting for something. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to run, and this time, I didn't resist. I picked a direction at random and bolted through the trees. My lungs burned immediately, legs aching with fatigue, but adrenaline pushed me forward.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The underbrush tore viciously at my skin, thorns leaving thin crimson trails along my arms and face. But I couldn't slow down. Not now. Behind me, the silence fractured. Voices erupted, layered screams interwoven with guttural animalistic growls. My own voice was loudest, echoing mockingly through the trees. Wait! Come back! Don't leave me!
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I risked a glance over my shoulder, my blood freezing at the sight. It was there, flashing between trees, moving in an impossible blur. Its elongated limbs twisted grotesquely as it sprinted, each step unnatural yet terrifyingly swift. Its eyes glowed in the dim morning light, fixed unwaveringly on me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The creature's head snapped sharply toward the new sound. In an instant, it turned, leaped upward, and vanished swiftly into the dark trees along the roadside. A large delivery truck pulled to a stop behind me, engine rumbling loudly, lights illuminating everything. I sagged back into my seat, muscles trembling from the sudden release of tension.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Terror gave way to blind panic, my feet barely touching the ground as I hurtled downhill, nearly tumbling headlong into a shallow creek bed. I scrambled to my feet, heart hammering, and froze at the sight in front of me. A deer carcass sprawled grotesquely across smooth stones. Its antlers had been brutally snapped, eyes hollowed out, mouth locked open in a permanent silent scream.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Blood still seeped slowly into the creek, staining the clear water deep red. Before I could process the horror, I felt a presence behind me, impossibly close. I whipped around, breath catching in my throat. The thing stood mere yards away, motionless, head tilted at a nauseating angle, as though curious.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It opened its mouth slowly, exposing rows of jagged teeth, lips pulling back into a grotesque mockery of a smile. Please. My voice was barely audible, a pathetic whisper. The creature took a slow step forward, its body shifting and twisting, bones cracking audibly beneath skin stretched thin and pallid. Instinct seized control, and I lunged blindly toward a fist-sized rock at my feet.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I hurled it toward the creature with all the strength I had left. It missed narrowly, smashing against a nearby tree and sending a shower of splinters through the air. The creature didn't flinch, its head merely tilted in amusement. I ran again, forcing my battered body forward. Branches whipped past me, vision blurring with tears and sweat.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Behind me, I could hear it now clearly pursuing, moving with fluid, predatory ease, whispering words stolen from my mind.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
ahead through the haze of desperation i saw something a gap in the trees open sky beyond hope surged with a final burst of strength i stumbled forward bursting suddenly into an area of burnt ground a wide blackened scar left by some past wildfire ash and charcoal crunched beneath my boots as i staggered into the open collapsing to my knees lungs screaming for air
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I twisted around frantically, expecting to see the creature bearing down on me. But it had stopped abruptly at the edge of the burnt ground, pacing restlessly, its body tense. It growled softly, frustrated, refusing to cross the threshold into the charred earth. Relief came sharp and painful, mingling with raw exhaustion.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Whatever this place was, whatever its significance, it was safe, at least momentarily. I forced myself up, following the burnt scar, eyes locked on the thing watching me silently from the shadows. I followed the scorched earth until it merged with an old, forgotten road, overgrown, barely recognizable, but unmistakably human-made. My heart leaped.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Civilization, safety, might actually exist beyond this nightmare. My legs felt like lead, but I pushed myself forward, forcing one foot in front of the other. Hours later, exhausted and half-delirious, I stumbled onto a decrepit hunting cabin, rotting wooden walls half-hidden by thick vegetation. The door swung inward easily, hinges rusted and crumbling.
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I staggered inside, collapsing onto the floor, shaking uncontrollably, and waited for whatever came next. Through a crack in the door, I glimpsed movement in the distance. It was there, standing silently at the treeline, staring, its form blurred and wavering in the shadows. Eventually, it faded back into the forest, leaving me alone.
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The truck driver climbed down, flashlight in hand, and cautiously approached my window. His expression was serious but understanding. "'You all right, man?' he called out, knocking gently on the glass. Hands shaking badly, I opened the door and stepped down onto the road. My voice cracked as I replied, "'You saw it, didn't you?' He nodded gravely, eyes scanning the dark woods warily.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
When I opened my eyes again, sunlight streamed through gaps in the cabin walls, warm and reassuring. Voices echoed outside, real human voices calling my name. My rescue had arrived. They'd been searching for days, alerted by my abandoned car and the frantic voicemail I'd managed to leave days earlier. They found me bloody, dehydrated, barely coherent.
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Days later, from the sterile comfort of a hospital bed, I tried to explain everything I'd seen. They nodded politely, spoke quietly among themselves, and attributed my ramblings to trauma and exposure. But an old Navajo nurse, tending to my wounds, looked me dead in the eye and quietly said, You wandered where people aren't meant to go. You're lucky it let you out at all.
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After recovering, I returned briefly to the trailhead, compelled by some desperate need to understand. But there was no trail, only impenetrable trees and thick brush as though the forest itself had closed like a wound behind me. A local elder stopped me before I went any further, shaking his head gravely. "'You survived once. Don't test fate twice.' I listened.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I had no intention of ever stepping into those woods again. But even now, months later, in my quiet apartment back in the city, I still hear it sometimes, soft footsteps circling outside my window late at night, quiet whispers in a voice far too much like my own.' I know now that the forest never truly let me go. It's just waiting, patiently, for me to slip back into its reach.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I talked my best friend Ethan into a spring deer-spotting trip in central Idaho. We drove north from Boise all day, the truck buzzing along empty roads rimmed with snow. By dusk we rolled into the tiny town of McCall, a single gas station and a short gravel runway sat by a frozen lake. Early the next morning, a bush pilot met us beside his battered beaver floatplane.
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He loaded our packs, rifles, and a week of beef jerky, then punched the throttle. The plane climbed over endless ridges until the forests below looked like green fur. Forty-five minutes later we dropped into Big Creek Airstrip, a narrow ribbon of dirt tucked between steep canyon walls. The pilot waved once and took off again, leaving us alone with a hard quiet that rang in my ears.
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We hiked north on a thin trail beside Monumental Creek. Patches of old snow still clung to the shady banks. After lunch, we left the path and pushed into an unnamed draw. Young lodgepole pines crowded so tight we had to twist sideways to pass. That was when I saw the first mark. A finger-thick sapling stood just inches from my face.
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Halfway up the trunk was a perfect V-shaped bite, as if someone had pressed a giant dog tooth into the bark. I glanced around. Every single sapling had the same wound. One bite, always at knee height, never more. Hundreds of trees, all scarred the same way. Wolves? Ethan guessed, but his voice sounded thin. I shrugged, pretending it made sense.
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We reached a small meadow on higher ground and set up camp. cold fog crept in as the sun slid behind dead mule ridge we roasted jerky over a tiny stove and tried to joke about our strange tooth forest but the jokes fell flat that night inside the tent i woke to a low sound drifting through the trees It wasn't wind. It wasn't an animal call.
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"'Thank you.' The woman's smile widened slightly, becoming almost forced. "'There's a little road right up here,' she continued, pointing vaguely toward the shadowy woods behind her. "'It'll take you right around the wreck. You'll get home faster that way.' Something about her overly helpful tone twisted my gut. That's very kind, I said, masking hesitation. I appreciate the warning.
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It was a humming, slow and steady, like someone singing without words. The note rose and dipped, weaving between the trees. Ethan's breath hitched in the dark. Did it just say my name? He whispered. I didn't answer because I thought I'd heard it too. My hand tightened on the rifle beside my sleeping bag.
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The humming went on for what felt like hours, then stopped so suddenly the silence made my ears ring. A single twig snapped right outside the tent. Ethan held his breath. I held mine. Nothing else moved. Somehow we fell back asleep as dawn crept in. When first light painted the tent walls orange, Ethan unzipped the door. He froze. Dude, look. All our gear had been moved.
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I've seen it before. Two years ago. Same road, same damn spot. Almost crashed my rig that night. What the hell is it? My voice was barely above a whisper. He shook his head slowly. I don't know, friend. Nobody does. But if I had to guess, it's been out here a long time. People see it occasionally, always around this stretch. Usually folks keep quiet about it. Easier that way.
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Our two rifles, the ammo belts, even the food bags were arranged in a perfect ring six feet across, circling the tent like a strange fence. Inside the ring, the dirt was swept clean. No prints, no drag marks.
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a neat row of fresh sticks lay at the edge of the ring each stick was smooth green and carried that same single tooth notch the sticks pointed east straight up the ridge ethan's face was pale this is a message he whispered I wanted to pack up and head straight back to the airstrip, but something ugly twisted in my gut.
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Anger, fear, and the need to know who, or what, thought they could toy with us. We follow the trail, I said, loading my rifle. We find whoever did this and make them stop. Ethan didn't argue. We left the tent and most of our supplies behind, shoulders tight, eyes on the first notched stick. Behind us, the fog swallowed our little camp, and the quiet woods waited for what came next.
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We stepped into the fog, following the row of notched sticks that pointed uphill. Every couple hundred steps we found another branch, the bite mark still oozing sap. The air smelled sour, like old meat left in the sun. Soon thick clouds rolled over the ridge. Sleet rattled our hoods, and the trees turned to grey shadows. I kept my rifle ready, but my hands shook with the cold.
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And with nerves I didn't want to admit. At the fifth marker, Ethan stopped. Hear that? I held my breath. A long, raspy inhale drifted through the trees, then a slow exhale, rough as sandpaper. It was beneath us, not around us. We pushed forward until Ethan's boot punched through the ground with a crack. He yelped and scrambled back.
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The mossy floor had hidden a hole bigger than a cabin, its rim marked with pale rock. Fog spilled over the edge like steam. We crept to the lip and aimed our lights. My beam hit a jumble of bones, jawbones, piled knee-high around the sinkhole. Deer, elk, bear. Some were giant double-hinged things I'd never seen in any guidebook. Each one was missing a single canine tooth. My stomach flipped.
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Who would do this? I whispered. From deep inside the pit came the breathing. Slow, labored, and wet. I shone my light down. Far below, something gray and slick shifted, as if a huge back rolled against the stone. Then my flashlight fizzed and died. I grabbed Ethan's sleeve. Run! We turned just as a thunderous scrape echoed from the hole. Bones tumbled as something heavy surged upward.
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Trees shook. I felt the ground tremble under my boots. We sprinted downslope. Sleet stung our faces and branches whipped like whips. Behind us, trunks snapped. Crack boom. Closer and closer. I risked a glance back and saw only waving trees, but the crashing sound chased us like an invisible train. A fallen log blocked the narrow saddle ahead. Ethan slipped on the wet bark and slid sideways.
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I hauled him over, my pack tore, spilling survival gear across the trail. We left it and kept running. The ridge ended in a loose rock chute. We skidded down, shoes scraping sparks, and burst onto the banks of Monumental Creek. Snowmelt water roared waist-deep, icy enough to bite. With no time to think, we splashed in. The cold stole my breath, but the crashing above us stopped.
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Whatever hunted us did not follow past the treeline. Shaking from the cold, we slogged three miles along the creek's edge until the dirt runway of Big Creek Airstrip appeared through the mist.
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a forest service pilot warming up his little plane spotted us he wrapped us in blankets shoved heat packs into our gloves and radioed the ranger station for help in the clinic in riggins that night a deputy listened to our story with raised eyebrows plenty of wolves up there he said like that explained everything But on my smashed GoPro card, one frame survived.
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We quickly checked my truck, managed to jumpstart the battery, and got it running again. He advised me to never stop along that road at night, and if possible, to avoid driving it altogether. I thanked him sincerely, grateful beyond words, and climbed back into my truck. I didn't stop again until daylight broke, reassuring and bright. At home, exhaustion overtook me.
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It shows Ethan and me asleep in our tent at dawn. Just outside the ring of rifles stands a tall, thin shadow with five long fingers. In its hand is a fresh stick, still green, still bleeding sap, ready to plant behind our heads. Ethan keeps asking if we should go back for proof. I tell him Idaho's mountains can keep their secrets.
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Every time I hear a low hum in the wind, I remember that breath from the dark, and I know I will never climb dead Mule Ridge again. I used to love the way the Colorado timber smelled at night, sharp pine, cold stone, and a hint of wood smoke that lingered even after the fire died.
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That first night near Trapper's Lake, though, every familiar scent felt layered with something sour and electric, as if the forest itself had turned uneasy. Dad picked the campsite for its quiet. We were miles from the nearest trailhead, tucked against a ragged tree line just below the timber line. No highway hum, no glow from cabins or RV lots.
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Only the lake breathing in the dark and a million tight constellations overhead. We spent the evening the way we always did, stringing up tarps, hanging food, swapping the same stories until the jokes felt fresh again.
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by the time the last ember winked out lisa was yawning sean was halfway through a bourbon mumbled anecdote and dad was already herding them toward their tent i wasn't tired not yet i claimed it was because of the altitude but the truth was simpler silence like that feels addictive I sat alone beside the fire ring until the coals grayed and the sky turned the color of blue steel.
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My watch read 1-17 when I finally crawled into my little dome a dozen strides from camp. The nylon crackled as I zipped the door shut, rolled onto my back, and listened. At first there was only wind rattling spruce branches. Steady. Polite. Predictable. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later, a new sound braided through the breeze. A deliberate inhale, wet and heavy, right at ground level.
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It traveled along the back wall of my tent, pausing, then continuing, as if whatever was outside wanted to memorize my scent. I pictured a black bear tilting its snout, testing for food, and my muscles locked so tight my knees ached against the sleeping pad foam. The sniffing drifted away, but the forest didn't relax.
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I heard a crunch by the cold fire pit, followed by a measured scrape, wood on gravel, slow, unhurried. The drag circled wide around Dad's tent, then Lisa and Sean's, and finally mine, tracing a ring through pine needles and dust. My brain spun excuses, maybe an elk rubbing antlers, maybe wind tipping a loose pole.
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Each theory collapsed when the footsteps resumed, bipedal and uneven, stopping inches from my door. The night burst white, a camera flash, close enough that my shadow jumped against the inner walls, crisp and black. I squeezed my eyes shut, disoriented, waiting for retreating steps, for any proof the photographer existed. Nothing moved. The air felt vacuumed still.
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Then the tent fabric deformed beside my hips, pushed inward by a slow, deliberate weight. Not a paw, too broad, too precise. Whoever it was settled down, exhaling a shallow breath that warmed the nylon between us. Seconds ticked until they felt like minutes. I lay paralyzed, counting heartbeats, everyone hammering louder than the wind.
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Fingers, light, almost curious, began to toy with the tent's lower seam, tugging at the corners as if testing the material. Plastic teeth clinked as the zipper pull lifted a single notch. My lungs finally rebelled. "'Hey, who's out there?' The shout cracked in my throat but shattered the silence like a rifle shot. For a heartbeat, everything stayed frozen. Then Dad's voice cut through the dark.
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But before sleep came, I scrubbed the front of the truck clean, washing away the marks, the dirt, and the reminders of the encounter. Satisfied, I collapsed into bed, falling instantly into a restless sleep. But when I woke later that afternoon, I noticed something from my bedroom window, something that sent a chill crawling slowly up my spine.
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"'Caleb, you okay?' A zipper rasped, boot soles thudded across the clearing, and a flashlight beam lanced between the trees. The pressure vanished." No rustle, no scramble, just gone. I fumbled for my own zipper, tumbled out into the flashlight's glare, and nearly collided with Dad's outstretched arm.
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Behind him, Lisa and Sean blinked in their tent doorway, half-awake, while their border collie watched us with bored eyes, tail thumping lazily. We searched, under logs, behind boulders, up every faint game trail, finding only star-silvered trunks and our own overlapping prints. No claw marks, no boot tracks, not even the branch I'd been certain I heard dragging.
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After an hour, Dad convinced me nothing else would happen tonight. I agreed, but my body refused the tent. I unrolled my sleeping bag in the truck bed, locked the canopy, and lay staring through the window until the eastern ridgeline bled gray. Somewhere beyond the glass, the forest kept its secrets, and I tried to pretend I hadn't just felt it breathe against my skin.
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I did not sleep so much as hover, half awake in the truck bed, eyes fixed on the treetops that fenced the sky. Now and then, the wind shouldered a branch and my heart jerked. Sure, I would see that blinding white flash again. Sure, a stranger's face would be staring through the glass. Dawn finally diluted the stars, painting the ridgeline gray.
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Dad rapped on the canopy, coffee steaming in one hand, flashlight in the other. We walked the site before breakfast, toes chafing cold inside our boots. The ring of disturbed soil I'd imagined around the tents was real, a faint groove arcing through pine needles and gravel, wide enough for a walking stick, yet we never found the branch that made it.
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Beside my flattened tent wall lay two perfect depressions, like someone had knelt there, one knee, then the other, leaving prints too shallow to keep their shape. Lisa tried to laugh the fear off, saying coyotes sometimes nose tense, but she kept glancing at the shadowed timberline as if expecting shutters to close behind the trees.
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Sean poured bourbon into his mug instead of creamer and whistled for the dog. She ignored him and pressed against Lisa's calf. I rolled my bag back into the truck, telling everyone I preferred the pad's firmness, but Dad knew. He only nodded and double-checked the lock on the tailgate. The day passed in forced normalcy.
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We fished below the outlet dam, hauled in two brookies, and pretended the world was simple again. Yet even the lake felt weird, too glassy, as though the water was too still. On the hike back, I spotted a single boot print in a patch of damp soil along the stream. Smaller than mine, heel bisected by a smooth crack the way older vibram soles split. No one else saw it, and I did not point it out.
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That night, the fire burned longer. Flames chased the dark to the edge of camp, but I still heard the forest thinking. Every so often, Lisa's collie would lift her head, ears swiveling. Then, nothing. No bark, no growl, just a puzzled whine as if she smelled a sound her brain refused to translate. We waited until midnight and doused the coals together. Dad offered his truck bed. I accepted.
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Faint but unmistakable, pressed deeply into the metal itself, were the outlines of those massive, veined wings. No matter how hard I scrubbed, the imprints remained. I never drove Route 322 again, eventually switching to daytime routes through busier towns.
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He shut the canopy from outside, gave it a firm shake, and said, "'Wake me if anything changes.' His voice told me he didn't expect rest himself. Hours crawled. Spruce needles clicked against the aluminum shell, a harmless but relentless reminder that skin-thin walls separated me from everything beyond." Once, maybe two in the morning, the dog yipped twice, sharp and confused.
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Footsteps followed, dads, crunching toward the tree line and back. He did not wake me after. Morning opened clear and cruelly bright. We decided to leave a day early, nobody argued. While Sean collapsed his tent, I coiled the guy lines from mine. I had shaken out most of the dust when something white flipped over near the roots of a fir, a Polaroid, edges wavering like wet bark.
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I picked it up carefully, thumb gripping only a corner. The image was dark but distinct. Our three tents framed by trees, moonlight catching the silvery rain fly on mine. The camera angle came from inside the woods, 30 or 40 yards back, telephoto close. A smudge of red digits stamped the bottom, 1.43 a.m. My breath stuttered. That was when I had been frozen, listening to the zipper rasp.
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i turned the photo over ink had bled in the damp but the shapes were clear enough a round smiley face wide eyes and beneath it three neat words that looked freshly written i see you for a moment i could not hear anything but my pulse Dad's voice finally tunneled through, asking if I found a stake. I slipped the Polaroid into a zip pocket and walked it over instead. Sean and Lisa crowded close.
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The collie tucked her tail. We threw camp into the truck bed with none of yesterday's tidy folding. On the drive down the switchbacks, Lisa kept checking the side mirror. Sean clicked off the safety on the pistol Dad kept between the seats. No one spoke until the ranger station. The ranger studied the photo, logged our coordinates, and promised a patrol would hike in. Probably a prank, she said.
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Yet her knuckles whitened when she handed the picture back inside a plastic evidence sleeve. Home was ten hours of asphalt away. I stared out the window and tried not to blink, afraid the next flash I saw would not be lightning or sun on chrome, but the same cold burst of white, the one that turned my tent into a photograph from inside the dark. I sold that tent two days later.
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The buyer asked why I was giving up a good model so cheap. I told him backcountry knights had lost their magic for me. He laughed and said the woods were the only place he ever felt safe. I hope he never camps near Timberline. I never imagined that our anniversary trip would lead us somewhere so terrifying.
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But some nights, even far from that road, when everything was silent and still, I would hear heavy wings beating somewhere high above, passing overhead quietly, hidden by darkness. It was just past 11 at night, and I was driving home alone from a friend's house in Chester Township. My hands gripped the wheel tightly, my knuckles pale beneath the faint green dashboard lights.
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My husband Jacob and I had always been drawn to forgotten places, abandoned cemeteries, ghost towns, and trails that barely existed anymore. That's exactly why we chose Cherokee, North Carolina for our first wedding anniversary getaway. The idea was to explore the quieter side of the Smokies, away from tourist-packed trails and souvenir shops.
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For a week now, we'd been comfortably tucked away in our camper near the Oconaluftee River, adventuring out daily and coming back tired but happy. On our last full day, we planned to visit a place we'd found online called Connor Cemetery.
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It wasn't on any official maps, and the few scattered references we found online described it as hidden near Couch's Creek, roughly two miles from the visitor center. I had scribbled vague directions from half-abandoned message boards into my notebook, excited by the mystery of it all. Jacob laughed at my obsession with documenting everything, but he understood.
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It was part of our shared excitement, the thrill of exploring forgotten places. We pulled off at an unmarked shoulder along Newfound Gap Road. The forest rose darkly around us, thick and heavy with old-growth trees. It felt untouched, forgotten. I led the way, scanning the ground carefully for snakes, holes, anything we might step on. Jacob walked behind, quieter than usual.
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The forest felt strangely silent as we left the pavement behind. There were no birds, no rustling leaves, just the faint crunching sound of our footsteps. After about 15 minutes, the path became narrower, and the woods closed in, branches scraping softly against our shoulders as we passed. The air grew strangely warm, almost stifling.
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I found myself glancing back at Jacob more than usual, catching his eyes as he quietly looked around. Something felt different here, heavier somehow. He must have felt it too, but neither of us said anything. We had walked a little further when Jacob suddenly stopped behind me. I turned to face him, ready to ask what was wrong, when he quietly whispered, Babe, look at that statue.
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My gaze instinctively moved toward the direction of his pointing finger, half expecting to see an old weathered angel, the kind you'd see in forgotten cemeteries. But instead, what loomed between the distant trees sent a sudden chill down my spine. Standing silently, disturbingly still, was a strange figure about 15 feet tall, partially concealed by dark trees and thick foliage.
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At first it looked like a statue, maybe some strange local art. But the longer I stared, the more I realized it didn't resemble anything artistic. Its limbs were thin and unnaturally long, covered in what appeared to be tight, leathery skin stretched taut over a framework of bones or wood. It had a form vaguely deer-like but twisted horribly out of proportion. Its face made my skin crawl.
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The skull looked malformed, blending features of a deer and camel, lacking a proper snout. Instead, the mouth hung slightly open, and its eyes were large, glassy, and disturbingly reflective. catching what little sunlight broke through the trees. It didn't move, but there was a terrifying realism to it, as though it might suddenly step forward. "'What the hell is that?'
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Jacob whispered again, voice barely audible, tense with fear. "'I don't know,' I breathed, unable to look away. Then, ever so subtly, the thing moved. Its right ear, grotesquely elongated, slowly rotated." A full circle, smooth and unnatural, as though listening carefully in every direction. A faint clicking sound drifted through the silence as it turned, an almost mechanical noise.
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My stomach tightened into knots. Jacob took a shaky breath beside me. It blinked, Emma, he said quietly, his voice breaking slightly with disbelief and dread. The damn thing blinked. My heartbeat quickened painfully. A sudden wave of nausea hitting me. I hadn't seen the blink, but I didn't doubt Jacob. Nothing about this felt right.
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Without needing words, we both took a cautious step backward, then another, never daring to turn our backs completely. The forest remained unnaturally still as we retreated. Every rustle beneath our feet amplified in the oppressive silence. I felt as though something watched us. No, something definitely watched us.
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It felt like eyes boring into the back of my neck, cold and inhuman, following our every step. When our feet finally hit the solid pavement of the road again, Sounds seemed to rush back into the world. The distant rush of cars, birdsong, wind rustling leaves overhead. As if we had exited a bubble, leaving behind something ancient and wrong.
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Back at our camper, Jacob didn't say a word for almost an hour, staring blankly at the floor. I felt shaken, unable to process what we'd just encountered. My hands trembled as I tried searching for answers online, but there was nothing, no folklore, no reports, no obscure artist claiming responsibility. It was as though the place, and whatever we'd seen, didn't exist at all.
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I'd had my driver's license for barely three weeks, and I still wasn't completely comfortable behind the wheel, especially at night. The road stretched endlessly in front of me, Mayfield Road, as the signs marked it, curving through dense forests that pressed in on either side. The fog rolled in heavier than usual, smothering everything beyond my headlights. I wasn't playing music.
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That night, lying awake in the camper, I stared into darkness, terrified of sleep. Jacob tossed restlessly beside me, murmuring softly under his breath, his dreams clearly troubled. When sleep finally came, I found myself alone on that same narrow trail. It was dark, colder now, the path harder to follow.
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Behind me, just out of sight, I heard the soft, clicking sound of something slowly rotating in the darkness. Listening. Waiting. Watching. The morning sunlight filtered weakly through the thin curtains of our camper, bathing everything in a strange grayish glow.
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Neither Jacob nor I had slept much after yesterday's encounter, and the little rest we managed was interrupted by unsettling dreams and the constant sensation of being watched. We sat quietly at the small kitchenette table, sipping lukewarm coffee, neither of us ready to talk about what we'd experienced. Eventually, Jacob broke the heavy silence.
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We can't be the only people who've ever seen it, he said quietly, staring into his mug. Someone local must know something. I nodded, remembering the little Native American bookstore we'd visited earlier in the week, run by an older Cherokee woman named Louise. She'd been friendly, knowledgeable about the region, and had encouraged us to visit lesser-known spots.
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I hoped she'd have answers, or at least a clue. The drive into town felt longer than before, every turn along the winding roads making me jumpy. Trees pressed close to the road casting flickering shadows that danced across the windshield, reminding me too much of that twisted figure in the woods.
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The small bell above the shop door jingled softly as we stepped inside, the air thick with the comforting aroma of old books and incense. Louise greeted us warmly, but the smile quickly faded from her face when she saw our expressions. What happened? she asked gently, concern deepening the lines around her eyes. As calmly as we could, Jacob and I described everything.
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Finding the trail, the silence, the disturbing figure, its impossible proportions, its unnatural movements. Louise's expression shifted from curiosity to something more guarded as we spoke, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. She remained silent for several seconds after we'd finished, studying us carefully.
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Then without a word, she moved to the front door, flipping the open sign to closed, locking the door behind her. "'Come with me,' she said, her voice quiet and firm. She led us into a back room filled with shelves of older, more fragile books, artifacts, and handmade crafts. Sitting us down at a worn wooden table, she took a deep breath, as though considering her words carefully.
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"'You've stumbled onto something that most people here don't talk about openly,' she began slowly." there are old things in these mountains things that existed long before people arrived spirits watchers beings whose names were never meant to be spoken aloud a chill prickled the back of my neck and jacob shifted nervously in his chair what you saw it's known but rarely talked about she continued
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My grandmother warned me about them when I was a child. She called them guardians or watchers, ancient spirits tied to the land. They reveal themselves only when they choose to. What does it want? Jacob asked softly, his voice strained. Louise shook her head slightly, her eyes sad but resolute. It could be a warning, it could be a test, or it could be hunting.
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The last word lingered ominously in the air, heavy and inescapable. I swallowed hard, my throat dry. What do we do now? Her eyes fixed intensely on mine. Leave. Forget you saw it. And whatever you do, don't go back. These beings, they're like hooks. The more attention you pay them, the deeper they dig into you. But even as Louise spoke, I felt something inside me resist her advice.
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My phone stayed silent in my jacket pocket, because every turn, every shadow felt demanding of my full attention. I knew these winding roads could hide anything, especially wildlife that darted out unexpectedly. A slight drizzle blurred my windshield, my wipers barely keeping pace with the weather. The world felt enclosed, reduced to just a few feet of asphalt illuminated by my headlights.
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A quiet voice whispered that I needed to go back, needed proof, something tangible to ground me in reality. Beside me, Jacob's restless fingers tapped anxiously on the table. I wondered if he felt the same inexplicable draw. We thanked Louise quietly, promising we'd consider her words carefully. As we left, she caught my arm gently, looking directly into my eyes. "'Emma, Jacob, please be careful,'
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Sometimes, the more you search, the harder it becomes to escape. Back at the camper, the sun began to set, washing the trees in shades of deep orange and purple. Jacob stared distractedly at nothing, clearly still unsettled by Louise's words. The sense of unease had only deepened rather than faded. As darkness settled around us, the oppressive quiet of the night grew heavier.
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Jacob paced nervously, checking and rechecking the door locks. I found myself staring out the camper window, watching shadows creep slowly through the trees. Something felt very wrong about tonight. The silence wasn't peaceful. It felt like it was waiting, holding its breath. Then the tapping began.
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At first I thought it was branches brushing against the camper's metal siding, but quickly realized it was too rhythmic, too deliberate. Tap, tap, tap. A slow, patient sound. Jacob froze mid-step, eyes wide. "'Did you hear that?' he whispered. Before I could answer, the tapping shifted around the camper, methodically moving from window to window."
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Whatever it was circled us slowly, as though testing for weaknesses. Neither of us dared to move. After several minutes, the tapping stopped. For a brief moment, relief flooded through me, until Jacob cautiously opened the door, flashlight shaking in his grip, and stepped outside. "'Jacob!' I hissed, following him anxiously.
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He stopped abruptly, flashlight beam trembling as it illuminated the ground outside our camper. Clearly visible in the soft earth were prints. Small, deep, hoofed tracks. But they weren't animal tracks. Not completely.' They looked like they'd been made by something standing upright, like a human with hooves. My breath caught painfully in my throat.
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Jacob pointed the flashlight upwards slowly, illuminating the side of the camper. There, caught in the window screen, was a tangled clump of coarse gray hair. My chest tightened painfully. It's been here. Jacob nodded silently, face pale. He took my hand firmly, guiding me back into the camper.
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We locked the door securely, though it suddenly seemed painfully inadequate against whatever lurked outside. We sat awake the rest of the night, every noise amplified by our fear. At some point, Jacob whispered to me about a dream he'd had, how he'd been walking through the forest behind the creature.
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following obediently feeling strangely calm almost safe the sky began to lighten and as dawn approached i knew we'd both made our decision despite every warning despite louise's plea we would return to those woods Something inside us was already pulling us back, hooked deeply, inescapably. And I knew, with absolute certainty, whatever had found us wasn't done with us yet.
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I couldn't shake the dread that gripped me as we parked once more by the unmarked pull-off along Newfound Gap Road. The air felt heavier this morning, oppressive, thick with humidity and something else, something darker and more sinister. Jacob hesitated beside me, his hand gripping the revolver tightly. We had come prepared, carrying bear spray, knives, a borrowed gun, and my digital camera.
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Yet none of it felt reassuring anymore. The trailhead was harder to find this time, as though the forest itself had shifted overnight, branches now blocking the entrance more aggressively. Leaves brushed coldly against my face as we stepped onto the hidden path. Immediately, that unnatural silence descended again, pressing around us.
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As I approached a tight curve near Gates Mills, my heart jolted as a large dark object appeared suddenly in front of me. i slammed the brakes the tires screeching on wet pavement my pulse thundered in my ears as the car shuddered to a stop inches away from a massive tree log sprawled across both lanes i sat there a moment breathing shakily adrenaline flooding my veins
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The comforting noises of birds and wind vanished, replaced by the faint sound of our own breathing, tense and strained. Every step forward felt forced. Jacob's hand trembled slightly as he moved branches aside, clearing the path ahead. After a short distance, he stopped abruptly, pointing to the ground. My stomach dropped as I noticed fresh marks scarring the forest floor.
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Long drag marks, as if something large and heavy had recently been pulled through the underbrush. They moved it, Jacob murmured, his voice unsteady. He didn't say who they were, but I understood. This wasn't random. It felt intentional, deliberate. I raised my camera, snapping quick pictures, desperate for some tangible proof.
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The camera's shutter sounded unnaturally loud in the silence, a mechanical click-click-click that echoed between the trees. After a few photos, I glanced at the screen. My heart stuttered. The images were distorted, corrupted, blurred beyond recognition, like something didn't want to be seen. A few steps further, we came to a clearing ringed by towering, twisted trees.
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Something immediately felt wrong here. My gaze dropped to the ground and I froze in horror. Arranged in a perfect circle on the leaf-covered earth were dozens of dead birds. Robins, crows, sparrows, all facing inward. Wings neatly folded, eyes carefully removed, empty sockets staring blankly upwards. No flies buzzed, no ants crawled, as if nature itself refused to touch whatever had happened here.
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Oh my god. Jacob breathed, stepping back. I lifted my camera again, forcing myself to document it. But the second I pressed the button, the battery symbol flashed red, and the screen flickered dark. The camera was dead. "'Emma,' Jacob whispered urgently, gripping my arm painfully. "'We need to go, now!'
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I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could speak, a soft, sickeningly familiar clicking sound reached my ears. It was slow, rhythmic." the gentle rotation of something terrible behind us we turned simultaneously dread flooding me as i recognized the shape hidden just beyond the ring of trees the creature stood perfectly still watching us with those wide reflective eyes
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Sunlight filtered through branches, highlighting its grotesque features clearly. The stretched skin, the two long limbs, that horrific face without a snout. It blinked once, deliberately. Jacob raised the revolver, but his hand shook violently, unable to steady it. His breathing grew erratic, shallow. I grabbed his arm, terrified. Jacob, snap out of it, I pleaded desperately.
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but his gaze was locked, unfocused, pupils wide, transfixed on the creature. His arm dropped limply to his side, the revolver useless in his grip. "'Jacob!' I shouted, voice breaking, shaking him roughly. His eyes snapped back into clarity, and he gasped, stumbling backward." "'Run!' I screamed, grabbing his wrist and pulling him away from the clearing.
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Behind us, the clicking sound grew louder, faster, as the thing began moving closer, weaving silently between the trees. We ran, crashing blindly through thick underbrush. Branches whipped painfully against my face, leaves tangled in my hair. Suddenly, my foot caught on a hidden root, and I fell hard, tumbling down a short slope." Pain shot through my ankle, my vision blurring momentarily.
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I rolled onto my back, heart pounding, eyes darting wildly upward. At the ridge above, the creature stood silently, watching. It tilted its head slightly, ear rotating slowly, deliberately, as if listening to my rapid, panicked breathing. Its empty gaze held mine for what felt like an eternity. It didn't move closer. It merely observed, curious. "'Emma!'
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My headlights lit up the rough bark of the log, and as I squinted through the windshield, something about it looked strangely deliberate, carefully placed, not fallen. It was too neat, too symmetrical. My stomach twisted into knots. For a brief second, I debated calling someone, maybe my dad or roadside assistance, but embarrassment took hold. It was just a log. I could handle it.
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Jacob shouted from somewhere ahead, panic thick in his voice. I struggled to my feet, adrenaline numbing the throbbing pain, scrambling upwards toward his voice. We burst through the brush onto the paved road, collapsing together, gasping for breath, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Neither of us spoke as we drove frantically away, the forest looming ominously in the rearview mirror.
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We went straight to the visitor center, desperate to report what we'd seen. But the park ranger behind the counter listened skeptically, gently informing us there was no record of a Connor Cemetery anywhere near Couch's Creek, and no one had reported anything like what we described. He smiled politely, suggesting we might be mistaken.
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Numb and exhausted, we returned to the bookstore, hoping Louise could help make sense of it. But the shop stood dark and empty, a small for lease sign taped to the inside of the locked window. Louise was gone, and the comforting familiarity of her presence was now just a memory.
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we drove home in stunned silence barely sleeping in the days that followed haunted by nightmares unexplained tapping sounds and the constant feeling of being watched life settled into a strange new normal shadowed by what we'd encountered nearly a month passed before my phone buzzed suddenly one afternoon alerting me to a notification from my cloud storage my chest tightened as i opened it breathing shallow hands trembling
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One of the corrupted photos from the woods had mysteriously repaired itself. I stared at the image in horror. The circle of birds lay clearly visible, grotesque and unnatural. But worse was the figure in the shadows behind them. The creature stood partially hidden, its horrific face illuminated in perfect clarity, staring directly into the camera. I knew deep down it hadn't let us go.
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It was only waiting, still watching, still listening, somewhere just beyond sight. Ozarks were supposed to feel familiar. Same limestone ridges I'd hiked as a kid, same cedar-scented humidity, but stepping onto Wolf Creek Trail with Sage that Monday afternoon had the weight of crossing a border.
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Behind us, the ranger's gravel road hissed shut and ahead the forest gathered itself in a rough circle of trunks, as if checking our passports before it let us in. I shifted the dry bag of acoustic loggers on my back, caught Sage's grin, and we started down the leaf-choked path toward base camp. We worked in easy silence until sunset. My thesis depended on capturing the Ozarks' subaudible life.
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The moaning limestone, owl wingbeats, bats so high-pitched they sounded like camera flashes. Every kilometer we strapped a recorder to a trunk, synced the clocks, and marked GPS. Sage hummed to herself while she tightened straps, her ponytail flicking black against the orange evening glare.
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She was better at fieldwork than most professors I knew, steady, precise, quick to laugh even when mosquitoes clouded our faces. We pitched camp beside a shallow bend of Wolf Creek just after nine. The cedar needles under the tent smelled like pencil shavings. Sage rigged the bear hang. I logged the metadata. Normal. Rhythmic. Safe. At 9.57 p.m., the forest was still chirping. Katie dids.
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Bullfrogs. One distant coyote. At 9.59, the sound bed thinned, the way a crowded cafeteria drops to a hush when a teacher steps in. And on the exact stroke of ten, the world punched us in the chest. I didn't hear the boom so much as feel it. The air turned solid, my ribs buzzing like struck tuning forks. The tent poles flexed. My enamel clicked.
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One low, perfect note that must have sat down in the 40 hertz basement, too deep for earbuds, too big for explanation. Then it vanished. The creek kept sliding past rocks, but everything else fell mute. The insects, the frogs, even the breeze in the tops of walnuts simply paused. Sage met my stare through the half-zipped mesh. "'Did you get that timestamp?' she whispered.
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I'd started hitting the gym recently, and even though I wasn't the strongest guy around, it seemed manageable. Maybe I was overreacting. So, with an uneasy sigh, I pulled on my hood and stepped out of the car, immediately assaulted by cold rain. As I approached the log, headlights appeared in my peripheral vision. Another car was slowly creeping up behind mine.
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I nodded, throat too tight to answer. Morning brought sunlight, and sunlight apologized for everything. Birds chatted over the creek. Sage cued the recorder's waveform. One massive spike, then a flatline, as if the boom had scared the data itself." Maybe an old quarry blast, she said, though neither of us could name a quarry this deep in the hardwoods.
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At midday, we met a bowhunter stomping downhill with a dressed doe. Sweat darkened his camo. His eyes looked older than his face. He asked what two grad students were doing so far from trailheads. When Sage explained, his jaw muscles twitched. Woods cough at dark, he muttered. If you value your tongue, stay zipped. I laughed before I meant to. He didn't.
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My brother didn't listen, he added, adjusting his grip on the dough. All they found was a pile of teeth the size of dimes. He walked on, leaving the smell of iron and sage. That night, the boom returned, ten sharp.
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same visceral quake same dead silence afterward but i lay awake cataloguing differences the whip poor wills cut off mid-note and somewhere a squirrel kitched once and was slapped quiet like a microphone being yanked at ten twelve the sounds trickled back nervous and out of sync I slept with one boot on. We repeated the ritual Tuesday and Wednesday.
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Anchor a new string of loggers, eat ramen, count mosquitoes, wait. Each day was ordinary, each night unfathomable. On Wednesday we noticed sap bleeding down a cluster of shortleaf pines. Fresh amber threads strung across the bark. I touched one. It smelled like hamburger left in July sun. Trees are sick, Sage murmured.
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We hiked another half kilometer and found deer tracks outside the second recorder, deep facing camp. Beside them, identical tracks pointed the opposite way, as if the deer had walked backward without turning. By Thursday dusk, my notepad read like folklore. Three nights, three booms, three perfect timestamps.
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We were arguing whether to hike out and show the park superintendent or to gather two more data points first. The science in me itched for a pattern. The mammal in me begged to quit. We boiled rice noodles early, zipped the tent, and waited. At 9.45, wind combed through the cedars. At 9.55, even the creek hushed like it feared an exam question. 10 o'clock came, and nothing.
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My watch ticked past the minute. Sage exhaled, maybe in relief, maybe in disappointment. The second hand hit 22 seconds. Something exhaled behind the tarp. It wasn't the violent pressure of the boom. It was gentler, moist, the way a draft sneaks in when a freezer door cracks. Nylon billowed inward, cold breath against my knee. Sage's silhouette froze.
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She lifted the knife we use to open freeze-dried meals, its blade suddenly pathetic. I heard joints creak outside, a long stretch of wood or bone, followed by the expert silence predators wear like cloaks. My heartbeat thudded, too loud, far too loud. The forest had learned to hold its breath, only our bodies hadn't caught the lesson.
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I counted to thirty in the dark, praying my pulse wouldn't betray us. Praying the bow hunter's warning was folklore. Praying the thing outside cared less about tongues than it did about coward scientists who lacked one. The nylon fluttered once more, like a sigh of disgust. Then nothing. Still nothing. We stayed motionless until dawn turned the mesh pale gray and thrushes dared to sing again.
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Its beams pierced the fog, and it rolled to a stop about 20 feet away. I squinted. shielding my eyes from the glare, unable to make out who was behind the wheel. Then, abruptly, the car started flashing its high beams repeatedly, honking its horn. The sudden chaotic noise startled me, making my breath hitch. Confusion turned to anxiety as the honking persisted, insistent and aggressive.
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When we crawled out, the muddy soil behind the tent showed no paw prints or hooves, yet the resin-stinking sap had thickened, painting bruises across the pine trunks. Sage looked at me, eyes rimmed red. "'One more night,' she said, voice raw. "'Then we find out what's breathing at us.' I nodded, though every nerve begged to run.
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Above us, the cedars clicked, shedding a single cone that shattered on rock like an unspoken promise." Sage woke me with a shove at first light. She had already loaded her GPS data into the tablet and overlaid last night's waveform spikes. The three biggest signals fanned outward from camp like spokes. They meet on the ridge, she whispered, eyes too bright for someone who hadn't slept.
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I drank instant coffee that tasted of cedar dust and dread, then helped break camp. Every pot clink, every zipper rasp sounded obscene in the hush. We followed the cord in its uphill. Wolf Creek narrowed to a thread, its banks stitched with ice plant and poison ivy. Halfway up, my phone buzzed a lost signal chime even though I'd set it to airplane mode hours ago.
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Sage's compass spun twice, reoriented north, then froze. We both pretended that was normal. By noon, we breasted a saddle thick with cedar old enough to have quilted bark. The air changed, cooler, densely still, like the atmosphere in a sealed library.
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Where moss and liverwort should have carpeted the ground, there was only naked rock and a sprinkling of pale wood shavings, as if someone whittled invisibly between the trees. Even the gnats had abandoned the place. The glade's center lay under a ragged tarp camouflaged in leaf litter.
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Kneeling beside it, Sage peeled back layers, first a net of chicken wire, then damp burlap that smelled of urine and burnt hair. Underneath crouched three pressure plates fashioned from truckleaf springs. Thick wires ran to a plywood coffin sunk flush with the soil. Someone had welded a sub-bass speaker inside a steel drum, pointing its mouth straight at the sky.
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I reached to disconnect a lead, but my hand stopped of its own accord. A ring of bones encircled the pit. Seven deer sprawled like compass points. Each neck snapped backward so hard the vertebrae poked through hide. Their tongues were gone. Roots scooped clean. Black flies orbited above the bodies, yet none dared land on the flesh. The smell wasn't rot.
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It was ammonia, copper, and sap, hot as asphalt. Sage gagged but kept filming. Someone's using the boom to mask butchery, she rasped. Probably hauls meth gear in after each blast. I wanted to believe her, but no cartel arranged carcasses like ritual signage. I pulled the data cards from the seismic plates. They were warm, as if the circuits had hearts.
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For the briefest moment, her eyes hardened, an icy glint replacing the forced warmth. Then, almost immediately, she returned to her too friendly demeanor. Just trying to help. Drive safely. They pulled away slowly, gravel crunching softly beneath their tires. My breath came shakily as their taillights vanished down the road, leaving me sitting in unnerving silence.
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At 2152, just eight minutes early, the buried resonator discharged an unprogrammed pulse. A concussive, bottom-of-the-ocean growl that rippled up through bone and treetop alike. The cedar canopy shivered, shed handfuls of brown needles, and then the world exhaled everything living. No insects, no birds. Even our breath sounded like cannon fire in the vacuum.
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Sage's eyes went wide, reflecting nothing but me, and then something moved beyond her shoulder. It stepped between trunks, as though bones hinged backward. Eight, maybe nine feet tall, shoulders narrow but too high, limbs dangling to mid-shin. Velvetless antlers swept the branches, gouging crescents into the bark. The torso seemed stretched, ribs pressing against hide in a faint sickle-white glow.
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It had no face, only a sunken oval where features should be. as if skin had melted and held the shape of an absent skull. The creature paused, inhaled, and the air rushed toward it like water down a drain. I felt pressure tug at my teeth. Sage's boot scraped slate. The thing turned, tracking the sound as though vision were irrelevant. Its jawline split.
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revealing a grin of teeth too small and too many, like someone had glued a necklace of infant incisors to its gums. Sage bolted, and the creature followed the noise, gliding more than walking. I tore after her, smashing through brush, but every broken twig I left behind served as a flare. Twice the monster veered toward me. only to veer off when Sage snapped another branch ahead.
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"'What the hell?' I muttered, half angry, half scared. "'Maybe they thought I was blocking the road intentionally.' My pulse quickened as panic began to claw at my throat. I wasn't used to confrontations, especially not out here in the middle of nowhere. Quickly abandoning the idea of moving the log, I sprinted back toward my car, fumbling for the door handle as rain pelted my face.
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We reached Wolf Creek and leapt in, water numbing calves even in June heat. Sound changed in the current, dulling footfalls, and for a moment the forest behind stayed empty. Then hoofprints appeared on the muddy bank, deep twin slots, splayed and impossibly long.
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As I watched, the rear edge of each track softened, widened, and spread into five human-like fingers that pressed into the mud, nails first. The prints followed us downstream, always just closing the gap. Sage spotted a downed cottonwood bridging the water and scrambled onto it. I followed, the log slick beneath my palms.
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Halfway across, the boom re-triggered, this time right beside us, a physical punch that rattled bark loose and sent Sage's recorder tumbling into the creek. She shrieked. The antlers reared on the near shore, head cocked, nostrils flaring as though scent alone could paint us. I screamed back, pure reflex, ripping the silence apart.
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The creature vaulted onto the cottonwood, bark exploding under clawed grip. But the log shifted, rolled, and the giant plunged into the torrent with a hiss like steam hitting iron. Water erupted black around it, and for once its silhouette made noise, thrashing, thrumming. We sprinted, drenched and shaking, until we collapsed behind a sandstone ledge.
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twilight bled through the canopy fireflies dared to spark our clothes dripped echoing like hammers in the returning quiet we listened counting each breath double time but the creek now babbled over its own voice masking everything By pure luck we found a flat patch above the floodline. Sage set up the tent with trembling hands.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I looped the spare recorder's mic outside, hoping data might explain nightmare. Darkness fell thick as ink. The night chorus resumed by inches, one cricket, then two, then a chorus that almost sounded brave. We waited for 10 o'clock, but the boom never came. At 11.30, while Sage dozed, a wet, rhythmic crunch drifted through the nylon. Soft, like someone chewing unripe fruit.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My recorder's red LED blinked with each sound wave. Closer, closer. i lay flat holding my tongue against my teeth so it couldn't rattle the chewing paused a breath hovered at the mesh deep satisfied savoring the dark it owned the recorder captured it all until the batteries died at midnight The recorder quit just after midnight, but the memory card held 38 minutes of terror.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Chewing that slipped into wet slurps, a breath so close it vibrated the diaphragm, and one soft click of teeth the way someone might tap a counterbell to announce they were ready to be served. By dawn, Sage and I had listened to the file twice. shoulders touching as if proximity alone could mute the dread. That's when we heard the pattern.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Each time one of us whispered, the creature paused, as though deciding whether the tiny sound was worth the effort. It hunted the loudest thing in reach. While the cicadas warmed in the sun, we rewired our last working recorder. I loaded its memory with owl hoots, coyote choruses, even the sub-bass boom itself. The speaker was puny next to the buried resonator, but it might buy seconds.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
We packed light. Batteries. Thermos. A single seismic plate pried loose from the pit and wired with a manual trigger. If everything failed, the plate would drop hard enough to unleash a real boom. Maybe stun the monster. Maybe break the ridge above us. Maybe both.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The second my door slammed shut, I punched the accelerator, tires slipping on wet asphalt before gripping. The mysterious vehicle behind me lurched forward, matching my speed, high beams still flooding my mirrors and blinding me intermittently. Every few seconds the horn blared, echoing through the trees.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
at half past nine we left the creek and took the service grade that twisted north toward the trailhead sky showed a coin of new moon pale as bone dust every step felt amplified drum loud in the hush so we timed our footfalls with the recorder's playback Sage carried the speaker against her chest. I gripped the seismic plate like a shield.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Twenty minutes later, the woods inhaled, swallowing its own chorus. A spike of silence so sudden my ears rang. In that gap, a branch cracked behind us, farther uphill than any deer would tread, and the smell of freezer-burned blood drifted on wind that had no temperature. Sage thumbed the play button. Screeching owls lashed the treetops.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The wendigo erupted from the dark, antlers cleaving air, but it twisted toward the counterfeit racket instead of us. We ran. The speaker's batteries bled fast. Each new call dulled, pitch-warping, like a tape chewed in hungry gears. The creature adjusted every time the volume dipped, locking onto the real noise of our boots.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
i felt it close air thinning tongue tasting copper and i yanked sage off the two track into a shoot of blackjack oaks she jacked the volume to max flooded the brush with distorted bobcat screams something huge barreled past the opening we'd just exited shaking acorns loose We broke from the trees onto the limestone shelf above Wolf Creek Gorge, only half a mile to ranger country.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But the recorder stuttered, went silent, batteries bled dry. The night snapped shut around us like a camera shutter. Behind, dry leaves rustled in cadence. Step, drag, inhale. Step, drag, inhale. I grabbed Sage's wrist and sprinted along the rim. The wendigo followed without haste, letting the gravel under our soles do its work. I could hear its fingers.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Or were they hooves now, testing the path for better purchase? It had all eternity. We had lungs already tearing. Lights winked through the trees, headlamps bobbing along the service road. Two rangers in a pickup.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
hope flared and with it the unmistakable crunch of my boot against a fallen limb the creature surged limbs unfolding closing the distance in three soundless strides antlers brushed the overstory bark rained like sleet instinct overruled terror i slammed the seismic plate flat on a slab of limestone and hammered it with the recorder's dead body
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
steel met stone with a hollow clang a heartbeat later the hidden spring cut loose punching the ground with a pressure wave so deep my vision swam the bluff spat dust oaks quivered and the wendigo recoiled antlers flaring as if caught in windshear It loosed a breathy snarl, the first true sound we'd ever heard it make, and staggered sideways into cedars that cracked like gunfire around its weight.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
We tore for the headlights. The truck fishtailed to a halt and Ranger Darren Kincaid vaulted out, shotgun half-raised. He shouted something about permits, about night closures, but the words died when the sub-base echo rolled over us and the trees beyond the bluff bent in a ripple, as if something enormous brushed them aside. Kincaid hustled us into the cab.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I took sharp turns down back roads I hardly knew, Soem Center Road, County Line Road, anything I could think of to lose them. But no matter where I turned, those headlights were glued to my rear bumper. I felt my throat tighten, my breathing ragged as panic seeped into my chest. My grip tightened painfully on the wheel. Was this road rage? Was I being chased by someone dangerous?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
He wanted explanations, but Sage could only pant, and I kept glancing through the rear glass, waiting for antlers to silhouette in the red glow of brake lights. None did. Three hundred yards down the grade, the truck rocked over a rut. Something wet slapped the bedliner. Kincaid stopped and swung his flashlight. A fresh deer tongue, glossy and twitching like it wasn't sure about death yet.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
He swallowed hard, then locked the doors. Dawn painted the ranger station windows pink. We filled out reports that read like fever dreams. Kincaid rang up enforcement brass, but when they hiked to the ridge, they found no seismic gear, no deer corpses, no prints, only cedar stumps oozing sap that smelled of uncooked meat.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A culvert had caved where the bluff stood, he said, fresh chalk dusting the creek bed. Geological coincidence, they called it. That afternoon, Kincaid let us borrow two sticks of Park Service thermite and drove us to an abandoned lime quarry. We dumped the one seismic plate we'd kept and the recorder's shattered husk into the pit. When the thermite torch bit, it flared white as a welding sun.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The boom that followed was purely earthly, sharp, finite, lacking the depth of midnight miracles. Birds flushed, then settled again, singing louder than before. Back on campus, my thesis became a compromise. Spectrograms of impossible frequencies, timestamp charts, and a final audio clip the ethics committee sealed under confidential notation.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It ends with my own breathing, Sage's muffled sob, and one prolonged exhale that doesn't belong to either of us, like a hunter tasting the air for prey it now knows by heart. I titled the project, When Silence Hunts. On the last page, in pen, I added a warning no peer reviewer will ever see. If the woods go quiet at ten, do not listen. Run before the dark remembers your name.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I never planned on meeting another soul out there, just four days of dripping silence along the skyline primitive trail before the winter gates closed. The first morning, rain freckles ticked against my hood like a metronome, and the whole rainforest smelled of cedar-soaked loam and cold iron. By late afternoon I had covered a good fifteen plus miles, far past any sidespur tourists might wander.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
the only sound was the steady suck of my boots lifting from mossy duff and the hush of drizzle sliding through the canopy i chose a small granite rimmed meadow for camp ringed by sitka spruce so tall they vanished into low clouds after pitching my single wall tent on a raised knoll i tied my bear bag cord and heaved five days of food into a high limb fifty feet up maybe more the yellow stuff sack swaying like a tired lantern
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It had been a long weekend at my sister's place, and though I'd cherished every moment, exhaustion had finally settled into my bones. Emma and Mason, my two little bundles of restless energy, had been bouncing off the walls all day. Now, trapped in our cramped sedan, their bickering had reached a boiling point. "'Emma, stop touching me!'
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
i tapped an all-clear ping on my satellite messenger one of those comfort texts that vanish into orbit and settled in to boil water twilight here is abrupt the forest goes from jade to obsidian in a single exhale that was when the flare tore open the sky a hiss then a blood-red bloom arched above the canopy painting the mist crimson
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My first thought was search and rescue, someone down with a broken leg, maybe hypothermia. I did not hesitate. I grabbed a headlamp, a spare battery, my small first aid kit, and sprinted upslope. Wet ferns slapped my ankles. Witch hair lichen snagged my pack straps. The flare guttered out behind a ridge, leaving me with the vague memory of its origin. I kept moving, breath steaming.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Eventually, after 10 minutes of frantic driving, I saw the familiar streetlights of my neighborhood in Mayfield Heights. Relief flooded through me briefly, but it was short-lived. The other car was still behind me. I whipped into my driveway, not even bothering to straighten the car out, jumped from the driver's seat and bolted inside, slamming the front door shut behind me and locking it swiftly.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I smelled the camp before I saw it. The copper tang of torn nylon and something like wet dog left too long in a truck bed. A two-person backpacking tent lay in ribbons, poles snapped clean as broomsticks. One sleeping bag was split from footbox to hood, down feathers clinging to the wet ground like snow. An ultralight stove still clicked, trying to ignite against the drizzle.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The warmth meant whoever slept here had been driven off minutes, maybe seconds ago. I knelt beside a muddy impression the size of a skillet. Five thick toes fanned wider than my hand, no sign of tread or heel wedge, just raw, padded flesh pressed three inches deep. A second print overlapped the first, canted outward, as if the owner pivoted mid-step.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Eight feet up the nearest spruce trunk, fist-sized clumps of coarse black hair dangled in sap lines. Parallel gouges scored the bark, so fresh the wood gleamed pale beneath the rain. My headlamp flicked to low power, 30%. I thumbed the spare battery from my hip pocket, but my hands were shaking. The satellite communicator lay in the trampled vestibule, screen cracked, an unsent SOS blinking amber.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I pictured the owner pounding the message, fingers slippery with rain, then something tearing through the fabric, something big enough to shred aluminum poles like wet spaghetti. The forest shuddered. A single hollow knock echoed through the timber, wood on wood, deeper than any axe blow. Another answered farther off, then a third, closer, the rhythm unnervingly deliberate.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My rational mind whispered cougar, windfall, distant hunters practicing calls, yet none of those required three-point cadence. I forced myself to breathe evenly and scan the ground. No blood, no obvious trail of supplies. Whoever had camped here was simply gone. Darkness thickened. The trail back to my meadow seemed twice as long, every switchback unfamiliar by lamplight.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Branches flexed beyond the beam like slow arms. Midway down the slope, something paced me just inside the treeline. I could not see it. I felt it. Heavy footsteps that sunk the earth, then stopped when I stopped, resumed when I moved. Once, I swung the light wide and caught twin discs of green reflection ten feet off the ground, too high for deer, too low for an owl.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The eyes vanished without a sound. When I reached my camp, the spruce trunk that held my food bag was scarred by fresh claw marks. Four deep furrows ran parallel, stopping directly beneath the pulley branch. The yellow stuff sack still swung, but the rope creaked as if it had been tugged hard, maybe testing weight. The rain had paused. The silence was near perfect.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
broken only by my pulse in my ears. Inside the tent, I zipped into my bag fully clothed, bear spray clutched like a talisman. The night stretched elastic, each minute a separate terror. Windless branches clicked together overhead, three taps, pause, three taps again.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Once, a low moaning whistle drifted through the valley, starting high like an elk bugle, then dipping into something too guttural, ending in a wet cough.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
i tried to picture elk tried to catalogue known calls but every rationalization slipped like wet bark close to midnight the silnilon wall bowed inward as though a giant palm pressed against it the fabric dimmed beneath a broad shadow and a smell flooded the vestibule
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
sour berries damp fur and a sulphur note that burned the throat i froze breathing through parted lips barely daring to fog the air the pressure lingered then migrated smearing a greasy film across the yellow fabric before the shape lifted away footfalls receded one two three then the forest swallowed the sound I lay awake until a weak pewter dawn seeped through the tent.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My chest heaved, gasping air, as I leaned against the door. But just as I thought the nightmare was over, I heard it, the sound of footsteps quickly approaching, and then three deliberate heavy knocks at the door. I stood frozen in the hallway, heart hammering so loudly I could feel it in my temples. Three slow, heavy knocks reverberated through the wood again.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The smear on the flysheet glistened black-green, beads of rain strung across it like mercury. My hands trembled so badly I could not work the stove for coffee. Somewhere upslope a raven croaked once, then silence reclaimed the trail, vast, rain-washed, and waiting. And in that hush I understood I was being asked a question by something older than words.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I had no answer, only a single thought, get out before nightfall returned. Morning crept in on a bruised gray sky, the kind that never truly brightens but limps along in perpetual twilight. I crawled from the tent expecting ordinary damp chaos, muddy boots, drizzle, maybe a snail on the fly. Instead I stepped into a tableau that felt staged for my arrival.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A ring of stones, each the size of a clenched fist, encircled last night's dead fire pit. They were evenly spaced, twelve of them, the gaps measured as if by ruler. One stone had been dragged from the riverbed a quarter mile away. Algae still glistened on its flanks.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
On the tentfly, a greasy handprint, massive, smudged, the fingers splaying wider than my spread palm, glimmered black beneath the overcast.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
i swallowed hard whoever or whatever had paced outside my shelter had not left in haste it had paused to leave a signature tracks paralleled mine beyond camp veering off only when i had stopped to catch breath the night before every depression still held rainwater proof they were fresh I no longer wondered where the missing backpackers had gone.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I only wondered why I was being shepherded instead of snatched. I packed in grim silence. Each nylon crinkle sounded like a flare shot. When I hoisted my pack, my phone finally blinked alive, the satellite link flickering one bar, just enough to send a curt message. Bailing early, bad weather, heading south spur. The wheel spun, then froze. Message unsent. Of course.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The shortcut beneath Divide Peak was nothing more than a slash of washed-out tread where ancient CCC blazes hid under moss. Still, it shaved half a day off the exit and kept me below the ridgeline, out of sight, in theory. I forced a rhythm. Crunch. Hiss of breath. Crunch. But forty minutes in, the forest lit blood-red again.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A second flare bloomed farther upslope, lingering longer, brighter, as if whoever launched it wanted to make sure I saw. I planted my poles and refused the bait. The moment the flare died, the knocks began. One to my left... Two ahead, then three behind, the cadence corralling me like cattle dogs on a single ewe.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Each strike echoed off basalt walls, tightening a noose of sound until I reached a narrow draw choked with salal. Halfway down, a newly fallen cedar blocked the switchback. The trunk hadn't been sawn or split by wind. It had been twisted. Fibers spiraled like taffy around a stress point thicker than my torso.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Embedded in the fresh splinters was a shard of obsidian, crudely napped to a cutting edge. I yanked it free on instinct, light, glassy, wickedly sharp, and tucked it into my belt loop like a talisman against folklore. That was when the forest began to speak in mimicry. A stone clattered across the creek behind me, exactly replicating the one I'd kicked loose minutes earlier. Upstream.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I swallowed dryly, trying to slow my breathing, but it came shallow and ragged despite my efforts. Then came the voice, a woman's voice, gentle yet clear, quietly calling my last name. "'Hello. Are you there? We need to speak with you.' A chill raced down my spine. "'Who the hell was at my door at this hour?' My last name was right there on the mailbox, sure, but it was past midnight.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Another splash. Same timing. Same weight. It was as though my passage were being rehearsed by something unseen, each sound thrown back at me with perfect, mocking precision. The stink hit next. Fermented berries, wet hide, and something coppery, like blood left to sour in a steel bucket. My stomach flipped. Birds had long since gone silent.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Even the rain seemed subdued, absorbed by miles of moss before it could patter. By dusk the storm arrived in earnest. Wind whipped through snags, turning dead limbs into giant wind chimes. Wet shale sent me skidding, pain knifed up my ankle. I cursed, tested weight, sprained, maybe worse, but walkable.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Limping now, I hunted for shelter and found a nurse log the size of a subway car, its hollow belly dry enough to crouch under. The space smelled of rot and crushed fur needles, but it was cover. I wedged myself against the back wall, forced down two energy chews, and listened. Footfalls, slow, deliberate, circled the hollow. I killed my headlamp, but moonless darkness is not true dark in the ho.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Every moss strand glows faintly, a bioluminescent ghost-green veil. Through that shimmer I glimpsed bulk beyond the log. A silhouette broad as a refrigerator, shoulders hunched, head nearly brushing the underside of a leaning hemlock. Breath rasped, a deep nasal draw, followed by a rumbling exhale. Not quite human, not quite beast, but unmistakably sentient. Hours bled together.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Rain hammered the log roof, drips charting constellations on my sleeves. Sometimes the presence retreated, sometimes it returned, closer, testing. Once, a hand, or paw, slid across the opening, fingers probing the air. I held my own breath until my vision pinwheeled. Near midnight thunder boomed so close it rattled the earth, but the roar that followed came from ground level.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Something hoisted a bowling ball-sized rock and slammed it against the nurse log's mouth. The impact jarred my teeth, drove a shockwave through my spine, and sealed the entrance with splintered bark. Total dark. Rain outside. My heart beat inside, and a guttural whistle bleeding through the seams. High at first, almost avian, then descending to a register felt more than heard.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A sub-bass moan that made the log vibrate like a tuning fork. It held the note for an eternity, then snapped it off with a pop of lips, as if satisfied with the resonance. Silence again, save for the soft rasp of something massive dragging fingertips across the wood, tracing the prison it had made for me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I clutched the obsidian shard, useless as a child's toy, and waited for claws or teeth or worse. Instead, the footsteps receded into the storm. Slow, unhurried, confident I had nowhere to go. Only when the first smear of dawn crept through gaps in the debris did I start prying loose the rock, inch by agonizing inch, ankle throbbing like a second heart. The rain had stopped.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The forest lay blanketed in mist, every fern frond weighed down by silver beads. My hands were coated in sap and splinters. Outside, the trail showed no prints, but a line of broken cedar fronds pointed downhill like arrows. I understood the message perfectly. This way, little tourist. Run for home.
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BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
and with a limp that jolted pain up to my jaw i obeyed because night would come again and next time the cage might not have an exit light seeped through the cedar fronds like smoke thin uncertain but it was enough i shoved the splintered rock aside clawed free of the nurse log and limped down slope
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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every step stabbed my ankle yet the drive to put distance between me and last night's jailer trumped pain the air hung thick with mist muffling sound turning fallen limbs into crouched figures i choked down the urge to run running invited noise and noise brought attention For six hours I followed the crude arrows of broken foliage.
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The knocking resumed, firmer this time, more insistent. I hesitated, every instinct screaming at me to stay silent, to hide. But curiosity and a strange sense of obligation took hold. I crept forward quietly, holding my breath, and slowly leaned into the door, placing my eye against the tiny peephole. Outside stood an older couple illuminated by the porch light.
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They marked the easiest grade, ironically the same line I'd hoped to find, and they never doubled back. It felt intentional, like being ushered out of an exclusive club whose bouncers had finally grown bored. Around noon the trees thinned into old burn scar, their charcoal skeletons stark against pewter sky.
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Through a gap I glimpsed the moss-eaten roof of an abandoned Civilian Conservation Corps shelter a quarter mile ahead. I nearly cried. The shelter listed at a drunken angle but still offered three walls and a dry hearth. Inside, needles crusted the floor thick as a mattress, and rodents had nested in the rafters. But I collapsed against a log bunk, safe enough.
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Only when the spin behind my eyes steadied did I notice the footprint at the doorway. Twenty inches heel to toe, five deep gouges for toes, edges crisp. Beside it lay a strip of black hair, coarse as baling twine caught on a nail head. I slid the hair into an empty film canister and shot shaky video of the print, my boot for scale. Evidence, or tombstone, time would decide.
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I forced down a protein bar that tasted of iron, then re-wrapped my ankle. Twelve miles remained to the ranger station, maybe ten as the crow flies. If I left now and kept moving, I could reach the service road before dusk. The thought of another night inside this empire of shadows curdled my stomach. I shouldered my pack. That was when the third flare screamed skyward.
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It detonated above the ridge in a burst of white-hot magnesium, bathing the forest in strobing daylight. In that frozen slice of time I saw then, two colossal shapes on opposite slopes like sentinels cast from midnight iron. They stood upright, shoulders rounded with muscle and weather-matted fur that gleamed wet silver in the flare light.
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Arms long enough to brush knees rose in tandem, each gripping a trunk thicker than my thigh. The flare guttered. Crack. The double blow rolled through the valley, splinter-sharp and bone-deep, vibrating inside my ribs. Another flare? No. Tree knocks, delivered simultaneously, synchronized like a priest's benediction and a judge's gavel. When the after-echo faded, the forest held its breath.
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I did not. Fight or flight became pure flight. I lurched downhill, poles clacking, ankle howling. Behind me, branches exploded. Not random deadfalls, but deliberate missiles hurled through the canopy. One trunk-thick limb speared the trail a heartbeat after I passed, its shattered end reeking of fresh sap. Stones followed, thudding into ferns, rolling across shale. None struck me.
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Every projectile landed just behind, just beside, steering, not smashing. They wanted me moving, and I obliged. Rain returned in needles, turning the path to grease. Twice I slipped and nearly pitched off switchbacks, saved only by scrub hemlock handholds. Somewhere above, something paced the slope, keeping parallel despite my desperate scramble.
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Each time my pace faltered, a single tree knock sounded. Command. Metronome. Threat. Hours vanished. Then, on a final bentonite rise, the forest noise died so abruptly, I stumbled. No footfalls. No knocks. Not even wind. Only my ragged breath. I pushed through Salal onto a gravel maintenance road slick with puddles. Fifty yards ahead, the access gate waited, battered, painted Forest Service green.
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Beyond it, cell bars flickered on my phone. I limped the final stretch, praying no engine noise would draw me back. None did. The ranger station squatted beneath sodium floods, windows yellow with evening. I dragged myself inside, mud-spattered and wild-eyed, and tried to explain. The duty ranger, nametag Kessler, listened without interruption, face carved from granite.
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They seemed harmless enough, mid-sixties maybe. The woman was petite, her gray hair tucked neatly beneath a scarf, her face wearing a gentle expression. Beside her, the man stood taller, thin-framed and hunched slightly against the drizzle. A concerned look etched deeply into his weathered face. I exhaled, heart still racing, but feeling slightly foolish for panicking so badly.
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When I set the hair sample and the obsidian shard on the counter, his brow twitched, tiny, involuntary. They photographed the print impressions caked on my boots, logged my video, sealed the hair canister. The official report read, unverified wildlife encounter, subject unharmed. Off the record, Kessler handed me coffee and leaned close.
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Three other solos bailed this month after red flare sightings, he murmured. Whatever's out there, it's drawing people in, not driving them off. You got the hint. Be grateful. I left before dawn, ankle-bound. Nerves jangling like unsecured gear. A week later, an email arrived from a university genetics lab the park service contracts. Sample inconclusive.
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Partial mitochondrial match to pangini family. Remainder unknown. Please advise if additional tissue available. Current specimen degrading at accelerated rate. I read it twice, then closed the lid on my laptop and went to the closet. My pack still reeked of berry rot and cedar. I shoved it deep behind winter coats. Occasionally on sleepless nights, I open the window and listen.
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When the wind is right, I fancy I hear it. A distant, deliberate knock, answered by another farther west. An invitation I'll never accept, echoing across the dark cathedral of the woods. The road that claws its way up Panther Creek isn't really a road, more a bruised ribbon of ruts and broken shale that punishes every shock in an old truck.
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By the time we jolted past the abandoned Lucky Strike stamp mill, the sky had shrugged on a thin overcast, and the aspens on the slopes above us glowed like backlit coins. Luke rode shotgun, rolling a loose latex glove between his fingers the way some folks worry a rosary.
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Mason, wedged between rifles and the propane tank, said nothing but kept tapping his boot heel in a nervous three-beat I'd never noticed on other hunts. The higher we climbed, the quieter the world became. No raven's tail-riding thermals, no distant chainsaw from other camps, only the engine, the cough of gravel, and a far-off mutter that might have been thunder.
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At 7,500 feet the spur petered out in a clearing scarred by decades-dead mining tracks. That's where we stopped. I killed the ignition and felt silence surge in like cold water. What bothered me first was the game pole someone had lashed between two lodge poles beside the clearing.
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Strips of elk hide dangled from it in perfect bow knots, fluttering just enough to click together like soft wind chimes. Hunters don't waste hide and nobody I know ties bow knots in raw flesh. Luke peered up at them, lips parted then shrugged as if cataloging oddities for later dissection. We set camp fast. Muscle memory from seasons past. Two canvas wall tents facing each other across a fire pit.
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Collapsible wood stove screwed together, meat pole in the shade, and four trail cams arranged like the points of a compass. Snow still hid in north-facing recesses, but the air smelled weeks away from a real storm. I told myself the forecast looked clean, even though the shape of the clouds didn't feel friendly. By dusk we had water boiling and the fire snapping.
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Mason finally relaxed enough to joke about first steak off the grill tomorrow, though none of us had seen so much as a fresh track on the drive in. When we turned in, the sky had gone moonless black and the temperature slid just below freezing. The kind of cold that makes a sleeping bag crinkle when you shift. Something woke me before dawn. It wasn't sound. It was the absence of it.
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Against my better judgment, I turned the lock, keeping the chain latched as I cracked the door open just an inch. "'Can I help you?' I asked cautiously, my voice barely louder than a whisper. "'Oh, thank goodness,' the woman said softly, visibly relieved. "'We've been trying to get your attention.' My brow furrowed. "'Why? What's going on?'
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Camps usually breathe. Canvas popping. Stove ticking. The occasional camp robber scolding the dark. But this silence pressed hard, like a hand over my ears. Beneath it, a faint sweetness I couldn't place, drifted through the tent canvas. Part ozone. Part rot.
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i unzipped the flap and stepped into a world washed silver by frost breath feathered out and vanished at my feet sat a pyramid of bones bleached jaw bones seven of them stacked with impossible precision each hinge faced outward as if smiling up at me Guys? I called, voice too loud in the still air. Luke answered first, half-dressed, pistol in one hand. Mason followed, shotgun uncased.
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Both froze when they saw the little monument outside their own doors. Identical piles, same count, same awful neatness. Luke crouched, pulled on his glove, and lifted the topmost jaw. Elk Calf, he murmured. He ran a finger along the cut edge where flesh should have clung. This isn't natural. Tendons sliced clean. No serrations. Cartilage polished. You'd need a scalpel or, hell, a laser.
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His breath puffed white over the bone like incense. Nobody laughed at the laser joke. We kicked the jawbones into the dead fire pit, doused them with what little coffee remained in the pot, and agreed, without saying it out loud, to pretend we believed poachers were messing with us. Hunters do all kinds of stupid pranks. The explanation tasted thin, but it was something to hang on to.
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While we boiled new coffee the first flakes drifted down, fine and dry, catching on eyebrows. Thirty miles south the forecast had promised bluebird skies, yet a gray shelf now sagged over the lost river peaks, bruising darker by the minute. Storms early, Mason muttered. Front's not due till Wednesday, I said, aiming confidence at both of them.
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the words fell flat we hiked after breakfast rifles over shoulders packs light tracks were everywhere scuffed trails where elk had moved overnight but every pile of droppings felt days old every print a shade too soft around the edges up the ridge we found aspen trunks peeled nine feet high
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ribbons of fresh bark curling like wet bandages luke poked the exposed wood sap still wept yet something had bored narrow cavities straight into the cambium and sucked it hollow no claw marks no tooth chisel it looked vacuumed my gps glitched flickering between coordinates as though we were drifting mason's compass refused to settle needle wobbling six degrees either side of north
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snow began to sift down harder the dry kind that whispers against nylon when a distant elk bugle finally cut the hush relief washed over me until the note kept sliding lower bending beyond any throat's range and ended in a long whistle so deep my ribs tingled the forest swallowed the echo like it feared to carry it we glassed the basin until twilight bruised the sky in layers of purple and smoke not a single elk answered
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We returned to camp empty-handed, lungs aching from cold, and a nameless pressure that made conversation brittle. The sun dropped, and with it the temperature. We stoked the stove until it roared hot enough to rattle the pipe. Yet as we settled in, a gustless calm settled outside, and the pipe kept rattling. A metallic clank echoed down it, polite, as if something tapped from above.
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Then that sweet rot scent rolled in, ozone laced with carrion. Our four trail cams fired in rapid fire bursts, strobes of white punching through the tent walls, followed by silence. No rustle, no crunch of snow, only the slow clicks of cameras stopping and the soft spin of developing darkness. I unzipped the flap and swept my headlamp across camp. Frost crystals flashed back, dazzling.
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The older man stepped forward slightly, his voice calm yet serious. "'Son, we were behind you on Mayfield Road, right back near Gates Mills. We saw you get out to move that log.' My stomach twisted painfully as dread crept slowly up my spine. I nodded silently, barely able to form words. "'When you got out,' he continued slowly, his tone careful. Someone climbed into your back seat.
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Between the two tents a shape lingered, tall as a moose on hind legs, limbs thin as spruce poles, joints wrong. The light hit it square. It didn't flinch. It absorbed the beam, skin, or hide or something, dulling it to pewter. Antler tines branched from its skull like withered roots trying to climb out of its head. Reflex overrode shock. I shouldered my rifle, thumbed the safety.
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The thing folded, bone joints bending the opposite of how knees should, and slipped backward into shadow faster than eyesight could track. No crunch of snow, no snapping branch, just absence. My headlamp beam painted frost-white emptiness where it had stood. We converged at the spot. Luke, Mason, me. Lamplight crossing like swords.
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The snow beneath us was unbroken except for one deep set of prints. Four elongated toes ending in teardrop indents. No heel pad. Each depression a foot deep as if something far heavier than any elk had stood there and then lifted straight into the air. Mason whispered a prayer he learned from his grandmother, Spanish words fragile enough to shatter if spoken louder.
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Luke just stared at the tracks, glove fingertips touching the edge of one as if afraid to complete the contact. The stovepipe stopped rattling. The smell faded. Night resumed its ordinary stillness, the modest, familiar fear of wilderness we could understand. But something remained lodged behind my breastbone, a cold shard of knowing I couldn't swallow.
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Whatever left those gifts, whatever wore the antlers like a crown, it had measured us tonight, and decided we were worth returning for. I lay awake until the first hint of grey peeled back the stars, listening for a whistle that never came, telling myself dawn would bring wind, or birds, or any sign that the valley still belonged to living things.
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Dawn came silent, snow cupped the froze canvas, and outside the jawbones we'd burned were back, stacked higher, cleaner, grinning wider. The firepit was empty except for ash arranged into three perfect circles. and above us a storm we'd been promised days away began to drop its payload in earnest, erasing the road, the tracks, and any easy way out.
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The wind sharpened its teeth on our tents all night, but when I unzipped the flap the next morning, the air had fallen perfectly still. The snow had deepened to mid-calf, erasing the road and most of yesterday's tracks. What it had not erased were the gifts. Three towers of jawbones, mine a little taller than the others now, waited precisely where we had stepped on them the night before.
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Each mandible buffed bone white, laid hinge out like open smiles. In the silence they seemed to hum. Luke broke at first, crouching beside the piles with the same grave focus he used when removing birdshot from a mule's leg. He lifted the top jaw, sniffed, and scraped a thumbnail along the cut edge.
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Emma and Mason had fallen unusually quiet, their small faces pale in the dim interior. "'Mommy,' Emma whispered uncertainly. "'Those people were weird.' I forced a reassuring smile. Just trying to be helpful, sweetie. But as I pulled back onto the main road, doubt gnawed at my mind.
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"'Still bleeding,' he said, and showed me the faint rim of pink thawing out of the frost-crusted socket. "'They were set here less than an hour ago.' No tracks let in or out. Mason and I dragged the coolers into the open to inventory our food. The metal latches gaped like broken knuckles.
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Inside, every steak, every sleeve of venison jerky, every stick of butter we had hauled up the mountain still sat in neat stacks, but they were slick with a film of ice.
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loops and spirals laced the frost the markings of a broad deliberate tongue i wiped a finger through one arc it left a shallow groove almost decorative coyotes don't lick patterns mason muttered luke snapped fresh batteries into his trail cam and cycled through last night's captures
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I stared blankly at him, the meaning of his words hitting me like ice water. My breath caught sharply in my throat. What? The woman nodded solemnly, her eyes wide and earnest. It happened right as you stepped out. We tried flashing our lights and honking to warn you, but you drove away so fast. Blood drained from my face, my knees suddenly weak. Someone was in my car? No.
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Static covered nearly every frame, only one image rendered clearly, a figure half turned away from the lens, thin as a fence post, skin stretched tight over bone or bark, antlers inverted like roots sprouting down from its skull. Though the flash had fired, the shadows around its head were deeper than the timber behind it, as if the night clung tighter to that spot. He tried to zoom.
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The screen crackled, then went black. We decided if the thing wanted to play guide, we'd follow. Rifles chambered, we marched upslope in single file. The fresh snow should have been blinding, yet the sky had taken on a pewter complexion that bled glare from the world, leaving only dull white and darker white. Mason, out front, found the first marker.
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A jawbone stuck upright in the snow, teeth pointed at camp like an arrow. Twenty paces ahead, another. Each jaw was warmer than its surroundings, a faint steam slithering from the hollow where a tongue had once rooted. About a quarter mile in, the elk sign shifted from occasional prints to a corridor of destruction.
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Young Aspen stood peeled nine feet high, the ribbons of bark fluttering in a breeze I couldn't feel. Where sap should have pooled, the wood was sucked dry, leaving concave pits. Luke leaned into one and breathed. Smells like a freezer burn.
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a hundred yards farther mason cursed softly and picked something from the bark a human molar pearl white wedged tip first into the fresh wound and sealed by a halo of crusting sap i tasted acid climb my throat drop it i said mason pocketed it instead the jawbones led us to the base of a limestone bluff where a grotto opened like a cracked lip
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Antlers, hundreds of them, fused together into a lattice arched over the entrance. Some were bleached, some still wearing shreds of hide, a few drip-glazed with fresh blood that pattered onto the snow in slow intervals. Not going in, Mason said. Luke disagreed. If this thing nests here, we need to know. He knelt, braced his phone against the rifle stock and switched to video.
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I offered to hold his belt while he leaned into the dark. The flashlight beam cut a cone through suspended motes of dust. No, not dust. Tiny spirals of scraped marrow floated, glittering like fine sawdust. The cave dropped steeply after ten feet into a shaft lined with more antlers. At the bottom, Maybe 30 feet down lay a slurry of bones. Elk femurs. Wolf skulls.
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Something too smooth and rounded to be animal. Luke steadied the light on the pit. A sound trickled up. A slow, rhythmic click. Like fingernails on glass. Bone knocking bone. The phone's microphone peaked and whined. Luke jerked back. In that instant, his flashlight washed across the far wall, revealing a series of pictographs etched in browned fat. Three human figures.
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Their heads burst into branching lines that might have been antlers or flame. My skin went tight as drumhead leather. Enough, Mason said, and none of us argued. Snow thickened into a wall as we retreated. It was silent snow, the kind that eats footfalls and flattens every distant sound. Luke's GPS died altogether, the screen cycling rainbow static. My compass needle spun slowly, never committing.
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We navigated by memory, half stumbling through knee-high drifts, until camp appeared as a dark smudge in the swirling gray. Something was wrong with the geometry. Both tents listed inward, their ridgelines curved like sagging spines. As we closed the last yards, the damage resolved. The stovepipe was packed with snow from the top down, plugged like a cork.
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Yes, the man replied gravely. We followed you here to make sure you got home safely. We were worried. Without thinking, I unlatched the chain and flung the door wide open, suddenly filled with frantic urgency. I rushed past them, grabbing a sturdy umbrella from the stand beside the door. Rain pelted down harder now, but I barely felt it. My feet splashed through puddles as I sprinted to my car.
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The tents hung shredded, every slice a ruler-straight incision that spared seams as though a surgeon had planned the ventilation. Inside, our sleeping bags lay unzipped, open flat on the cot frames. Someone, or something, had combed the synthetic insulation into neat rows, each strand laid parallel. The same sweet rot scent from dawn gathered thick enough to taste, ozone, awful.
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We had one place left to barricade, the power wagon. Snow banked up the doors, but the tires sat clear as if invisible hands had swept them clean. Teeth bared against the cold. We crawled into the cab, slamming doors, locking them, starting the engine. Warm air blasted, bringing a moment's illusion of safety. Outside, nothing moved. Then the whistle began.
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Softer than before, yet close enough to vibrate the side mirrors. It rose from one side of the clearing, paused, answered itself from the other side in a slightly lower key, then a third time behind us, completing the triangle. With each cycle, it aligned more perfectly with the chug of the idling engine until the two rhythms blended, indistinct. The steering wheel quivered under my hands.
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For several heartbeats I could not tell whether the truck or the throat of that thing fueled the sound. Headlights off, we could see only the soft glow of the dash. Mason switched them on. The beams met a curtain of falling snow, no deeper than arm's length, as though the world ended there. Shapes hovered just beyond, something tall, something jagged, all dissolving if we stared straight at them.
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A tap, gentle as a finger on a doorframe, ticked against the windshield. Then another. Snowflakes? No, another tap, deliberate. I flicked on the high beams. The glass illuminated a single tooth stuck between the wipers. A molar, Mason's molar, scrubbed clean, bloodless, aligned perfectly with the growing crack at the corner of the glass. My lungs bottomed out. Mason gagged.
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Luke reached for the shifter. "'Drive,' he said, voice raw as gravel. I punched the throttle. The whistle cut off like a wire snipped. Snow exploded from the tires. The truck lurched forward onto the buried spur road, engine howling, our exit guided only by the faint memory of trees that no longer looked the same. Behind us, the darkness swallowed the circle of ruined tents."
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Something tall stood at the edge of the fading headlights, antlers banking outward like shattered roots. It watched until the snow curtain claimed it, leaving just the whistle, once more, threading through the storm, growing fainter yet somehow following, always following, matching the rise and fall of our revving hearts as we fled downhill into a night suddenly too long for any map to measure.
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The spur felt twice as long on the way out as it had the day we rumbled in. Snow hammered the windshield so hard the wipers skittered like frightened animals, and every hundred yards the rear axle fishtailed toward the drop-off that vanished beyond the headlights. The whistle followed us.
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Not steady now, but snatching at the truck in ragged bursts that rose above the engine roar, then fell away, then surged closer again as if something enormous was pacing us just inside the treeline. Luke leaned forward in the passenger seat, fists white on the grab handle. "'Keep it at twenty,' he kept saying. "'Don't outrun the lights.'
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Mason hunched in the back, shotgun across his knees, eyes locked on the rear glass that had spiderwebbed from the molar's impact. We'd stuffed a sleeping pad against the hole. The pad pulsed with every gust, breathing frigid air into the cab that smelled of penny metal and wet fur."
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I rounded the last sharp bend before Panther Creek Road and almost drove straight into a barricade of orange triangles. A Forest Service pickup idled sideways across the track, bed brimming with chainsaws and road flare canisters. Two more trucks flanked it, their roof-mounted floodlights boiling the snow into swirling halos. I stomped the brakes.
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The power wagon slewed until the bumper kissed adrift. A man in the green and khaki of wildland fire crews stepped into the beams. His parka hood was down despite the cold, silver mustache rhymed with ice. He raised a gloved hand, palm calm and unhurried, and I realized he wore no ear protection against the whistle that still needled around us.
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I peered inside, shining my phone's flashlight across the back seat and floor. Empty. Relief nearly brought tears to my eyes. My breathing steadied slightly. Then I opened the driver's door, the flashlight beam wavering slightly from my trembling hand. As I scanned the floorboards, something metallic glinted from under the seat.
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He didn't seem to hear it, or he'd heard it before and learned not to flinch. I cracked the window. "'Roads blocked!' I yelled. "'Something's—' "'Corbett!' he said, tapping his chest badge." Pull forward. Leave the engine running. The voice carried a rock-slide authority that made obedience feel like reflex. Bring what followed you. The phrase jolted me.
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Luke shot me a look that asked whether we'd slipped into someone else's nightmare. But we rolled ahead until we sat boxed between the trucks. Two younger rangers waded through the knee-deep powder and began unloading our bed without asking permission. Coolers. Tarps. The jawbones we hadn't realized stuck to our tailgate like barnacles.
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Everything went into a shallow pit someone had scraped down to the frozen soil. One ranger splashed diesel over the pile. The other struck a flare. Flames leapt blue-green where the diesel met the bones. Corbett opened my door. Out, he said. Snow hissed on the headers. The whistle throbbed once, closer than ever, then cut off as if a switch had flipped. Luke held up his ruined trail cam.
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You know what this is? Evidence, Corbett answered. He took the camera, snapped the card out, and pitched it into the fire. Plastic popped, releasing an acrid stench. The fewer eyes that thing owns, the better. Mason finally found his voice. What thing? We saw, he trailed off, unable to name it. Corbett knelt, scooped a fistful of snow, and mixed it with red powder from a pouch.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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He smeared the paste on the tailgate in a crude circle, then repeated the mark on each of our foreheads. Wetiko, he said, though old-timers up here called it the cold hunger. rides the first killing frost looking for the warmest fires, the fullest bellies, marks camps with bone so it can return when men grow thin. What does that make us? I asked. Not thin enough, he said.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Yet, the woods behind the trucks exhaled a sound halfway between an elk bugle and a human scream muted by distance. Floodlights flickered. Snow at the tree line erupted, not downward, but up, as though something massive had ripped free of the ground. Antlers emerged first, raking the air, followed by a head too tall for any elk, socket voids drinking the light without reflection.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Skin, or hide, or exposed tendon, quivered over a ribcage so narrow it seemed impossible the creature could stand. It took one step, and the snow under it sank a foot as if its weight multiplied the longer it walked. Corbett's crew yanked flare guns from holsters and fired. Burning magnesium arced across the dark, splattering the Wetika with sizzling globes that stuck and flared hotter.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The thing recoiled, steam peeling off its shoulders, an inhuman howl rolling through the valley like thunder caught in a culvert. Where the burning bits touched it, flesh blistered, then sloughed away in ribbons that hit the snow and hissed to vapor. For one stunned heartbeat it seemed to shrink, antlers wilting, limbs folding inward as if stripped of sap.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Kneeling carefully, I reached beneath, fingers brushing against something cold and unfamiliar. Pulling it into the dim glow of my flashlight, my heart sank even deeper into dread. In my palm lay a small folding knife, the cheap handle worn, muddy fingerprints smudged along its edge. I had never seen it before in my life.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Luke grabbed a road flare, popped the cap, and hurled it underhand. The flare bounced once, rolled beneath the creature, and burst into a column of white flame that backlit the Waitiko in terrible silhouette. It reared, struck the air with clawed fingers longer than butcher knives. then whirled and plowed into the timber, smashing saplings like brittle reeds. Corbett didn't cheer.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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He turned to his crew. Now, he barked. They heaved the last of our gear, sleeping bags, tents, even Mason's rifle, onto the blaze. Synthetic fibers wailed, metal pinged, but the fire climbed higher, a beacon punching through the storm.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Corbett fished a small cedar branch from his vest, dipped it in a tin of oil, and traced sigils and smoke around the truck, chanting words that tasted older than English. Luke stared at the inferno swallowing his kit. Insurance going to cover that? Corbett's ice-blue eyes met his. Insurance won't matter if it follows you. Clean burn, clean break. He tapped the hood.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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When we wave you through, stay on the throttle till pavement. Don't stop for anything that whistles. The whistle returned, distant but rising, weaving through the trees like a searching hound. One of the younger rangers spun a flare toward the sound. It exploded in emerald sparks, lighting a brief glimpse of shadows bulging between trunks. Too many joints, too many limbs. "'Go!' Corbett shouted.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I dropped the truck into gear. Snow rooster-tailed behind us as we shot past the blockade." In the side mirror I saw the rangers forming a crescent of flames, flares spearing outward like a fiery fence. Then the road curved, white walls closing out everything but the dwindling glow. For miles the whistle paralleled us, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, never letting the engine note dominate.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Every time I feared the road would vanish under a drift, the snow thinned just enough to show gravel. as if some unseen hand cleared a lane at the last second. At mile marker eighteen the whistle faded, replaced by the ordinary whoop of the wipers and the rattle of rifles clinking in their mounts. Asphalt appeared, a ribbon of plowed black leading toward the glow of Salmon's Valley lights.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Only then did Mason start to sob, low and private, shoulders trembling while he tried to hide it beneath his parka hood. They kept us at the hospital until sunrise, checking for hypothermia and, bizarrely, malnutrition. Luke surrendered a scrap of scorched tissue he'd peeled from his glove before the drive.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The lab techs filed it under unknown mammal, and the sample vanished from the freezer overnight. Mason sold his long guns to a pawn shop the next afternoon and booked a one-way to Yuma, swearing desert heat felt safer than snow ever would again. I stayed behind long enough to file a wildlife incident report.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The district office stamped it, filed it, and locked it in a cabinet so deep even the clerks couldn't find it two weeks later. Corbett's name never appeared on the witness line. The power wagon survived, except for one thing. The cracked windshield kept leaking antifreeze-smelling air, even after I replaced the glass. On cold mornings the vent whistles.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I spun around toward the elderly couple, mouth open to speak, but the words caught sharply in my throat. They were gone. The driveway stood empty, silent, except for the drumming of rain against pavement. The street stretched deserted in both directions, no car in sight. My knees buckled slightly, confusion and fear surging through my body like a physical weight.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Not every day, but often enough that I check the mirror, half expecting to see antlers ghosting the fog. Winter will come early again soon. I know the road back to Panther Creek is already drifted shut. Yet sometimes, just before sleep claims me, I picture a tall figure prowling the ridges, sniffing the star-cold wind for the scent of those who escaped.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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And though I'm safe for now, the memory stands watch at the door of my mind like a tower of grinning jawbones, silently promising that hunger is patient and snow always returns. I should have trusted my gut the moment we rolled into the empty lot at Lake Echo just after 5.27 in the morning. Only one other vehicle sat there. A dented silver station wagon with every window fogged from the inside.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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A crumpled missing hiker flyer was pressed against the windshield. The ink bled so badly I could read only two words. Last scene. Dom joked that the car looked abandoned enough to film a zombie cold open, but the joke didn't land. The air carried that brittle sierra chill that makes your teeth ache, and somewhere in the pines a stellar's jay let out a rusty hinge of a call.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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We were three friends who had backpacked together since college. Dom, the loud botanist who never shut up about edible lichens. Victor, the silent EMT who measured every calorie in every footstep. And me, Kayla, the one who always lugged an absurd amount of camera gear because, someday, Nat Gia will come calling.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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At the trailhead kiosk, I went to sign us in, only to find the register book torn right down the spiral binding. Someone had ripped the pages out after an entry dated April 18th. The empty wires curled like ribs. The climb toward Tamarack Lake was a slow switchback procession through sugar pines and fields of sun-rotted snow.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Where the dirt faded under snow tongues, wind polished the ice until it looked like glass pulled over black rock. About a mile up, we spotted a single boot lodged in a drift. It was a left boot, vibram sole, heel lug missing, like it had been chewed off. Victor poked at it with a trekking pole. Dom said, probably a skier who shredded a binding.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Victor shrugged, but I saw the crease flicker in his brow. We left the boot to the marmots. Signal died before the second mile marker, not that it mattered. We were here to lose ourselves in granite basins, fish the meltwater tarns, and photograph early wildflowers that hid in cracks like secrets.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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By mid-afternoon, the trail spat us onto a slab overlooking Lake Aloha, still stitched with ice floes. We found a flat ledge cupped by wind-stunted whitebark pines. Perfect real estate. Dom stamped out a platform in the grainy snow and pitched his neon green tent. Mine and Victor's went beside it, bright nylon kites against pale stone. We cooked dinner in the orange hush of Alpenglow.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Victor measured out dehydrated risotto with a digital scale he swore was life-saving. I filmed the steam rising off the pot until the lens fogged, then aimed the camera at the violet stripes staining Pyramid Peak. Dom recited the Latin name for some tiny purple flowers we'd stepped over, Luigia pygmaea, and claimed their petals tasted sweet enough to garnish oatmeal.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I told him to chew pine needles instead. By nine the world had gone ink black except for the milky way draped like a bridge of salt. We bear-packed all scented gear into Victor's titanium canister and hung it in a snow-narled Thai tree well away from camp. My phone, spare battery and drone were sealed inside too, nothing electronic to tempt the cold.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I stood alone, clutching the knife tightly, feeling the cold metal press sharply into my palm as the rain continued pouring down around me. Two days passed, each filled with restless anxiety. The knife I'd discovered beneath my seat was now in police custody. I'd sat in the Highland Heights police station, recounting everything multiple times.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The wind keened across the granite, a clean blade of sound that made the tents shiver. sometime in the night my watch was zipped in the vestibule so i can only guess it was close to three in the morning i clawed up from sleep because i heard nylon whisper not the roar of a gust this was different softer intentional Zip, pause, zip, then the faintest three-note whistle, notes falling in pitch.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I lay frozen, hand hovering over my headlamp, listening to my own pulse banging in my ears. The sound died. Wind filled the silence like water flooding back into a footprint.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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dawn came on fast and metallic the second the sun edged over the ridge dom barked my name the comic tone gone his inner mesh door hung wide open screen hooks dangling like snapped fishing line but the outer rainfly sat neatly re zipped pull cord tied in a tight figure eight sailor knot None of us knew how to tie that knot. Victor inspected the zipper tracks.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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No grit, no snag, no obvious wear, while Dom swore he closed both doors before crawling into his bag. He looked genuinely shaken, cheeks ashy in the pale light. I hiked to the tie tree where we'd stashed the bear can. The lid was still double-latched, but when I peeled it open, my phone lit up with a single alert. One new video captured at precisely three in the morning.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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My hands went slick as fish skin. I tapped play. Thirty seconds of footage, filmed from maybe six inches outside our tent. The lens framed Victor and me, faces slack in sleep sacks, condensation silvering the walls. For half the clip nothing happens, just that close, intimate breathing you never want recorded. Near the end a shadow ghosts across the screen, blotting the dim starlight.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Then the camera tilts, and darkness pours over the view until it cuts. Dom cursed aloud. Victor asked for the phone, watched twice, then wordlessly pocketed it in a dry bag. None of us spoke for a long minute. The only sound was snowmelt trickling between granite plates. Victor broke the spell by crouching beside a slab and saying, "'Guys, look!'
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Jammed under the edge like a shim was a tripod of sticks. Birch twigs, bark peeled, each limb no longer than a match." Three figures bound with dried sedge stems. The smallest snapped clean in half. He plucked it free, turned it in gloved fingers. Dom exhaled a shaky laugh. Okay, campers. Either we just got punked real hard, or we're starring in the cheapest found footage flick ever.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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But his eyes kept scanning the tree line as if expecting a punchline to step out. The wind picked up, driving tatters of cloud across the lake. I tasted metal on the air, like licking a battery. My mind flipped through every rational explanation.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Bored through-hikers, a rogue ranger with a warped sense of humor, but none fit the precision of the knot, the silence of the zipper, or that intimate breath on the video. Victor said what we were all thinking. We go deeper today. Put some miles between us and whoever thinks this is funny. Ridge camps have line of sight, less cover. We packed in record time.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I did one last pan with the zoom lens, but the granite slopes were empty. Just wind-scoured rock and blue sky so clean it looked erased. Before shouldering his pack, Victor slipped the broken twig effigy into his shirt pocket, for evidence. Dom asked if he expected to hand it to a sheriff. Victor didn't answer. As we turned uphill, snow crust cracking under boots, I glanced back at the tarn.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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But the officers exchanged skeptical glances, their faces unreadable. No fingerprints except mine. No clear proof anyone else had been in the car. I sensed their doubt, which only deepened my paranoia.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The surface was mirror still. Our footprints trailed from camp like a dotted line, the only human signatures for miles. Yet I could not shake the feeling that another set walked there too, perfectly parallel, just beyond the resolution of sight. I adjusted my camera strap and followed the guys into the granite maze, chasing a horizon that suddenly felt much farther away.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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By midday the granite had scraped every piece of small talk out of us. We trudged up switchbacks carved in pale stone that reflected the sun like a blade. Below, Lake Aloha glinted through slots in the cliff bands, ice floes drifting like slow white sharks.
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Dom tried joking that the exposed ridge would make a five-bar cell tower, but his voice sounded dry and brittle, as if even sarcasm had windburn. We gained Scab Ridge a little after three in the afternoon. It was less a ridge and more a spine of broken shale, slanted skyward like shattered crockery. No trees, no shelter, just low Krumholtz pines clawing along the seams.
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The place looked as if it had been sandblasted for a thousand years, and maybe it had. We dropped packs, boots crunching over gray flakes that chimed like plates. Victor pulled our topo map from his hip pocket, then froze. The pocket was empty. His eyes met mine, wide and glassy. I tore open my own lid pocket for the spare Sawyer squeeze filter. The plastic tubing unrolled in a neat ribbon.
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The filter body had been sliced lengthwise with such precision that the threads still matched up, two halves of a shell. Inside, the hollow fiber membrane hung like wet spider silk. Dom let out a slow exhale. This is someone's idea of a joke, right? Please tell me this is a joke. The wind whipped his words downslope like litter.
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All we could do was set camp before the storm clouds piled any higher. By 4.30, the barometer in Victor's watch had nosedived. The sky looked bruised purple over Pyramid Peak. We wedged tent stakes deep between slabs and draped rock ghosts of granite over every guy line. Dinner was raw tortillas and jerky, washed down with meltwater we strained through a t-shirt.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I tried returning to a normal routine, hoping to shake the unease from my mind, but even in the crowded halls of my high school, I felt exposed, as if unseen eyes constantly watched me from the shadows. At home, every creak and shuffle amplified into something sinister.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The missing filter weighed on us, so did every gust. Around six, the first thunderhead flowered over the crest, tossing a curtain of sleet across the valley. The hiss sounded like static from an untuned radio. We crawled into Dom's three-person tent because none of us wanted to spend a night alone with the memory of that figure-eight knot.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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My camera sat on the vestibule floor, programmed for interval shots every two minutes, just in case. i doubted it would soothe anyone's nerves but documenting felt like the only agency i still had sometime after full dark could have been nine could have been midnight the first stones clicked three quick taps sharp as glass marbles a pause three slow taps spaced like drip lines in a cave
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Another pause. Three more quick taps. My brain translated the rhythm before fear did. Dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot. SOS. Dom whispered, Kayla, please tell me that was runoff hitting talus. But even runoff has randomness. This pattern was deliberate, glass clear. I flicked my headlamp to red mode and unzipped the fly one inch.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The outside looked like the inside of a coffin, absolute black, sleet whispering across rock. The taps repeated. The cadence was closer, maybe twenty paces away. On the wind I caught a coppery tang, like old pennies and ozone right before lightning strikes. Victor's hand closed over my wrist. Listen to the interval. He breathed. It's shortening. He was right. The pause between each volley shrank.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Five heartbeats, then four, then three. Whoever, or whatever, was sending the Morse seemed to be walking between cycles, stepping closer with every burst. On the next volley, my camera shutter fired by itself. Three quick flashes lit the vestibule cloth. When the screen went dark again, I swore I saw a reflection, something metallic, an edge catching the light, far too close to be comforting.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Dom muttered that if anyone was messing with us, he'd pepper spray their teeth blue. But the bravado leaked from his voice. We sat shoulder to shoulder, breathing shallow. Then the wind shifted, and for half a second we heard something breathe back. Wet, rasping, like lungs full of gravel. Victor edged the zipper wider, scanned a snow patch six yards away.
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In the red glow we found one print, a boot, vibram sole, the heel lug missing.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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i remembered the station wagon flyer the lonely boot in the snowbank earlier that morning the sheriff's email blast last summer about a hiker who had taken an ice axe to the shoulder near heather lake nothing stolen no motive just all the gear slashed beyond use dom reached outside brushed sleet from the print rim the edges were crisp it had been laid down minutes ago landing light toes canted inward as if the wearer placed weight like a stalking cat
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Each night since the incident, I checked every lock, repeatedly peering through blinds, searching the darkened streets for any sign of danger. On the third night after the incident, I was alone again, sitting anxiously in my bedroom. My parents had left earlier to visit relatives out of town, and I hadn't dared tell them the full story. I didn't want to worry them, or worse, sound paranoid.
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Lightning flashed over Pyramid Peak, illuminating the keyhole past three-quarters of a mile to the east. In that single strobe we saw him, a figure in a gray parka, machete hanging like a steel limb, standing dead center in the bottleneck. When the light died, silhouette and all, the world went dark again. My stomach dropped. The keyhole funneled every exit trail westward.
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Granite walls on either side soared enough to sheer wind into a howl. No way around without ropes, or days of bushwhacking down avalanche chutes. Thunder crunched. Sleet shifted to needlepoint rain, drumming the fly, bleeding through seams. We killed our headlamps, locked the zipper, and huddled on foam pads. Victor toggled his little ham band radio, hoping for weather updates.
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Static swallowed the band until a noise crawled through, wet mouth breathing, each inhale sticking on the speaker cone, then impossibly a whisper, probably a skier who shredded a binding. My own words parroted back in a husky mimic of my voice. Dom's hand slapped the radio off. We waited, ears straining for the next volley of taps, but none came. The sender no longer needed Morse.
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He knew we were awake. Outside, the storm flogged the ridge, tearing at guy lines. Each snap of nylon sounded like a footfall. I watched the curve of the tent wall, expecting a blade to press against it. Minutes crawled in single digits, then fused into hours.
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At some point I dozed, but every time sleet changed tone I jerked back to consciousness, chasing phantom clicks that might have been inside my own skull. Right before dawn, the wind dropped so suddenly it felt staged, silence settled, thick as wool. The tent fabric glowed gray with first light, and for the briefest heartbeat I let myself think, maybe we imagined all of it. Then Victor whispered,
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Do you smell iron? A metallic note filled the air, stronger than copper now. He unzipped the fly a handspan. The storm had dusted everything in a sugar coat of grapple, perfect for catching prints. Around our tent, less than two yards out, a single line of boot tracks arced in a flawless circle, each step the same vibram sole, heel lug gone, toe angled toward us.
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The trail overlapped itself again and again, a tightening noose. Where our own prints should have crossed yesterday's path, there was nothing. Only the strangers, as if he'd erased ours. In the exact center of the circle sat a new twig sculpture, three figures again, all snapped. Dom backed into the tent, muttering a prayer he half-remembered from childhood.
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Victor's face went the color of wet ash. My pulse hammered in my throat hard enough to hear. We did not eat breakfast. We packed in silence, every zipper a gunshot on the ridge. When we shouldered packs, the sun hissed behind a fresh wall of cloud. The keyhole pass lay east, but none of us wanted to march under that gray parka sentinel.
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Instead, we studied the map in Victor's memory and chose the only alternative. a class four gully locals call hourglass a drainage that drops two thousand vertical feet toward echo creek it was a desperate idea half plan half prayer but it led away from the circle and the print and the broken dolls As we cinched hip belts, I checked my camera one last time.
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The auto-shot sequence had captured three images during the lightning. In the first, a silver line glints near the tent, blade-sharp, curved like a machete edge. In the second, that same reflective arc is closer, maybe ten feet behind Victor's silhouette. In the third, nothing but sleet and night and static. I scrolled to the end.
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As midnight came and went, my ears picked up a faint sound from downstairs, a soft, almost inaudible creak near the back door. I froze instantly, ears straining. Another faint noise followed, a muffled shuffling from somewhere below. Cold dread surged through my body. Reaching silently to my bedside table, I grabbed my phone, its screen illuminating my trembling fingers as I stood.
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The last frame, timestamped four seconds after the series, showed the inside of a hood. Bark-colored cloth stitched like scales, a seam of bone beads running down the crown. Just before the shutter closed, the hood tilted, revealing teeth, far too many, filed to points, smiling straight into the lens. My breath stopped cold.
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The suggested detour appeared just up ahead, a narrow, unpaved road diving sharply into the dense forest, its entrance swallowed by thickening shadows. My pulse quickened as I neared it, eyes involuntarily drawn to the looming, darkened woods. Then I saw them again.
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I shut the camera, slid it deep in the pack, and followed Victor and Dom into the broken white dawn, toward the lip of hourglass gully, away from the laughter that I swear echoed in the wind once, and then was gone.
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the light that finally crept over scab ridge felt wrong thin and gray like old dishwater it was barely half-past four in the morning when i stepped outside and saw what the dawn had painted around us the circle of single boot prints was tighter than i remembered
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Each heel-less vibram pressed into the dust with surgical precision, all toes angled at our tent as if the prints themselves were leaning in to listen. Dead center sat the new twig sculpture. Three figures, each snapped at the waist, splinters angling upward like broken ribs.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Victor lifted it with two fingers, slipped it into an evidence bag, and whispered that if we survived he would mail it straight to the sheriff. Dom just stared and muttered the same line over and over. We were never supposed to be here. The rational thing would have been to bolt for the keyhole pass and hope the machete man in the gray parka had frozen solid overnight.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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But every exit trail ran through that bottleneck, and the thought of marching beneath his watchful silhouette made my gut roil. So we gambled on folklore instead of footpaths, a Class IV drainage locals call Hourglass Gully, a 2,000-foot slide of ice-polished granite that angles south toward Echo Creek. Victor recited the plan like a triage checklist.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Descend the gully, contour the creek, gain the service road, hitch a ride. Simple. On paper. In real life, the top of hourglass looked like the throat of a great stone hourglass ready to swallow whatever grains fell in. The walls were streaked with verglas. Wind had blown marble-sized hail into every ripple, and far below we could hear meltwater roaring like an engine.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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By the time we shouldered our packs, the sun was no more than a pale bruise behind storm debris. The iron smell from the footprint circle clung to my nostrils. Victor went first, planting his ice axe and skittering sideways down the first ten yards. Dom followed, boots scraping sparks where crampons would have been. I slipped last, camera swinging across my chest, hands numb on trekking poles.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The moment we committed the wind kicked up behind us, one long exhale, almost like a sigh of satisfaction. The descent became an exercise in controlled terror. Every twenty feet the rock changed texture, smooth as porcelain, then rough as shark skin, then back again. We crab walked, chimneyed, slid on packs. About a third of the way down, Dom spotted something wedged in a basin of blow-in snow.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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He cursed and waved us over. It was a shredded backpack, forest green nylon flayed like a burst fruit. Inside we found a cracked satellite messenger, a coil of paracord sliced in three clean segments, and a laminated photo ID for Evan Torres, age 33, last seen April 18th. The date hit me like a mallet.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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that was the missing entry torn from the register victor tucked the id into his medical pouch none of us spoke but the knowledge hung between us someone had come this way first and never made it out we pressed on halfway down the hourglass the gully narrowed to a neck not much wider than a hallway fresh scuffs lined the rock
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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chips no bigger than finger-nails the kind a blade might leave when scraped across granite wind funneled through moaning like a giant animal every few minutes loose pebbles rattled down behind us then ahead as if something paced the rim edges in sync with our descent
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Three hundred feet above the apron, the gully pinched again, forming a ledge the width of a kitchen table, before dropping sheer another thirty feet. We paused to rig Dom's trekking pole to his bear spray canister, duct-taped into a crude spear. Victor stepped to the edge, scouting rappel anchors.
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Slowly, cautiously, I crept downstairs. My pulse raced, my breathing shallow. I gripped my phone tighter, ready to call the police at the slightest indication of trouble. I glanced around the empty living room, shadows deep and unmoving. The back door appeared untouched. I approached quietly and tested the knob, relieved to find it locked securely.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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That's when a cascade of slate hissed down the chute behind us, followed by a single, deliberate tap of stone against stone. i swung my camera up and fired a burst flashes strobing white across wet granite in the instant after the second flash i saw him gray parka hood up machete held backward like a butcher knife sliding down the wall with impossible balance
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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eyes reflecting the strobe like an animal caught in high beams. Another flash and he was closer, maybe twenty feet, face still hidden by the bark-stitched mask, but teeth glinting through the slits, too many teeth for any human smile. Dom lunged, thrusting the spear forward while triggering the spray.
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A cloud of orange mist billowed across the ledge, and for a heartbeat the figure vanished inside it. The sound that crawled out of that vapor did not belong in a human throat. Half laugh, half growl, wet and jubilant. The machete came first, slicing air inches from Dom's knuckles. Victor drove his shoulder into the parka, and the three of us lurched as one writhing mass.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The ledge surrendered with a crack. Rock sheared away beneath our boots and all four of us pitched over the lip. I caught a flash of bark mask, pale cheeks splotched with scabs, eyes wide with glee as the world flipped upside down. Then gravity took conversation out of the equation. We fell ten feet to a snow shelf. The impact punched every breath from my lungs.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Victor landed beside me, ankle twisting with a snap like dry kindling. Dom crashed farther downslope, rolling until his pack wedged against a boulder. The gray parka slammed face-first into the same boulder edge, bounced, and skittered toward the runout. My camera, still firing, stuttered frames of the fall, blur, snow, blur.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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One flash froze the parka figure mid-tumble, mask half-torn, revealing skin puckered with old burns around feral gums.
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in the next frame empty sleet filled the view the man was gone either buried in alder thicket or swallowed by meltwater roaring beneath the snow bridge silence reclaimed the chute except for victor's hissed curses over his ankle we did not go looking for a corpse if horror had taught us anything it was that a body that disappears does so for a reason
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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the remaining descent blurred into a mix of adrenaline and hypothermic focus we splinted victor's ankle with trekking poles and tape then three-legged our way to the base of hourglass where the granite gave up and young pines chewed at the sky Echo Creek foamed along the valley floor, and beyond it we found the maintenance road, a ragged thread of mud studded with fallen limbs.
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We limped west, each step another tiny proof of survival. Sometime around dusk, my watch was cracked but the light told the story. We staggered into the Lake Echo trailhead, the same lot that had felt so harmless two mornings ago. Weekend day hikers crowding the kiosk turned their heads at the sight. Three mud-cake strangers, one limping, all wild-eyed. Someone called 911.
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A search-and-rescue team arrived before full dark, bundled us in blankets, and listened while Victor laid out evidence like a grim show-and-tell. Twig effigies. The phone video. The broken filter. Evan Torres's ID. The SAR sweep began that night. Two days later, they found a cave carved beneath a granite overhang halfway between Scab Ridge and the keyhole.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Inside were dozens of twig dolls, some whole, some broken, pyramids of stolen gear, and a portable hard drive cataloging night vision videos of sleeping hikers dated from 2017 to 2025. No body, no gray parka, no machete. Just a smell of rusted pennies, and a lingering sense that the owner might return any minute to collect his trophies.
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Yet, as I turned away, I heard another sound, clearer this time, a quiet thump coming unmistakably from the garage. I hesitated only a second before approaching the garage door, heart pounding louder with each step. With a shaky hand, I gently tested the handle. My stomach dropped when the door swung open silently, unlocked.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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We gave our statements, fielded media calls, and endured the sideways looks that people reserve for storytellers whose tales sound too cinematic. Dom's frostbitten selfie snapped during the ledge fight went viral in 48 hours. The flash overexposed so badly that the teeth in the background seemed to float in darkness.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Victor's ankle healed, though he swears he still feels pressure on it when storms roll over the Sierra. As for me, I posted the full account to the Backpacking Horror subreddit, including links to the photos. Most commenters screamed ARG, some yelled Sasquatch, a few believed every word.
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Weeks later a sheriff's deputy emailed to say the case files for the Heather Lake assault and three earlier disappearances were officially reopened. But investigations move slow as glaciers, and glaciers melt quicker than justice in the backcountry.
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i have not camped since my gear lies in a plastic tote zipper pulls tied with figure eight knots i practiced so i would never forget the shape some nights when the wind threads through the eaves of my apartment just right i still hear stone tapping stone three quick three slow three quick i tell myself it is nothing If you ever walk into desolation wilderness early in the season, remember this.
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Footprints can lie, silence can be louder than screams, and the safest zipper is the one you watch until dawn. Check every knot in your rainfly, someone else might have tied it first. I always thought the Blue Mountains sounded gentle, like a lullaby you could hike into. But by the spring of 1997, I knew better.
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They rise east of Pendleton like busted knuckles, all cedar spines and basalt cliffs, and they hide enough silent acres to swallow a man's name whole. That was the draw.
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After the breakup and the layoff and the last bar fight I will never admit I started, I packed a rucksack, clipped Jasper's leash to the belt loop of my jeans, and drove the forest service road until gravel turned to ruts and radio turned to static. I counted 12 creek crossings, killed the engine, and watched dust settle in my headlights like tired ghosts that could finally rest.
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Jasper, half shepherd, half anything fast, bounded out first, nose to damp air, tail sweeping the dark like a metronome set to hope. I should have taken the hint when his ears flattened the moment I shut the truck door. Instead, I told myself he smelled an elk or a black-tailed deer and shouldered my canvas tent. We walked south by headlamp, following a game trail that never saw boots.
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Frost clung to the sword ferns, each step crunched beneath us with the soft tact of breaking bones under blankets. Somewhere far below, a creek carried moonlight and snowmelt toward the Umatilla River. I counted a dozen switchbacks, never numbers, just quiet milestones in my mind to keep pace with the crunch of Jasper's paws.
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And then we dropped into a flat shoulder of land just wide enough for a fire ring and a dream of comfort. The forest pressed in tight, but the stars overhead were a promise worth believing. The first three days blurred the way good moments do. Morning coffee percolated over embers while Jasper stalked chipmunks in the underbrush.
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I fished a nameless creek cold enough to stun my hands, threading bright brook trout onto a willow branch like stained glass prisms. At dusk, I wrote in a spiral notebook about starting life from page one again, as if you could just flip back through yourself and find uncreased sheets. When sleep came, it was the thick, drooling kind you only earn a mile above cell service.
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I stared into the pitch black interior, my thumb shaking as I switched on my phone's flashlight. footprints wet and muddy glistened faintly on the concrete floor heading toward my car a sudden wave of nausea rose sharply in my throat before i could move or even think the house plunged into darkness everything went silent My phone buzzed suddenly, causing me to jump.
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On the fourth evening, the woods went still. I was coaxing a curl of cedar bark into flame when Jasper froze, halfway between firelight and treeline, nose aimed at the ridge. No wind, no crickets, just a hush so complete my heartbeat felt uncivil. I waited for a twig to snap or a branch to sway. Nothing. Then, from somewhere above the campsite, a whistle floated down.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Three notes, low, lower, then high, light as a child's dare blown into an empty bottle. Lost hiker, I called, pretended my voice didn't quaver. The whistle answered itself from the other side of the clearing, the same three notes but thinner, as though strained through teeth that never learn to purse. Jasper growled, a rattling sound I had never heard from him, and backed onto my cot.
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I raked the fire higher, hoping the blaze would make the unseen seen, but the shadows only danced harder. Smoke drifted into the pines, sparks winked out against bark black as space, and whatever watched us stayed just beyond the border where sight turns to faith. I told myself it was wind whistling through broken limbs. The lie held until dawn.
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When gray light bled through the canopy, I found footprints circling the tent. bipedal but wrong no heel just a wide pad and four toes splayed like the bones of a hand pressed flat in mud beside each set claw marks scored the earth shallow yet deliberate as though something sketched sigils while it paced
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i checked jasper for injuries none but his gaze never left the ridge fog gathered quick rolling in off distant valleys to swallow the sky i slung the pack intending to hike out but jasper planted himself at the river crossing and refused to step on to the stones On the opposite bank, embedded in a slick of silt, was another foot-hand print pointing upstream.
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Above it, eight feet up a fur trunk, a fresh gouge oozed sap like a weeping eye. I tried the rational path. Probably a black bear. Black bears do not whistle. Maybe a prank hunter. Hunters leave boot treads in beer cans, not symmetrical rings of clawed hieroglyphs. By noon the fog had knitted itself into a ceiling. I knelt beside the creek for water, and the surface threw back my reflection.
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Only it wasn't alone. Behind me, rippling with the current, loomed a face stretched long, jaw slack. eyes two pits that drank all light the image shattered when a trout kissed the surface but the hollow in my chest stayed that night i banked a wall of stones around the fire and sat with jasper's head on my lap Somewhere in the black timber, the whistle sounded again.
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Same notes, but now an octave lower, almost mournful. Jasper rose, hackles a ridge of wire. I unhooked my hatchet from the pack and waited. Flames collapsed. The forest exhaled mist across the campsite, smothering the ember glow until only the lantern remained. Its halo reached maybe ten feet.
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something stepped inside it gray skinned long as hunger elbows folding backward like a mantis that remembered being a man its grin cut ear to ear cheeks split around teeth narrow and many like shims hammered into rotting wood Where eyes should glint, there was only dull slate that reflected nothing, not even fear. Jasper leapt.
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The creature's legs hinged sideways, dodging with a grace that mocked gravity. It flicked one arm, hand, claw, and Jasper tumbled, yelping but unbitten, as if the thing wanted the chase, not the kill. I raised the hatchet. The creature cocked its head, then whistled our three-note dirge at double speed. The sound hit my skull like vertigo, spinning the world off axis. Firelight tilted.
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On the screen, an unknown number flashed. You didn't check the trunk. A wave of cold panic crashed over me. Every instinct screamed to run, to get out anywhere else. But fear propelled me forward. With adrenaline surging, I hurried outside into the pouring rain, moving toward my parked car. My hands shook violently as I reached for the trunk, keys fumbling in my fingers.
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The air tasted of rust and old coins. I blinked. It was gone. The trees held only fog and the bass drum of my heart. Jasper limped back to my side, panting. The lantern sputtered. I dared to think it over. A rasp behind me sliced the thought in half.
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canvas tore from ground to peak one clean stroke down the tent wall the lantern's flame guttered showing nothing but the flap's ragged edge curling inward like a peeled-back wound cold seeped through the slit carrying the faint sweet reek of rot blooming in spring then silence again thicker than before
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I knelt beside Jasper, pressed my palm to his racing chest, and waited for the next whistle, the next step, the next impossible grin to lean through that open seam. None came. The dark simply watched. And that was how we learned the forest can grin.
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I did not sleep until dawn smeared a sickly yellow through the fog, and even then every blink felt like falling, every creak of branch a breath against my neck.
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by sunrise i knew two things for certain the whistle would return and if jasper and i stayed one more night beneath those tilting pines the forest would finish what it had started i left the tent flayed the fire-pit cold and the journal pages flapping in a breeze that carried three faint notes after us low lower high like a promise spoken in a tongue older than birdsong.
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And still, somehow, the dog wagged his tail, trusting that I would find the trail home. Dawn arrived like a bruise, yellow and sick along the horizon. I did not greet it. I endured it, crouched by the gutted tent as Jasper nosed the ground in frantic spirals.
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the slash through the canvas still wept threads and in its shadow lay a new arrangement jasper's collar tags meticulously pried off in the night now gleamed in three perfect circles around the dead fire each ring smaller than the last an artist's signature in metal and dread pack or perish the ranger handbook would have said if i'd bothered to bring one
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So I packed, shoved stove, blanket, and half-melted lantern into my rucksack, left the torn tent to the thing that wanted trophies. Jasper whined when I cinched the straps over his shallow claw wound, but he wagged anyway, loyal to a fault. We faced the eastern ridge, its spine lost to fog as thick as plaster dust, and stepped into the unknown.
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The climb began gently enough, soft duff under boots, cedar boughs dripping last night's sorrow, but within ten minutes the trail narrowed to a knife edge of shale. Every footfall set pebbles rattling into the abyss on either side, their echoes swallowed long before they struck bottom.
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somewhere below water rushed unseen a hush that felt like a held breath behind us the whistle rose same three notes low lower high but now echoed by a second voice half a beat late like children answering each other across a playground I imagined two of them, maybe three, pacing just out of view, elbows bending wrong as they mirrored my stumble for stumble.
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Jasper stopped often to look back, hackles stiff, tail low. Each time I urged him on, my throat too dry to swallow the word go. At the ridge's midpoint a stand of whitebark pines leaned east, their trunks scarred at waist height. I brushed one with my palm and found fresh gouges, sap still bleeding. Another whistle, closer, jubilant. Jasper and I pushed faster, stones skipping away beneath us.
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The trunk clicked open softly, and my flashlight revealed something crumpled within. My stomach twisted painfully at the sight. A torn piece of flannel, soaked dark, heavy with a rotten metallic scent. Blood. I slammed the trunk shut, gasping for air. Backing away, my shaking hands dialed 911. My voice came raggedly, barely coherent as I begged them to hurry.
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My pack slapped my spine like a rebuke for staying this long. Fog folded thicker as we dipped into a saddle between peaks. Deadfall choked the slope. Winter-killed lodgepoles stacked like a giant's game of pick-up sticks. We threaded the maze, ducking branches, hopping trunks slick with lichen. Halfway through, a crack split the morning.
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Not above, behind, a sap-dry limb snapped free and tumbled, sending a cascade of branches clattering in its wake. The avalanche struck us in a blur of bark and pine dust. Jasper yelped as a limb pinned his hind leg. I dropped the hatchet and heaved, heart pounding in my temples. Wood groaned. My forearms screamed. One final surge and the trunk rolled aside.
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Jasper limped free, shaking but alive, his flank ribboned with a shallow red. i dared a glance uphill there not fifteen paces away crouched the creature no two their limbs folded insect thin heads cocked in eerie symmetry one drummed its fingers on a fallen trunk tap tap tap curious almost polite The other grinned so wide its cheeks tore anew, black gum seeping like oil.
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When I swung the hatchet, they melted backward into the mist, leaving only the whistle, now taut with impatience. We emerged onto a burn scar from the wildfire of 1993. acres of charred pillars reaching skyward like beseeching arms. Here, daylight felt stronger, reflecting off ash and bone-white snags.
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The whistle faltered at the edge of this wasteland, the notes warping as though the scorched air itself resisted the tune. I cracked an emergency flare. Crimson fire spat sparks, painting Jasper and me in bloody light. The creatures hovered at the tree line, skin blistering where the red glow touched. One hissed, a wet tea kettle screech, and retreated behind a pillar of unburned fur.
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The other lingered long enough for me to see its eyes, pale discs swirling with something impossibly deep, before it too vanished. We threaded the graveyard of trees at a jog, Jasper limping but determined. The flare fizzed and popped, its brilliance shrinking fast. My gut clenched at every sizzle.
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When the last ember died, the whistle began anew, distant but persistent, riding the wind like a bloodhound's bay. The map in my mind said one half mile to an abandoned logging road, then another mile to the main track. Every bend teased salvation, a rise, a dip, a stand of alder that should have been the road but never was.
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Behind us the forest came alive with pursuit, scratching trunks, limbs snapping under two light feet. Bark shrapnel peppered my shoulders. at last between two moss-clad boulders gravel appeared twin ruts swallowed by weeds but unmistakable road i had no breath left to cheer jasper surged ahead tongue lolling and i followed legs jelly vision tunneling
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Headlights flared through the fog, an incandescent miracle. A Forest Service pickup bounced into view, some lone ranger running a seasonal survey. I waved both arms, wheezing. Jasper barked once, hoarse. The truck braked to a gravel-spitting halt. In the rearview glare, I saw them halt at the treeline. Three silhouettes now, mouths unhinging in a silent, perfect harmony.
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Then, like smoke drawn back into a chimney, they folded into shadow and were gone.
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the ranger ramirez badge number i later memorized like a prayer bundled jasper into the cab and peeled out so hard my stomach stayed behind we didn't slow until pendleton's hospital lights replaced pines in the windows doctors stitched jasper's flank wrapped my forearms and pumped fluids into a body that felt borrowed Search teams hiked in that afternoon.
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They found the shredded tent, the circles of tags, the prints that looked like hands without wrists. They photographed claw marks eight feet up on sap-bleeding furs. They found no boot tracks but mine, no animal sign that matched. By dusk, the report read inconclusive but concerning. I read never go back.
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Within minutes, flashing blue lights illuminated the neighborhood, officers combing through my car and yard, methodically searching for evidence. Later, sitting dazed and trembling on my porch, a detective approached with a grim face. He explained they'd finally found fingerprints inside the trunk. Prince matching an escaped inmate from Lake County Jail. He'd been missing for over a week.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
i sit now in my apartment overlooking nothing wild jasper asleep at my feet fresh collar jingling with new tags that shine too brightly the old ones rest in a drawer three rings i will never disturb on the desk my journal lies open to its last line written in a shaking hand that barely looks like mine if the mountains call again let some one else answer
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Every so often, city wind whistles through cracked window seals, three notes almost familiar, but I close the pane before the final pitch can rise. Jasper lifts his head, meets my eyes, and settles again with a sigh that sounds too human. We made it out alive. That will have to be enough.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I set off before dawn on the 9th of August, 2024, chasing a fading crescent moon up the switchbacks of the Kalmiopsis. The air still carried a hint of Pacific salt even this far inland, but every mile deeper traded that brine for the phantom tang of creosote, ghost smoke from the great Chetko bar fire eight summers ago.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Charcoal trunks of Douglas fir stood like cathedral pillars on either side of the faint tread, their bark split and silvered. I paused more than once just to listen, half convinced the forest would groan if the wind shifted. I am, by trade and temperament, a patient wildlife photographer. Solo treks suit me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
No chatter, no compromising shot angles, no apologies when I linger for that one perfect frame. The Perseid meteor shower was forecast to peak in two nights, and the barren granite saddle above the blackened basin would give me a panorama of unpolluted sky.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I carried a mirrorless body with a fast prime, a carbon fiber tripod, and a shotgun mic, plus the unromantic gear of anyone who plans to survive alone. Bear canister, two days of food, an in-reach beacon, laminated backcountry permit, and the rigid schedule of satellite check-ins my family insisted on. By late afternoon, the trail flattened onto a bench strewn with fire-bleached bones of madrone.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
their car sat idly by the roadside awkwardly parked half hidden among tall blackened trees both occupants stood silently beside the vehicle shoulders rigid eyes locked unblinkingly on to something unseen deep within the tangled forest Their postures were unsettlingly stiff, almost unnatural. Neither acknowledged my slow passage. It was as if I didn't exist.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The artfully ugly snags framed a view north that stretched on a clear day, all the way to the hump of Vulcan Peak. Smoke-blue haze dulled the horizon, but the air at my altitude was crystalline. I scouted a granite slab the size of a tennis court, checked for widow-makers above, and dropped my pack on a patch of fire moss, soft as felt, home for the night.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
As the sun bled behind the ridgeline, I pitched the ultralight tent, staked guylines between desiccated roots, and laid out the tripod facing north-northeast. The saddle fell away into a basin that fire had stripped to bedrock. In dusk's violet wash, it looked less like Earth than the scarred skin of some planet too close to its star. Perfect.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I set the camera to capture one long exposure every five seconds from nine in the evening until dawn. Shutter priority at three seconds. ISO just high enough to coax faint starlight. The mic would grab ambient forest sounds. A throw-in for a multimedia commission if the shots turned out marketable.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
With gear humming, I cooked a pouch of pasta, watched daylight fade to charcoal, then crawled into the tent with the flapping mesh door facing the basin. Whenever meteors scratched white across the sky, I grinned like a kid and whispered the imagined headline, Ash and Starlight, Perseids Return to Fire Country. Hours blurred in that trance where consciousness hovers between wakefulness and REM.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
At some dim point, maybe one in the morning, I woke to the camera's shutter ticking like a metronome. I rolled onto an elbow, unzipped the door and squinted. A soft orange glow pulsed on the far ridge, exactly where the burn scar crested half a mile away— Not campfire orange, more like the afterimage left when you stare at the sun too long, but richer, throbbing once every second.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I swallowed painfully as realization sank in. This wasn't random. He'd chosen me deliberately, set the trap, hidden in my car. He'd watched, waiting for the right moment, planning something terrible. Police canvassed the area thoroughly, finding similar traps on other roads nearby. Logs dragged into place, vehicles abandoned.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Flare, fade, flare, fade, lightning, but no thunder, lens flare, impossible, the camera pointed north, and nothing bright occupied that quadrant. I told myself the LCD might be feeding me artifacts, so I pulled a fresh frame onto the screen. There it was, a round ember blot dead center on the horizon. I scrolled back, another, scrolled forward, another, each in sync, heartbeat regular.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A line of sweat chilled along my spine. I sat outside with the mic headphones cupped over my beanie and listened. Beneath the soft hiss of nighttime forest, I heard it. A faint thump-thump, offset by a half second from my own pulse, as if the earth itself were echoing me with a slight mocking delay. Rationality resurfaced. probably a camper's lantern flickering behind scrub.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My permit didn't guarantee solitude, despite the remoteness, a handful of meteor chasers might sneak in last minute. I crawled back inside, zipped the fly, and told my adrenaline to stand down. But each time the glow brightened, the floor of the tent seemed to tighten under my sleeping pad, as though the granite itself were breathing.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I lay awake counting pulses until they merged with my heartbeat and sleep finally swallowed the difference. Dawn unveiled the basin in the cold palette of polished ash and dagger-gray stone. My camera battery was still chewing through its last interval, so I heated coffee, reviewed thumbnails, and tried not to dwell on what daylight would surely reduce to nothing.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Instead, the frame stared back with stubborn clarity. In sequence after sequence, the orange flare bloomed on the ridge every fifth shot, steadfast timing that mocked chance. I pinched-zoomed, expecting pixelation to dissolve the anomaly, yet the light retained a crisp halo, as though focused through a lens I had not set. Curiosity overruled caution.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I tore down camp in 15 minutes, slung my daypack, and plotted a beeline to the ridge using map and compass. The route dipped through an old slide choked with manzanita, then rose along the ghost spine of a dozer line bulldozed during the 2017 fire. Black dust clung to my calves like soot.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Morning cloak butterflies erupted from brittle shrubs at each step, silent except for the rattling of their wings. half an hour later i gained the ridge and found nothing where the glow had danced no campsite no lantern just a shallow circle in the volcanic grit four yards across its interior etched by bare footprints no larger than a grade schoolers
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Each print showed only the ball and toe, never the heel, and they spiraled inward clockwise, tightening until they ended in a single print at dead center. I reached down. The ash was warm, as though the prints retained body heat. I crouched, pulled my field thermometer from a hip pocket, and pressed the probe into the central print.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The readout climbed to 97 degrees Fahrenheit and held steady, matching my own core temperature. The surrounding ground read 17 degrees cooler. Pulse drummed in my ears. Fresh. Somebody messing around? But who moves barefoot through pulverized glassy ash? A scrap of paper lay curled at the circle's midpoint. I eased it free with tweezers. Old photographer's habit. It was no scrap.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The detective's voice faded into a distant murmur as my mind raced with horrifying possibilities. What had he planned for me? Long after the officers left, I sat alone on my porch steps, staring blankly into the rainy darkness. A chill ran through me, not from the cold, but from a terrible lingering truth that I would never again feel truly safe behind the wheel.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It was a Polaroid. The image showed a meteor streaking across a star-soaked sky over a ridge unmistakably similar to the one beneath my boots. Black ink timestamped the lower border. August 11, 2024, 2.15. Two nights from now. My breath fogged despite the rising temperature. A gust ruffled the Polaroid and on instinct I flipped it over. Blank. No smudge, no note.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I slipped it into a ziplock, then stood in the hush that only freshly awakened dread can carve. Any sane plan demanded retreat to the trailhead. Yet the photographer in me, foolishly in love with evidence, decided that one more night might uncover who or what had choreographed light, print, and heartbeat.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I rationalized, if someone was out here faking supernatural breadcrumbs, exposing them would be a public service. If not, well, unexplained phenomena sell prints. So I recorded new GPS coordinates, marked the circle with a cairn of three fist-sized stones, and began scouting a perch nearer the ridge for tonight's shoot. Clouds were already building over the coastal range.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Thunderheads would add drama, I told myself. The real reason was simpler, I needed to stare that ridge down until it confessed. I spent the afternoon gathering deadfall for a modest fire, strictly contained, legal under current restrictions, but psychologically essential. Flames fend off more than cold, they cast certainty in a place where shadows riot.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
While I snapped branches, I replayed a memory from the ranger station two days earlier. An elderly trail volunteer had leaned on the counter while I filled out permit paperwork and said, Watch out for heartlights and the burn scars. Folks say they throb in time with your ticker. Try to pull you home. She'd laughed at her own folklore, and I had grinned politely.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Now, with the Polaroid's timestamp burning a hole in my pocket, the joke felt like prophecy. By twilight, I had a new camp stamped into the ridge's abrasive crust. Tripod staked firm, lens pointed exactly where last night's orb had flared. I set the shutter interval again, five seconds all night, and clipped the in-reach to the center pole of my tent. I even typed a cheerful preset to my sister.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
All settled for night two. saw strange glow probably campers will photograph love you i omitted the footprints when darkness sealed the basin i brewed a second cup of coffee and waited beside the camera headlamp off trusting red light from my watch-face for orientation
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Crickets kept a tentative chorus in the new-growth downslope, and somewhere far off a mountain quail whistled its haunting wit-woo. For a moment the world was only pine resin, starlight, and the hum of lithium batteries. Then the glow feathered across the ridge crest. One slow pulse, warm as blood, exactly one second long. My watch ticked. The light faded. Another pulse bloomed.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My heart answered with a jump. I forced myself to breathe evenly, rolled a knuckle against the tripod grip to keep from jerking the camera off target. The mic meter on my monitor fluttered with each beat, and with the third flare I felt the granite slab shiver under my boots. So faintly it could have been imagination, except the water in my canteen danced tiny ripples.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I shot for an hour before the clouds marched in thick and hid the stars. When drizzle began, I sealed the weather hood around the camera and retreated inside the tent. Pulse after pulse painted the mesh door orange, softer now through mist. My eyelids drooped, the metronome glow lulling me into a truce where fear and fascination balanced on a razor's edge.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The woods had never been the threat. It was always something closer, hidden just out of sight, waiting quietly behind me. It was the first weekend of October, and I'd decided on a whim to rent a cabin up near Skyline Drive. I told myself it was to clear my head, decompress after the chaos of the past few months.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Tomorrow, I promised myself, I would hike out. Camera card full, mystery solved or not. But as the darkness flickered and my heartbeat fell into step with that distant, unseen lamp, the vow felt less like a decision and more like someone else's suggestion whispered through my own skull.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Sleep took me in a slow spiral, and the last sight before the dream edge slipped up was an ember halo atop the ridge, pulsing like a vast beacon. Flare, fade, flare, fade. One beat after my heart.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
i woke on the ridge at first light ribs aching from dreams of running in circles that never closed the basin below steamed where a dawn drizzle met sun-warmed ash and the world smelled like damp charcoal and struck flint I should have stuffed my gear and headed for the trailhead.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Instead, I traced the spiral of barefoot prints once more, now wind-scuffed but still discernible, and convinced myself a closer vantage would unravel the trick. By mid-morning I had shouldered the pack again. circling the burn scar until I found a knuckled spur of volcanic rock that thrust above the surrounding skeleton forest like the prow of a ship.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
From its crest, the twin ridgelines flanked a narrow gulch, an echo chamber made for sound. That mattered, because last night's pulses had not only glowed, they had thumped, and the earth had answered. If the ridge hid machinery, some prankster's subwoofer rig or a rogue prospector's generator, this perch would catch the vibration. Setting camp here felt like renting a room inside a thunderclap.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I leveled the tripod on the exposed slab, staked the tent in a gravel nook, then spent the afternoon pretending to journal while really timing my own heartbeat against the memory of that glow. Cloud anvils piled over the coast, dragging veils of verga that never hit the ridges, but the air thickened with the scent of ozone. as though a giant match kept striking just out of sight.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
At sunset, the forest fell abruptly silent. No crickets, no creak of charred limbs in the wind. Even the distant creek in Devil's Staircase Slot Canyon hushed, water swallowed by its own stone throat. I knew objectively that silence in burned landscapes can last minutes, maybe hours, but this quiet felt curated, an absence swept clean for something to speak. I powered up the camera.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The intervalometer blinked ready, five-second exposures, all night. I clipped a fresh battery pack, double-checked the lens cap off. To the shotgun mic I added a set of over-ear monitors, one cup on, one off, so I could track both the electronic hiss and the living dark. Nine o'clock slid by, then ten.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The meteors were shy behind gauzy cirrus, yet the sensor drank enough starlight to paint their faint scratches on the screen. I sipped lukewarm coffee and tried to ignore my wristwatch pulse reading. Sixty-eight climbing. At ten forty-two, the first orange bloom crowned the opposite ridge. One slow inhale long, then black.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A single pebble rattled from the spur, rolled to my boot, and settled as though it had completed its appointed task. A second pulse. Granite under me flexed, not quake violent, but the subtle bow of a timpani skin when struck. My heartbeat hit 73, and the watch vibrated a mild tachycardia alert I had never tripped before.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I whispered into the mic, partly for the record and partly to prove my voice still worked. Timestamp, 2243, pulse 2, feel ground resonance. The recording meter fluttered, but on the open ear the forest swallowed my words before they traveled a yard. The pulses quickened, one every seven heartbeats, then five.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Each flare sent rings of heatless light rippling across the gulch, outlining the scorched snags like x-rays. In the afterglow, I saw my own shadow projected on the ash, and beside it, a smaller silhouette frozen in mid-hop, toes dug, heel raised, as though my echo had birthed a child and left it to balance. I pivoted, lightheaded, and the shadow vanished before logic could recalibrate.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The monitor's audio trace spiked. A double knock, identical to the sound you make wrapping knuckles on cedar, but broadcast from everywhere at once. Headphones crackled, and a voice slid through the static like a razor through cloth. Foxtrot, 3-6, he follows the flash. Male, breathless, syllables clipped by panic. Adrenaline iced my limbs.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A breakup, a relentless workload, and the kind of insomnia you only ever see portrayed dramatically in movies. Really, though, I just needed silence. Real, deep silence. The kind of silence that only mountains could offer. I left Richmond a bit later than I'd intended, and by the time I turned onto Skyline Drive, the sun was barely clinging to the horizon.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I thumbed the radio band switch, certain the mic had bled into my headphones, except my mic fed a closed circuit with no transmitter. The message repeated, garbled coordinates embedded between bursts of static. I scribbled them in the margins of my journal, then cross-checked with the map. The digits matched my location within the width of a camp shovel. A date header followed the call sign.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
August 11th, 1991. 34 years gone. The next pulse washed the ridge, and in its strobe I saw the footprints again. Not in the basin, but ringing my tripod. as if they had hopped there while my eyes were elsewhere. They were larger now, the size of my own boots yet bare, arches deep, toes splayed. My watch alarm shrilled, heart rate 87 and climbing. I killed it with a shaking thumb.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
In the headphones, the unknown ranger gasped one final line, "'Stop him! Stop him!' before the channel collapsed into white hiss. "'Flash!' The camera shutter fired of its own accord, high-speed burst I had disabled. Six frames. Seven. Eight. Each strobe bled into the night, painting ghosts on my retinas.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
On the ninth flash I yanked the battery, yet the shutter clacked once more, empty power be damned, and the flash tube spat light hotter than magnesium, scorching my sleeve. When darkness snapped back, a figure stood twelve steps away at the ridge brink. Child tall, or crouched, or merely unfinished. It flickered like bad film. Edges jump-cutting. No face. No clothes.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Just ember glow radiating from within the silhouette like coal through gauze. I couldn't run. Couldn't photograph. So I spoke, absurdly polite, asking what it wanted. My voice shook the way tree limbs clatter in high wind. The figure tilted, listening, or mocking, and hopped forward on one foot. The ground pulsed beneath its landing, heartbeat for heartbeat with mine.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
For the first time in years I prayed, mundane and desperate, please stop.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
the figure's glow dimmed to a cinder then guttered out when my vision adjusted the ridge was empty yet the footprints remained now adult sized encircling the tripod in a perfect ring i packed by headlamp sweating despite the cooling night glancing over a shoulder that seemed to pulse independent of my body the camera i left locked on the slab the lens had fused to its mount in that last impossible flash
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Only the SD card mattered, and I slipped it into a waterproof pouch against my sternum, where it ticked with a warmth that matched my racing pulse. Inside the tent I lay fully clothed, boots on, bear spray in hand. The glow did not return, but every few minutes the basin exhaled a hush so total, I heard my blood in my ears, followed by a double knock from nowhere, like knuckles wrapping cedar.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Talk, talk. My heart answered involuntary, then slowed under a foreign rhythm not my own. Toward dawn, exhaustion smothered fear. In the last sliver of dreamless dark, I counted the knocks sifting through the ridges. They came in pairs, thirty-two sets, then silence, as though some unseen auditor had tallied a ledger and found the sum acceptable.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
When the first gray light lifted the treetops, I swore I would abandon the wilderness, mystery be damned. But outside, the trail south lay erased by spiraling footprints that led only deeper into the burn, and my compass needle spun like a coin deciding which of us it would betray first. Gray light seeped through the tent fabric like weak tea through muslin. I sat up, stiff-jointed, and listened.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
No wind, no birds, no drip of night rain off the vestibule, just my own pulse echoing in the hush. I unzipped the fly, expecting to meet the scent of wet ash. Instead, I tasted copper, as though the basin had pumped a fresh lungful of blood into the air. I broke camp in silence. Stakes slid from the gravel without protest. Even the zipper on the tent bag moved as if greased.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The sky had turned a deep shade of purple, threaded with streaks of fading orange. I knew the drive would be slow, winding through the heavy foliage of Shenandoah National Park. It didn't help that fog began rolling in, thick and milky, blanketing everything in a soft, smothering quiet. My GPS flickered out almost immediately, losing signal completely.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
With every task, I rehearsed the route home, down the bulldozer line, east across the slide, south to the trailhead. Yet the map in my head felt as flimsy as the Polaroid in my pocket. By the time I cinched the last strap on the pack, the sun had cleared the coastal ridge, painting the basin with cold gold. I set a bearing due south and marched.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The ash swallowed my footprints the moment they formed, but I forced a steady pace, counting breaths to drown the memory of those nighttime knocks. One hundred paces, two hundred, three. Charred trunks slid past like prison bars.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
the compass needle jittered then spun a lazy circle before settling exactly opposite the direction i walked i ignored it three hundred paces more a granite crease in the hillside promised new terrain maybe an escape from the burn scars spell I crested the fold and stepped into the very ridge circle I had fled before dawn. Shock froze me mid-stride.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The spiral of prints remained, but now each track matched the size of a tractor tire, the toe marks cleaving deep. The ash at their centers glowed faintly, as though embers slept beneath. I backed away, heart-hammering, and chose a different bearing. East this time. I trudged until sweat soaked my collarbones. When a clearing opened, I quickened with relief.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Until the clearing resolved into the same circle, the same impossible tracks waiting like an ambush. The forest, it seemed, had folded in on itself. Panic nipped the edges of reason. I sank to my knees outside the spiral and pressed gloved fingers into the ash. Warm again, warmer than before, almost feverish. The prints pulsed, a soft rise and fall I could feel through the ground.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My watch vibrated with a heart rate alert, 95, climbing. I yanked it off and flung it away. It landed inside the circle, right at the tightest coil of the spiral. where a single depression still smoldered like the pupil of a vast eye. Something gleamed beneath the dust, a sheen too smooth for volcanic grit. I brushed the ash aside. Glass, no, a sheet of obsidian so flawless it mirrored the sky.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The slab was shaped like an anatomically correct heart, valves and chambers etched in micro-veins of fire-fused quartz. And it was beating. Slowly, deliberately, each throb pushed a puff of warm air through the ash, as though the ridge exhaled. A childhood memory burst open. A fever dream from age nine. Orange lights hopping across my bedroom wall, pulsing to my panicked pulse.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I had forgotten that night until this instant, but now it returned clear as yesterday, and I understood. The thing in the ridge did not merely echo heartbeats. It collected them. It archived the rhythms of anyone foolish enough to answer its call, imprinting their lives into cooled lava, until the person themselves spiraled away. I staggered back, mind blazing with exit strategies.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The camera, every flare, every flash. It had wanted that light. A beacon to hitch itself to, or perhaps a trade. I unzipped the top pocket, feeling the SD card's faint warmth against my chest, and fumbled out the mirrorless body I had salvaged. The housing sat warped and dead, but the flash capacitor might still carry charge. I have what you want, I croaked, voice raw with ash.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Take it and let me go. No reply came, only the slow drum of stone heart in dust. I jammed the battery back into the camera, thumbed the power switch. Nothing. Desperate, I smacked the body against my palm. An angry red LED flickered. I spun the mode dial to full manual, cranked flash compensation to maximum, and pointed the lens straight into the spiral's center. I pressed the shutter.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I'd expected it might happen in these mountains, but it still made my gut tighten a little. I reassured myself that I knew roughly where my cabin was. Somewhere past Hazel Mountain Overlook, not far from Big Meadows Lodge. I adjusted my eyes to the darkness, my high beams slicing through the fog just enough to keep me from slipping off the narrow mountain road.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Light exploded. White hot. Star clean. More sun than strobe. The air trembled like a plucked string. In the blinding instant I saw hundreds of footprints overlapping mine, small to colossal, weaving a tapestry of vanished wanderers. At the epicenter, the obsidian heart splintered, shards hovering mid-pulse before collapsing into powder.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The flash died, leaving afterimages of amber spirals corkscrewing upward into a sky that now felt much too low. Silence clamped down, absolute and final. Then the compass in my breast pocket chimed, some low-budget navigation feature I had never used, and the needle locked south with a confidence it had not shown since yesterday.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The forest noise returned in a rush, jays squabbling, wind scraping snags, the distant rush of Devil's Staircase Creek. I did not look back. I followed the compass, sliding on loose scree, snagging pack straps on charred limbs, lungs burning but glorious with panic.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The burn scar receded, replaced by living fur and huckleberry, and at last I glimpsed the trailhead sign through dust-streaked lenses. My car sat alone, windshield powdered in pale ash carried by the night's storm. Across the glass, someone had traced two words with a fingertip. Frame 32. My hands shook as I dug out the SD card and jammed it into the camera's slot.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The body stayed lifeless, so I used a penknife to pry the card free again, wrapped it in a bandana, and drove until cell service returned. In a motel room near Gold Beach, I loaded the card into a laptop. Corrupted files, black thumbnails, until image 32 opened without hesitation. It showed me asleep on the granite slab first night, face slack, eyelids glowing with inner light.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Over my chest hovered a faint orange halo, the shape of a small human foot poised on the ball, heel raised, ready to hop. The timestamp read August 9, 2024, 1.59, a full minute before I ever set foot on the trail. I typed up everything you have just read, because stories want witnesses the way ridges want heartbeats.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
If you hike the Kalmiopsis during the Perseids, carry no camera, trust no compass that spins, and above all, ignore anything that pulses in time with your blood. Some circles, once entered, keep turning long after your feet are gone.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
They radioed me just after noon while I was fixing the northern fence line near Lake Owen, splicing wire with frozen fingers and trying not to think about how lonely the wind felt that high up. I'd just finished hammering the post in when the crackle of static broke over my belt radio. Then came Natalie's voice, calm, clipped, always half a second from barking. Calloway, you copy? Copy.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
You're the closest unit to Section 32. We've got an unregistered fire ring reported in a ravine northwest of Dead Horse Ridge. Some hikers called it in yesterday. Probably just a bunch of kids poaching elk tags. But dispatch tried hailing the permit holders. Three hunters from Cheyenne. No response. I want eyes on it before nightfall. I didn't ask why they'd send just one guy into Wendigo Gulch.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I already knew. I'd been here seven years, long enough to get sent on the errands no one else wanted. I was the solo guy, the widowmaker slot. Just me, a badge, and a sidearm I rarely used. They gave me the calls that were more check it out and report back than send back up, which suited me fine, most of the time.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The road felt unusually empty, no headlights coming from the opposite direction. It was unsettling, the absolute solitude of it. And then, just as I crested a hill near the overlook, something caught my eye. A pair of faint red taillights, glimmering through the haze, appeared ahead. A small wave of relief washed through me. At least I wasn't completely alone out here.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
still when she said section thirty two my stomach twisted just a little that wasn't the name printed on the map officially it was just a chunk of low ravine back country with no trails and very little foot traffic unless you counted the elk that bedded down there in the cold months
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But if you asked the old-timers at the feed store down in Centennial, or the quiet-skinned ute guy who sold me jerky sometimes, they'd call it something else. Wendigo Gulch. Stupid name. Myth stuff. I didn't care for it. Still, I felt that knot in my chest when I pulled off the gravel road and loaded up my pack with the usuals.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
trauma kit, Garmin, sidearm, flare gun, emergency sat phone, though I already knew from experience that the signal in that part of the forest was about as useful as a wet match. It was a three mile hike in, over crusted snow and black rock, just steep enough to feel like the mountain was trying to shove you back down every time you found your footing.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The trees out there were different, bigger, older, as if they'd been spared from the wildfires and thinning projects. Pine trunks black with age, moss grown thick enough to muffle your own footsteps. When I reached the gulch, the temperature dropped like a curtain being pulled. The campsite sat maybe ten yards off a frozen creek bed.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
No tents pitched, just three cots laid bare under a half-collapsed tarp. One of the camp chairs was overturned. I found a pot of coffee on a cold burner, half full, still warm. There was food on a metal plate, half eaten. Elk steak, from the smell, not even cold. Which meant someone had been here, very recently. But the place had the kind of quiet that wasn't right.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
No birds, not even the tick of melting snow from the tree limbs. The rifles were what really set me off. All three leaned against a boulder by the fire ring, stocks still dry, safety off, no shell casings nearby. A box of ammunition, unopened, sat on a log. No one left guns like that, not seasoned hunters, not unless they left in a hurry. I crouched down, tried to make sense of the tracks.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
At first glance, it looked like a mess of boots scuffed into the snow and pine needles. But as I traced it farther out, I realized what I was actually seeing. Bare footprints. Wide. Spread. No shoes. The toes dug into the frozen ground deep enough to split skin. I followed them with my eyes until they vanished into the woods. toward a ridge that dropped off hard into the deeper gulch.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
They weren't walking. They were running. I thumbed my radio. Dispatch, this is Ranger Calloway. I found the camp. No sign of the hunters. Gear's all here, but... I hesitated. Something's off. Please advise. Static. Nothing else. No squelch. No carrier ping. I waited, then tried again. Still nothing. Sunlight was thinning behind the ridge now.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
That late afternoon gray that says you've got about an hour before it's too dark to matter. I made the call to stay put. Mark the location. Spend the night. Hike out in the morning to get a better signal. If they came back, I'd be here. If not, I could guide a team back in tomorrow. I pitched my tent in a tight clearing maybe 30 yards from the site.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I didn't like being that close to the gear, but I didn't like leaving it unmonitored either. I set up a small perimeter with clacker wire and old soda cans, redneck motion sensors, but they'd worked more than once. Night fell fast. I lit no fire, not out of caution.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I just didn't feel like warming myself while those empty boots sat by a cold campfire across from me, like ghosts waiting to be told what went wrong. Around midnight, I heard it. At first, I thought it was wind.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
a low push through the trees slow and rolling but it had a rhythm to it inhale hold exhale too wet too close to be the wind i didn't move then it shifted off to the left of my tent maybe 20 feet out same sound same slow drag of breath like something was pacing heavy but careful something that knew how to move quiet even when it weighed a lot. Pine needles crackled, but just barely.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I figured it had to be another traveler headed toward Big Meadows, or perhaps a park ranger patrolling. I kept a careful distance behind them, but soon, I noticed something off. The lights never varied in brightness. never disappeared around corners or dips in the road. It was as if they were maintaining a precise distance, hovering consistently about 50 yards ahead.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I held my breath, gripped the flare gun under my sleeping bag. I didn't call out, didn't want to break whatever thin veil of distance still held between us. It circled, slow as a clock hand. Then it stopped, right by my tent door. I could feel it, like pressure in my ears. No smell, no heat, just... presence. That's when the scream came. It wasn't close. Not yet.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It came from somewhere deeper in the gulch, echoing off the rock. But I'll never forget how it sounded. Not like a man yelling. Not like someone in pain. It was studied. Drawn out. Broken up in places like the thing doing it had heard screaming before but didn't understand where it started or ended. My chest went cold. Another scream followed, closer this time. Then silence.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I don't remember falling asleep, just that at some point I stopped shaking long enough to close my eyes. When I woke again just before dawn, the tent was still. But outside, in the pale gray light, I saw them. Gouges in the bark of the trees. Three of them. Clawed deep, twelve feet up, and in the snow, a new trail of barefoot prints, circling my tent.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
When the sun finally broke over the ridge, it didn't bring any warmth with it. The light just made everything look worse. I sat hunched outside my tent, staring at those claw marks carved into the pine like something was trying to dig its way to the sky. Twelve feet up, maybe more. I don't spook easy.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I've been bluff charged by black bears, pulled bodies from snowmelt creeks, even been lost once in Yellowstone for a full 12 hours with nothing but a busted compass and a dying radio. But this, this was different. It wasn't panic, it wasn't even fear, not really. It was the kind of cold dread that settles in your gut and sits there. heavy as lead, whispering you're already too far gone.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I packed quickly, tent down, gear strapped, flare gun back on my hip. The snow had crusted overnight, and the prints around my tent had hardened into near-perfect casts. Five toes, wide ball, deep heel, human, barefoot. But they weren't mine, and they weren't here the day before. I followed them, Against every instinct I had.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Not because I wanted to, but because something told me I needed to see where they went. Something in my bones said it mattered. They led away from the clearing in a jagged, looping pattern. Like whatever left them couldn't quite decide where it was going. The tracks twisted around trees, doubled back, then broke in a straight line toward the deeper gulch.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I followed them for maybe half a mile, until they stopped. Not faded, not obscured, just stopped. Like the thing had lifted itself clean off the ground. That's when I smelled it. Rot. Not the sharp, sweet kind that comes with a fresh kill, but the deep, earthy stench of something long dead. It came in waves, almost like heat. I took a few cautious steps forward, scanning the treeline.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Nothing moved. The forest was still frozen in that unnatural hush. No birds, no squirrels, not even the creak of branches. Then I saw it. A ribcage. Not human. Probably elk. But it was wrong. It had been hoisted into a tree, twenty feet off the ground, jammed between two limbs like a macabre offering.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The spine had been split clean down the middle and peeled open, ribs bent outward like skeletal wings. Snow had dusted over the exposed bone, but the meat was still red. Steam curled up from where it hung. I stood there a long time, watching my breath fog the air, trying to piece together the timeline. The hunters were here maybe two days ago. I'd spent the night in their camp.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
And oddly, despite the curves and hills, they moved fluidly, smoothly, without shifting position or even briefly disappearing from sight. I glanced down at my dashboard clock, 9.27 p.m. Hadn't it read the same time earlier? I shook the thought away, dismissing it as fatigue."
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Now I was looking at a fresh kill suspended like it had been displayed. That was when I heard the branch crack behind me. I turned slow, one hand dropping to the grip of the flare gun, the other brushing against the butt of my sidearm. I didn't draw yet. I waited. The trees gave me nothing at first. Then something shifted far back, maybe 30 yards off.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
at first i thought it was a bear big shape hunched half hidden behind a stand of spruce but then it stepped out and i saw its arms too long wrong angle at the elbows skin the color of ash pulled tight over bone It was a man, or had been once. He was naked, feet blood black from cold, chest rising and falling in quick bursts like a dog that had run too far.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
His mouth hung open, and in it, clenched between his teeth, was a strip of flesh, dark, stringy, still dripping. He didn't look at me at first, just kept dragging his feet through the snow, slow and twitchy like a puppet whose strings were being pulled by someone drunk. His shoulders jerked now and then, sharp and sudden, like he was trying to shrug something off that clung to him from the inside.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Then he stopped, head turned, and his eyes locked with mine. They were grey, no whites, no pupils, just flat, dull, like river stones. That's when he said it. Brian, my name, in my own voice, I didn't move, didn't breathe. I don't even know if my heart kept going. Brian, help me. The voice was perfect, same cadence, same tone, same rasp I get in the winter after too many days in the cold.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It was me, and it wasn't. Then it smiled, or tried to. The lips didn't move right. The corners split, revealing more teeth than should have been in that mouth. I saw blood, fresh and frozen, crusted along the gums. The thing cocked its head like a dog hearing a new sound. Then it whispered, almost like it was asking a favor. You left me here.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
And then it started walking, faster, arms swinging wide, joints bending all wrong. That's when I broke. I turned and ran, crashing through the snow, barely able to see through the trees, breath burning in my lungs. Behind me I heard something laugh, not loud, not like it thought something was funny, just amused, like it knew I wouldn't make it far.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I hit the slope before I realized I'd veered off trail. My foot caught a root under the snow and I went down hard. The snap in my ankle felt like a firecracker going off in my leg. Pain bloomed instantly. Bright, hot, and overwhelming. I rolled to my back, gasping, trying to drag myself up the incline. My pack caught on a branch and I screamed. Not from the pain, but because I heard it again.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My hands tightened around the wheel as I turned a sharp bend, spotting the wooden sign for Hazel Mountain Overlook yet again. I slowed down, confusion tightening in my chest. Had I gotten turned around somehow? Had the fog disoriented me so badly that I'd made a full circle without realizing it? Determined, I pushed onward.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My voice, right behind me. Brian! That night, I built a fire out of desperation more than skill. I was shaking too hard to focus, but I knew if I didn't keep it going, I'd be dead by morning. My ankle was swelling fast, and every movement sent a bolt of lightning through my leg. The woods stayed quiet, for a while. Then they came. First one, then two more.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
All of them moving in that same jerky, too loose way. Like marionettes that had forgotten how people walk. They stayed just outside the firelight. I couldn't make out details, only shapes, outlines, but I heard them whispering, sometimes in the voice of the hunter, sometimes in my own, and sometimes in a voice I hadn't heard in five years.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Sophie, my ex-wife, she was dead, had been since the crash, but the voice that floated out from the dark was hers, gentle, broken, calling for me. Brian, come home. I bit down on my fist until I tasted blood. They circled all night. I didn't sleep, just sat there, fire dwindling, clutching the flare gun like it was my last prayer. And maybe it was.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I don't remember how many days passed after the fire burned out. Time bent out there, folded over itself like the trees, crooked and heavy with silence. My watch had frozen sometime after the second night, and I'd stopped checking it.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
when you're lying in the snow with a broken ankle no food and shadows circling just outside your reach minutes start feeling like hours and the hours they just stop meaning anything i tried rationing what little i had but it was useless
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
my hands were too cold to tear open wrappers and by the third night my stomach didn't care anymore i'd vomited bile into the snow and wept when i tasted blood on my tongue thinking for one god-awful moment that maybe it had come from something else something i didn't remember eating that idea clawed at me more than the cold i started seeing things more than just the figures in the dark more than the familiar voices calling out from the tree line
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I saw my mother sitting cross-legged in the snow, humming a lullaby she used to sing when I was a boy. Her lips were blue, but her voice was warm. She kept pointing at something just behind me, smiling. "'Not much time left, Bree,' she said. I turned once, just once, but there was nothing there, only more snow, more trees.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The smell of rot was thicker now, clinging to me, sinking into my beard and the fibers of my jacket.' By the time the rescue crew found me, I didn't have the strength to cry. I heard them before I saw them. Two men calling my name from somewhere above. Real voices. Human. I didn't believe it at first. I was sure it was another trick.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Another game played by whatever was left of the hunters, or whatever had taken their skin. So I stayed quiet, hiding behind a half-buried log, clutching the flare gun like it was a crucifix, finger frozen to the trigger. I didn't move until one of them got close enough for me to see the badge, real patch, real face. He looked scared when he saw me, not cautious, scared.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
He dropped to his knees, called for the other one, and then I passed out. They said I was lucky, hypothermic, frostbitten, but alive. They airlifted me to Laramie General. I woke up three days later with an IV in my arm and the raw skin of my lips crusted with dried blood. My right foot had turned black in places. I couldn't feel two of my toes, and I couldn't stop shaking.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But a few minutes later, there was the Overlook sign again, wooden letters emerging from the fog like a taunting whisper. Impossible. My heart sped up a little, a quickening thud against my ribs. I'd driven this road before. There were no loops here. Skyline Drive ran straight along the ridge, branching occasionally, but never looping back on itself like this. Again, I checked my dashboard.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
They questioned me, of course. First it was the local sheriff, then two agents from Fish and Wildlife, then someone in a gray suit who never gave me a name. They wanted details, timelines, coordinates. Who I saw and what I thought happened. I tried to answer. I really did. But every time I opened my mouth, I'd hear it again. My own voice echoing from the woods. Brian, come home.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Eventually, I just said what I could. It mimicked their voices. It made them eat. That was all I managed before the nurse gave me something to sleep. They didn't believe me, of course. Not really. They ran blood tests, brain scans, psychiatric evaluations. Said I was suffering from isolation psychosis combined with post-traumatic stress.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Said I probably hallucinated the voices and imagined the bodies. That I'd broken my ankle in a fall and crawled into some fugue state brought on by exposure and starvation. But they couldn't explain the claw marks. They couldn't explain the fingerprints found around my tent. My own, overlapping a dozen others in directions that made no sense.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
They couldn't explain how I'd survived four nights with no food, no water, and internal injuries that should have killed me, if not for what the surgeon called an almost superhuman pain tolerance. And they sure as hell couldn't explain what the search team found when they went back in. Three corpses, or parts of them anyway.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
One was impaled 25 feet up in a lodgepole pine, still bleeding when they cut him down. The others were arranged around the fire pit in the original camp. Arms folded neatly across their chests, faces peeled back. One was missing his jaw entirely, and none of them had eyes. The bones weren't picked clean. They were gnawed. They found the site I described, the elk ribcage in the tree.
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BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
They took photos, bagged the remains, burned the carcass on site. Then came the cave. I hadn't seen it myself, but the team stumbled across it a half mile from the main site. Shallow entrance, lined with claw marks, with bones littering the floor inside. Deer, elk, something canine, and human. One of the techs said it looked like a butcher's den.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Another swore he saw something still wet hanging from the ceiling before they sealed it off. And on the far wall, scrawled in what they guessed was blood and soot, were four words gouged deep into the stone. Hunger doesn't die. After that, they shut the whole area down. No official statement. No warning. Just a line drawn across a map and a half-whispered order passed through the ranger stations.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
No patrols past Dead Horse Ridge. Not without a team. Not without authorization. They gave me early retirement, medical discharge, psychological grounds. I didn't fight it. I left Wyoming three weeks later, moved north, bought a cabin in Montana with what was left of my pension, and haven't set foot in a forest since. I tried. Once. Went for a walk near Glacier in the spring.
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BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Got maybe half a mile in before I heard something move behind the trees. Too slow. Too measured. I turned around and haven't been back since. I keep the flare gun, though. It sits by my bed, loaded, cleaned every month. Habit, I guess. Sometimes when the snow falls hard and the wind hits just right, I swear I hear it again, that breath, that broken, stitched-together scream.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
And once, just once, I heard her voice. Sophie, whispering my name from the treeline, soft and mournful. I didn't answer. I won't. Because I know now that's how it starts. If I had to pinpoint where things started to unravel, I'd say it was the second night I spent up there. But that wouldn't be the full truth.
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BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My stomach twisted sharply, panic fluttering up my throat, as I quickly pressed harder on the gas pedal. The road unfolded silently beneath me, trees blurring past. Only when miles stretched between us did I release my breath, realizing I'd been holding it all this time. That night, safe at home, sleep eluded me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The unraveling started long before, maybe when I volunteered, or maybe when I saw the tower for the first time and convinced myself it looked quaint instead of what it really was. I'm Dana Cruz, and I used to be a fire lookout for the Forest Service. Last winter, I took a solo off-season post up in the Sawtooths, something they called a low-risk visual position.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Still 9.27pm. A cold sweat began to form on the back of my neck, my mouth suddenly dry. The taillights were still ahead of me, unmoving in distance, impossibly stable. I needed to pull over and gather myself. Maybe I was overtired, hallucinating from the stress of the drive. Finding a wide shoulder, I brought the car to a stop, cutting off the engine.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It was supposed to be easy, just me, a tower, and 30 days of snow-covered silence. They called it Lookout 47, but I couldn't find it on any official database. When I asked around, the senior ranger gave me this weird smirk and said, That one's grandfathered in. Old Cold War comms site or something. Don't worry about it. That should have been a red flag. The chopper dropped me off mid-January.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
No trail in, no road. Just a clearing about a hundred yards from the tower where the rotors kicked up snow and rattled the trees. They didn't even kill the engine. One guy tossed my gear onto the ground while the other shouted over the noise. See you in a month. Keep the radio on. Then they lifted off and I was alone. The tower looked older than it had in the photo.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
it rose out of the snow like a skeletal lighthouse narrow and too tall blackened wood three stories high with steel support beams that looked like they'd been cut from old railway track there was frost along the windows and the whole structure groaned when the wind moved through it Inside it was Spartan.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Single bed, propane stove, hand pump sink, old file cabinet, and a shortwave radio bolted to the wall. On the first floor was the composting toilet and the trap door. A thick steel latch held it shut, painted over probably twenty times. A red sticker read, Do not open maintenance access only. The heat came from a cast iron wood stove that had clearly been patched over with steel welds.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The chimney rattled every time the wind picked up. The whole thing felt...lopsided, like the earth had tried to shake it off at some point but gave up halfway. The first few days were fine. The snow fell in long, drifting sheets. I set up my perimeter check-ins, took wind and humidity readings, and logged them by hand.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I monitored smoke columns and kept an eye on lightning strikes on the ridge, though they were few and far between. And then I started noticing the birds, dead ones, always crows or magpies, always around the base of the tower. I thought maybe they hit the structure during low visibility, but what stood out was the placement.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Four or five corpses a day, laid out in loose circular patterns, always facing the same direction, toward the western ridge. The trees out there leaned slightly too. At first, I chalked it up to heavy snowfall or wind shearing, but then I took a straight edge and held it up against the trunks. Every single one on the western line tilted the same way.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Not bowed, tilted, as if they were leaning towards something they couldn't quite reach. On day four, just after dusk, the radio crackled. Now I'm not talking normal static. I've heard faulty signals. This was a clipped, looped message that faded in like it was pushing through something thick. Fire line breach. Visual confirmation. Coordinates. Static. Request acknowledgement.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I responded like I was supposed to. Gave my callsign. Marked my location. Dead air. It played again exactly 47 minutes later. Same words. Same breathless male voice. I triangulated the coordinates. Figured maybe a repeater was malfunctioning. I pulled out my old topographic map and found the location. It led right back to me. Lookout 47. The next day, I called dispatch.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
They brushed it off as interference from old relay station, still bouncing signal. Said it happens sometimes, especially in the mountains. I asked about the station number, the one attached to the message. Silence on the other end, then. That's not a current call sign. Might be Cold War leftovers. Just ignore it. That night I kept the radio off. I figured if it wanted to talk, it could wait.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But around midnight, I woke up to something different. The tower was moving, swaying. I've felt windstorms before. This wasn't wind. It was like something huge had brushed the tower. Like something was moving through the forest. Slow, deliberate, and heavy enough to shift the snowpack. I climbed the ladder to the second floor and stared out the west-facing window.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But as the noise of the engine faded, it hit me. The silence was unnatural. No crickets chirped, no leaves rustled, not even the faint hum of wind. It was a kind of silence I'd never experienced before. Heavy and oppressive. My ears strained desperately for any noise, but nothing came. I leaned forward, staring through the windshield into the thickening fog.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
There were no lights, no movement. But for a moment, just before I turned away, I saw something glint in the darkness between the trees, like glass catching moonlight. I watched for another hour, but it didn't happen again. The next morning, I found a new ring of birds, this time inside the perimeter fence. The weirdest part? No tracks. No paw prints. No drag marks.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Just a perfect circle of feather and bone melting slowly into the snow. i didn't say anything in my logs didn't want to get flagged for a psyche val but i did start sleeping with the hatchet next to my bed just in case and the trap door it started rattling at night not banging not shaking just rattling like something underneath was breathing too hard
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
By the end of the first week, the tower no longer felt like shelter. I stopped thinking of it as mine. Stopped calling it home base in my log. It wasn't a tower anymore. It was a bone sticking up out of the earth. Something left behind by something larger. I hadn't slept right in days. Not because of noise, but because of the silence. It wasn't a peaceful quiet either. It was hollow. Intentional.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The kind of quiet that feels like someone holding their breath. It started with my watch. I wear a digital Casio I've had since I was 15. Bomb-proof. synced to dispatch time every monday on day eight it told me it was nine forty three a m the wall clock said nine forty seven i didn't think much of it maybe the battery was lagging but by that night the watch was ahead four minutes fast
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
And when I synced it the next morning, I watched it drift. Second by second, backward until it matched again. The next morning, off again. That's when I took out my compass. Same problem. Inside the tower the needle jittered like a scared dog's tail. Outside, fine, clear as a bell. I walked a perimeter just to be sure. Twenty steps west, turn north.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Needle flickers in the window reflection of the tower, then steadies again the moment I'm in the open. Whatever was happening, it didn't want to leave the structure. And neither did I. Not because I felt safe, because I felt tethered, like leaving too far would snap something inside me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Every night I found more bird rings, now in pairs, like mirrored halos, one larger, one small, always perfect, always facing west.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
by day eleven i stopped marking them in the log i just burned them it was that or bury them and i kept remembering that note in the journal burn the birds don't bury them yeah the journal i didn't find it in a file cabinet or on a shelf i found it in the wall behind a nailed board above the sink i heard something rustle I figured it was a mouse.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Instead, I pulled out a leather-bound notebook that had been sealed in waxed canvas, completely dry despite the humidity. It was stamped with faded ink, property of W. Wells, 1963. Most of it was torn out or missing. The entries that remained were written in a tight, manic script, some words repeated over and over. Phrases like, "'Watch the shadows between the stairs.'"
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Don't sleep inside more than three nights. That's how it learns your face. If you look down the trapdoor too long, it looks back. One page had a sketch. Charcoal and jagged. A figure crawling up from a hole. No face, no eyes. Just an open, stretching mouth like a black tunnel. Too many fingers. I should have burned the whole thing. But I didn't. I just kept reading. Then, came the photo.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My breathing echoed oddly inside the car. When I looked back at the road ahead, the taillights had vanished. For a moment, relief flooded through me, until a whisper of movement caught my eye in the rearview mirror. Two red lights floated there now, just behind my parked car. I felt my muscles tense, a cold shiver racing down my spine.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I hiked the ridge that afternoon. My trail cams had picked up flickers, movement on the fringe. I figured it was just elk. The storm had cleared and the sky was sharp and glassy. About two miles from the tower, tucked into a windbreak of stone and scrub, I found a half-burned tent, melted nylon, a scorched coffee pot.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
And near the fire pit, an old camera, vintage Kodak, with a cracked lens, film still inside. I hauled it back, loaded it into the chemical kit I had stashed in my equipment box, and developed the negatives in a collapsible basin by headlamp. There were four exposures, three were ruined, just streaks and shadows.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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But the last one, it was me, standing at the top window of the tower, taken from outside, somewhere low and far away. It was a perfect match, same coat, same hair in a knot, same glove with the duct taped knuckle. But there were two things wrong. First, my eyes were closed. Second, I was facing the window. Whoever took the picture was inside the tower, looking out at where the photo was taken.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I didn't sleep that night. I barricaded the trap door with an iron tool chest and wedged my snowshoes over it crosswise. I kept the camera pointed at it. I used every damn headlamp I had and left them on until the batteries died. But just before dawn, I must have dozed off. When I opened my eyes, it was 3.11 a.m. Every light was off. In the trapdoor, it was open six inches. I didn't hear it.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I didn't feel it. The air smelled like ozone and cedar sap, like the moment before lightning hits. I got up, slowly. The camera was still running. I played the footage. It showed me. Rising at 2.47am, silent, barefoot, walking to the trapdoor. I knelt. I whispered something. Then I opened it and stared down. I didn't move for 13 minutes. Just stared.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
When I stood up and walked back to bed, I glanced at the camera. And smiled. The real me, the me watching this the next day, never remembered doing any of it. But there it was. On tape. Frame by frame. Smiling like someone who knew they weren't alone anymore. I stopped logging entries after day 17. Not because I forgot, because I didn't trust my own handwriting anymore.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
There were entries I never wrote, phrases I'd never say. Things like, it wears the skin first, then the voice. You'll feel it watching when your heartbeat echoes back wrong. Don't open the door unless you're outside already. Some entries were written in my style, but with words that felt off. Like someone trying to imitate me without understanding what the words meant.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Like a bad translation of myself. That's when I knew. Something wasn't trying to scare me. It was trying to replace me. Day 19. The trapdoor was open again when I woke up. Nothing around it was disturbed, but I could feel it. This pressure in the room. Like the oxygen was thicker. I left the tower around noon, just to get away. I hiked a two-mile loop I'd done at least five times before.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Only this time, when I crested the ridge, the tower wasn't there. I mean, it was, but it wasn't mine. It was older. Thicker beams. No solar panel. The windows were square instead of rounded. It looked like the photo they gave me. The black and white one from the 1950s. At first, I thought I'd gotten turned around. I pulled out my compass. It spun wildly, then settled on south.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I quickly twisted the key, the engine roaring back to life with a comfortingly familiar sound. The red lights behind me blinked out abruptly. I shifted the car into gear and started forward again, gripping the steering wheel tighter than before. As the road curved gently ahead, my headlights caught something I hadn't seen earlier, a roadside mile marker.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I walked a straight line for forty minutes. The tower never got closer, so I turned back, using a stream as my guide. When I reached my tower, my actual tower, there were two sets of footprints circling it. Identical boots, same depth, but different gates. One dragging slightly, the other light and fast. Neither trail led away. Day 21. The voices returned on the radio.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Only now, they weren't looped. They were live. And they sounded like me. Assignment received. Fire line perimeter established. Tower is secure. I yanked the battery. It kept transmitting. I smashed the unit with the hatchet. It kept going. That night, I gave in. I opened the trap door fully and went down.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
47.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Etch so deep they formed grooves. I don't know how far I descended. Could have been five minutes. Could have been an hour. Then I reached the bottom. There was a mirror, seven feet tall, no frame, freestanding, set into the wall like it had grown there. And it didn't reflect me, not at first, just static, like snow on an old TV screen. Then something stepped into frame.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It was me, but wrong, taller, paler. My face stretched into a grin that didn't end, eyes black, no pupils, like someone was holding a reflection of my body like a costume. It raised its hand and tapped the glass. I ran. The static chased me. Not sound, but a feeling. Like every step I took was being replayed. A second behind me. Like the world was trying to rewind and pull me back.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I climbed until my lungs burned. When I burst out of the hatch, it was morning. Snow on the ground. Light flooding the tower. But... There was another Dana standing at the window, back turned, same build, same coat. I blinked and she was gone. Day 23. The final day I counted. I made a decision. I wouldn't sleep. I'd stay up until they came. Let them take me. Fight me. Mimic me. I didn't care.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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At exactly 2.47am, something whispered beneath the floorboards. Not words, just breath. Wet and slow. Then it spoke. You've been out, but you never came back. Let us fix that. I turned every camera on, lit every flare I had. The windows fogged, ice crept up from the corners. The whole tower groaned like it was sinking. Then the trapdoor slammed open. Something crawled out.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I only saw its arms, long, gray, jointed like spider legs but fleshy. Each finger had my fingernails, my scars, my knuckle tattoo. It dragged a second me up behind it, blank-eyed and naked, mouth gaping, chest rising like it had just learned how to breathe. It turned to look at me, and I saw myself flinch. I raised the flare gun, fired once, then everything went white.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
When they found me, if they really did, I was alone. I was barefoot, sitting on the roof of the tower, whispering coordinates that didn't exist. They airlifted me out. Said I'd been exposed to carbon monoxide from the stove. Said my radio equipment must have malfunctioned. Said my cam footage was corrupted. But I know what I saw. I know I didn't come back alone.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I squinted, leaning forward to read it clearly. My stomach dropped as a deep cold dread settled in. It was mile marker 39, the exact same mile marker I'd seen at least three times already. I pressed down harder on the accelerator, desperate to break whatever was happening.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Because sometimes, when I pass a mirror at night, I catch myself smiling. And I'm not smiling. They told me Wildwood Ridge was a quiet post. That was the word they used. Quiet. Not remote. Not underfunded. Not cursed. Just quiet. The ranger station was small. Barely big enough for one person to sleep, eat, and breathe without going stir-crazy.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The nearest town was 30 miles down a winding two-lane road that rarely saw traffic. No cell service, no Wi-Fi, just static, trees, and time, which frankly was what I thought I needed. I took the transfer after a burnout incident at my last park. I won't go into details, but it involved a missing kid, a four-day search, and a recovery that still makes me flinch when I close my eyes.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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So when my supervisor offered a slower post, I jumped at it. Now I think they were just trying to get rid of me. I arrived late on a Tuesday, mid-October, sun already dipping behind the tree line by the time I pulled into the dirt turnout where the ranger station sat. The building looked older than the national park system itself. Shingles curled like old fingernails. Windows fogged.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Door groaning like something didn't want to be opened. Inside, the air was musty. The fridge didn't hum. The power flickered. The logbooks were sparse, months missing between entries. Most just said, all clear. One, written in smudged pencil, just read, if you see them, don't stare. I laughed nervously at that, thinking it was a joke, a ranger's version of cabin fever.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I'd write something funnier when I left. I never did. My first two days were uneventful, just long hikes through overgrown trails, fallen branches, the occasional rustle of a squirrel or whitetail bounding through the brush. Honestly, it was nice. The silence helped. But even then, I started to notice things that felt… off. The birds didn't sing past dusk. I mean, none.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Like someone flipped a switch, and every living thing shut its mouth right after sunset. There weren't even crickets. Just wind moving through branches like a giant exhaling. And the woods. God, the woods felt watchful. Like the trees weren't just trees, but sentries. Waiting. I chalked it up to nerves. Then came the third night. I was going over trail maps by lantern light when I heard it.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Not loud, just soft taps on the window behind me. I froze. The kind of freeze that sinks into your bones, like your body knows something before your mind does. I turned around slowly. There was a silhouette at the edge of the treeline, not close. Maybe 40 feet back, just far enough that the darkness swallowed most of it.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The fog thickened further, and still, the taillights reappeared again, directly in front of me, moving smoothly ahead, leading me deeper into the dark heart of Shenandoah. And this time, as I stared, unblinking, they began to drift slowly backward, toward me. My pulse hammered relentlessly in my throat as I stared helplessly at the approaching lights.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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But it was tall, human-shaped, shoulders too broad, head cocked at a weird angle, like it didn't understand how necks worked. And it was facing the cabin, facing me. I blinked. Gone. I went outside with my flashlight, trying to be brave. Nothing but quiet trees and cold air. No prints, no broken twigs. But when I came back inside, I noticed something on the doorstep.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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A small wooden figure, roughly carved, humanoid. No face, no eyes. Just watching. I didn't sleep that night. The next morning I radioed the main ranger office, told them I thought I had a trespasser, maybe someone messing around pulling a prank. The voice on the other end sounded bored. You're alone up there, Hayes. Ain't nobody hiking that far out this time of year.
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I asked if the old logs ever mentioned things left at the cabin. Carvings. Strange visitors. The reply crackled through. What logs? That day I hiked out farther. Wanted to clear my head. Hoped that maybe I'd find boot prints. Something to make it make sense. But around mile four I noticed something across the ravine. A figure. Standing between two trees motionless. Facing me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It wore a ranger's uniform. Mine? I called out. Hey, you alright over there? Nothing, no movement. I waved, raised my binoculars. But as soon as I focused, it was gone, like it had never been there at all. That night, I locked the doors, shoved furniture against the windows, kept the flashlight by my side in bed.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I didn't sleep much, but when I did, I dreamed of trees whispering my name, in reverse. And when I woke up, heart racing, throat dry, I found something new, another totem. But this one was different. It had a hat like mine, and it was sitting on the pillow beside me. I told myself I'd leave the next day, walk down to town, call someone, tell them to send a truck, or hell, a damn helicopter.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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but then i opened the front door and found footprints in the mud coming from the woods leading right to the cabin but none leading away and the forest the forest was still breathing i stopped logging my patrols didn't see the point any more Every trail either looped back on itself or disappeared entirely, just gone, like it had been swallowed whole by the forest overnight.
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I'd mark a tree with tape, walk ten minutes, and end up right back at it, only now the tape was cut and tied into a little noose.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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i told myself i was just tired overworked isolated but i couldn't shake the feeling that the woods were laughing at me and i don't mean that as a figure of speech i mean that one morning i stepped outside and i heard a low breathy chuckle from the branches overhead nothing visible nothing moving Just the sound of something trying to imitate human amusement, badly. The totems kept showing up.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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One day it was on the porch again, next day, inside the firewood box, then on my pillow, always there, always closer. But they were different now, more detailed. The first ones had been crude, blocks of wood with sticks for arms. Now they had realistic proportions, bent knees, fingers, clothes carved into the surface.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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One had my scar, the little one above my eyebrow I got in a bike wreck when I was 12. Another had my watch, carved exactly like the one I wear. Even the face was cracked the same way. That was when I started keeping them, lining them up on the shelf across from my bed. I didn't know why. Maybe I thought if I could watch them, they couldn't watch me. But the collection kept growing. Dozens.
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They moved backwards smoothly, deliberately, without sound, without the faintest hum of an engine or crunch of tires on gravel. Instinct took over, and I slammed my foot against the brake, bringing the car to a sudden halt. I gripped the wheel, knuckles bone white, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. The red glow drifted closer, only stopping when it was mere feet behind my bumper.
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And one morning I woke up and saw that they'd been rearranged. All of them facing my bed. The worst was the one I found under my pillow. I'd fallen asleep with the lantern on, figured maybe the light would help. I woke up around 2am with this pain in my neck like I'd been sleeping on something hard. Reached under the pillow and pulled it out. A totem. With my face. Perfect.
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Down to the tired eyes and crooked mouth. Except, the eyes were burned out. Hollow sockets, blackened around the edges like it had been held to a flame. I threw it in the stove and watched it burn, and as it blackened and cracked I heard something outside scream.
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I found the journal that night, under the floorboards right where the old wood creaked the loudest, leather-bound, moldy, pages stuck together with moisture and time.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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belonged to someone named ranger glenn powers dated nineteen eighty two he wrote about everything the whispers the totems the vanishing trails he'd been assigned to wildwood ridge too said it was supposed to be a quiet place for recovery I read the entries obsessively, flipping pages with shaking hands. One passage burned into my brain. Don't answer if you hear them say your name. Not forward.
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Not backward. That gives them permission. Another. I burned a totem once. The forest didn't like it. I woke up with roots in my mouth. The last entry was just a frantic scrawl. The altar calls. The altar sees. The altar remembers. Then just symbols, scratched deep into the paper with something sharp. Not letters, spirals, branches, eyes. My radio started mimicking me.
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At first I thought it was just feedback, static, maybe solar interference. But then it played back my exact words, before I said them. I'd say, Ranger Hayes Checking Perimeter, and two seconds before that, the radio would crackle to life with, Ranger Hayes Checking Perimeter, in my own voice. Sometimes it would talk at night, on its own. Whispers, weeping.
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And once, just once, I swear it played a recording of me dreaming. My own voice gasping, don't open the door, don't let it in. I gave up trying to sleep after that. Started patrolling at night just to get out of the cabin. Just to feel like I was doing something. But the trails were wrong. I'd walk a straight line and end up in places I'd never seen before.
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One time I came across a spiral of feathers and teeth laid out in the mud, perfectly symmetrical. Another night a hiker stumbled out of the woods toward me, shirtless, filthy, eyes milky white. I called out, Hey, you okay? You need help? He opened his mouth and spat up mud. Thick, black, rotted-smelling sludge full of bark and hair. Then he ran, on all fours, into the trees. I didn't follow.
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The next night, I woke up to the radio playing music, a warped, scratchy version of some old country song. Something about watching from the ridge. I turned it off. Five minutes later, it clicked back on and started playing my screams. I hadn't screamed, not yet, but I did the following night because I finally saw the thing that had been leaving the totems.
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It was standing by the edge of the woods, tall, too tall, legs like stilts, arms hanging too long, wearing my uniform. The face, a mask, carved wood, my face burned into it, eyes hollow, mouth open in a smile, and behind it, more of them.
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dozens motionless lined up like trees that had learned how to stand on their own i ran back inside slammed the door nailed it shut but in the morning the nails were gone stacked neatly by the door and the totem on the porch had changed again this one held a tiny wooden lantern and in its chest was a real human tooth. I think I'm being led somewhere.
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The forest wants me to go deeper, and I'm starting to want it too. Because when I'm in the woods, the fear goes quiet, and the whispers sound like they're saying my name. Just not the way I remember it. I haven't slept in, I don't know, days? Weeks? Time doesn't work right out here anymore. The sun rises too early, sets too late.
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I squinted, desperately trying to make out the shape of the vehicle behind the lights, but saw nothing. No headlights. No windshield, not even the shadowy outline of a car's body. Just two luminous red orbs, suspended perfectly still. Panic crept up my spine, freezing me in place. Seconds dragged by, each one painfully slow. Sweat trickled down my forehead, stinging my eyes.
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Sometimes it doesn't rise at all, just lingers behind the trees like it's afraid to come through. The totems cover every surface in the cabin now. Some of them move when I'm not looking. One turned its head while I blinked. Another one was crying. I found myself talking to them, not like a joke, not like a breakdown, like a ritual.
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I'd come in from patrol, mud on my boots, blood sometimes too, though I can't remember from what, and I'd kneel in front of the shelf, press my forehead to the floor, and whisper, I see you, I see you, I see you. I don't remember when I started doing that, but I do know what happened when I missed a night.
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the next morning i woke up and found a fresh totem nailed to the inside of my door through the wood splinters everywhere it had no eyes no face just a hollow hole where the mouth should be filled with dirt and ants Carved into the door next to it were the words, You're forgetting who you are. That was when the forest opened a path for me. A new trail. One I swear hadn't existed before.
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It wasn't on the map. It wasn't even possible. It cut through areas too steep, too dense, too far north. but it was there now laid out with black stones and hanging bones from tree branches like wind chimes the air buzzed with electricity and the birds followed me silent heads cocked watching at the center of it all was the altar exactly as described in glenpower's journal
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Stone, cracked, covered in lichen and bloodstains that hadn't dried, even though the nearest human had vanished months ago. Around it, totems, hundreds, some carved fresh, some ancient, weathered by time, some that looked just like the ones from my shelf. and a few that looked just like me. One had my eyes, one had my exact jacket, stained with the same oil I spilled two nights ago.
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One was whispering, not speaking, whispering. Its wooden mouth clicked open and shut as it muttered, Join us, join us, join us. I radioed for backup, or I thought I did. I hit the emergency beacon, held the button down, I screamed into the mic, but all I heard on the other end was my voice. Calm, confident, me. I'm fine, no assistance needed, just lost in the trees for a moment.
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Except I hadn't said that. I don't remember walking back to the cabin. The next thing I knew I was standing in front of it holding a totem. It was bleeding. Not sap, blood. I dropped it and ran inside. Locked the door. Tried to write everything down. Tried to remember who I was. But the logbook wasn't mine anymore. The pages were filled with entries I hadn't written.
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In handwriting that wasn't mine. He walks deeper now. The forest knows his name. He is almost one of them. I tried burning everything. The totems, the clothes, the furniture, the firewood and light. No matter how much fuel I poured, it just hissed. And laughed. A dry, choking sound coming from the chimney, even though the flue was closed. I think I'm already gone.
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Sometimes I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror, and the face looking back isn't mine. Sometimes I talk, and the voice isn't mine. The whispers used to be outside. Now they're in my head. And they know every thought I've ever had. This is my last transmission. If you're hearing this, don't come looking. Don't try to find the altar. Don't follow the path lined with bones.
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Don't trust the voice on the radio if it says it's me. Because I don't know if I'm still Elliot Hayes. And I don't think I'm the only one who looks like me anymore. They took my face. They took my voice. They took everything except the part that still screams. When the search team arrived, they found the cabin abandoned. No signs of struggle. Bed made, food untouched, fire still warm.
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On the table sat a new totem, fresh, blood still damp in the carvings. It was smiling, and it had Elliot's exact face. His uniform was found hanging from a tree branch half a mile away, neatly folded, pressed. One searcher, Beckley, wandered off during the second night. They found him curled in a hollow log, repeating, They wear us like bark. They grow into our skin. They airlifted him out.
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Unable to sit still any longer, I shifted into reverse, determined to confront whatever this was, but the gear refused to engage. My heart sank deeper into my chest. The car was unresponsive, locked in some unnatural paralysis. I glanced frantically around the dark interior, searching for answers, but found nothing. Then came a faint, crackling static through the speakers.
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He hasn't spoken since. The station has been shuttered, officially decommissioned. Unofficially, no ranger has taken the Wildwood Ridge assignment since. But sometimes, late at night, locals say you can hear a voice on the old ranger frequency. Calm. Even. Asking for coordinates. Asking for backup. Asking if they look okay. It's me, Elliot. I'm still out here. I'm just a little lost.
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I always thought the rain in Olympic was an old-school lullaby, soft and slow, like the forest trying to hush itself to sleep. Most nights I'd lie in my bunk at Storm King Ranger Station, listening to every cedar shingle drink it in while Lake Crescent breathed just beyond the treeline. But on October 17th, 2015, the storm didn't sing.
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It muttered, then growled, like it already knew what was coming up the trail. I'd pulled the late shift, logged out of dispatch at 10.30, and stepped into my cabin half-numb with exhaustion. Wet uniform on a hook, damp boots by the stove, quick swipe of a towel across the hair, then sweatpants, wool socks, t-shirt.
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I cracked the lantern just bright enough to scratch out a line or two in the station log. No incidents. Barred owl calls times three. Lake level normal. The ink was barely dry when something sliced clear across the water. A scream pitched so sharp it felt aimed straight at my spine. At first I tried to logic it away. Cougar yowl. Drunk campers fooling around. Echo off the basalt cliffs.
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except it happened again closer and this time it wasn't a lone cry but a jittery chorus of footfalls beating the path to my door by the time the hinges rattled under frantic fists adrenaline had wiped the sleep from my eyes i cracked the door on its chain and got a face full of rain mud and panic
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Two women, one brunette, one blonde, stood there drenched, pupils blown wide, breathing like they'd sprinted the devil's mile. Blood painted the brunette's sleeve so dark it looked black in the lantern light. Please, the blonde gasped. He, he bit her. That word, bit, hit harder than the wind driving lake spray across the porch. I killed the chain and swung the door open.
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They tumbled in, water puddling on my floorboards. The injured one, Mara, she'd tell me later. clutched her upper arm with the kind of grip you use when you're afraid something inside might spill out i peeled back a soaked fleece jacket and wished i hadn't teeth marks deep as a dog's wide as a man's flesh lifted in ridges blood pulsing slow but steady
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While I cinched a pressure bandage, her friend, Katie, talked fast through tears. They'd decided to night-hike the old Spruce Railroad grade for kicks, flashlights in one hand, phone cameras in the other. Inside the tunnel they heard a scraping sound, a rhythmic click like rocks tapping glass. Then a shape slipped out of the dark ceiling, hit the ground on all fours, and stood. Naked.
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Mud streaked. Eyeshine bright as a cat's. He barreled into Mara, pinned her to the wall, sunk his teeth into her shoulder, and shook. Katie emptied a mini pepper spray canister in his face. He growled, spat blood, and kept coming until she hurled her flashlight at him and they bolted. Four miles of switchback later, the only light they saw was the glow from Storm King Cabins.
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"'He followed us all the way down,' Katie said, voice cracking. "'We heard him behind us, until the last curve. "'The moment she finished, my radio squawked. "'Jess's cabin was twenty yards downslope. "'She'd heard the commotion. "'I gave her the short version. "'Two victims, one bite wound, possible assailant still active. "'She answered with a clipped copy.
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every shadow reminded me of those strange lifeless stares the unnatural stillness and the way they'd waited silently expectantly at the mouth of that forgotten road a road that seemed to lead nowhere but darkness morning sunlight painted a deceptive warmth over the countryside pushing back the terrors of the night before Yet, a lingering unease refused to fade.
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"'Jess speak, for I'm already lacing my boots.' I locked the door, slid my Glock from the gun safe, chambered around. Mara's blood looked nearly black against the gauze. Her teeth chattered, though the cabin was warm. I shoved spare mags into my parka pocket and glanced at the rain-streaked window. No flashlight beams out there. No silhouettes. just a thousand wet branches bowing under the wind.
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I jerked my head toward the radio, the sound barely audible, as if a frequency had slipped through the static-filled dead air. A voice whispered faintly from the speakers, chillingly familiar yet utterly impossible. Aaron. The voice was gentle, soft, achingly familiar. It belonged to Emily, my ex-girlfriend, whose warmth I'd sought to erase from my memory on this very trip.
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I'm going after him, I told them. Jess will stay with you. You're safe here. Safe felt like a paper promise, but it was all I had. I stepped onto the porch and the night swallowed me whole, rain drumming the roof, wind hissing through the firs. Every instinct screamed to hold fast, guard the door, wait for backup. Yet something uglier than fear crawled under my skin. The picture of that tunnel.
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The width of those teeth marks. The way Mara's pulse fluttered under my fingers. Whatever made that wound was still out there, somewhere between the old rail bed and the lake, maybe licking pepper spray off his lips and deciding if he was hungry enough for seconds. I clicked on my headlamp, drew a deep breath, and started down the trail, the barrel of my Glock angled low but ready.
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Rain sheeted across the beam, turning every droplet into a silver dash. Somewhere ahead, the forest exhaled a low, hollow moan, as if it knew I'd just traded a wooden door for a thin line of light and a prayer. And if Tunnelman really was waiting in that black throat of concrete above the lake, I planned to make sure he never tasted anyone's blood again.
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The ranger compound faded behind me, just a pinprick of yellow back through the fur needles. Every other light in Olympic felt smothered by the storm. No moon, no cabin porch glow. Nothing but my headlamp cleaving a tunnel through the sheets of rain. The beam made the drops look like silver nails, driven hard and fast from the sky.
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I cut left, taking the maintenance spur that parallels Lake Crescent before climbing onto the old Spruce Railroad grade.
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it's one of those places visitors call quaint right up until darkness turns it into an ink spill tonight the path was a slit of slick gravel hemmed in by dripping sword ferns and the lake looked more like a slab of black metal than water five minutes in i found the first print barefoot length of my own boot sunk an inch into mud soft as pudding
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A lazy, heel-drag groove trailed each step, as though the guy couldn't decide whether to stand or crawl. Rain was already pooling in the hollow, grinding flecks of grit into the shape. But I could still see tiny crescents at the front. Toenails. Human. Definitely fresh. A second print, a third, then dozens, weaving like drunk zigzags but always aimed uphill toward the tunnel.
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Occasionally, a bead of darker fluid, a diluted smear of blood, spiraled away with a runoff. The sight tugged me forward with a queasy magnetism. You don't get many breadcrumb trails this polite in ranger work. Jess, you copy? I thumbed my radio. Static hissed like the lake's own voice. No bars. The basalt cliffs on three sides turned comms into coin flips, and tonight the storm loaded the dice.
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I slid the radio back, pulse jackhammering. The grade began tunneling through thicker forest, fir trunks crowding close, branches clasping overhead. Something about that close green corridor made sound play tricks. The rain seemed to fall on three different rooftops at once, and my own breathing echoed back as if someone paced me shoulder to shoulder. I clocked every detail to stay grounded.
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The moss-slick ties underfoot. The iodine tang rising from decaying cedar chips. The faint hush of waves crawling the rocks below. A sharp clack-clack snapped the air in front of me. Two taps. Pause. Three taps. Stone on stone. My spine straightened so hard it hurt. Cougar jaw? No. The rhythm was mechanical, intentional, almost like someone sending a code they expected me to read.
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I killed my light and crouched. Night swallowed the grade, but the storm kept its own dim glow, enough to silhouette the yawning mouth of the World War II tunnel a hundred yards up trail. Even with lightning absent, the wet walls glistened faintly, like the throat of some giant sea creature waiting to draw breath. Clack, clack. I stepped off the gravel, boots sinking into fern duff, and listened.
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My breath caught in my chest as I stared at the radio, my hands shaking. Aaron, I've missed you. No, I whispered aloud, my voice trembling raw. This isn't real. Suddenly, the radio went silent again, and the lights vanished, plunging me back into a suffocating darkness. My breath came in short, ragged bursts.
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Rain ricocheted on alder leaves. The lake ticked stones below. Then a new scent loomed, rank, metallic, mixed with the briny stink of tide flats. It pushed through the forest musk like bad breath.
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headlamp back on low beam the halo caught more footprints deeper now toes digging in as if the owner sprinted beside one i found a broken quartz pebble already stained rusty red blood slick probably his clicking stone my lamp quivered over the tunnel entrance
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thirty feet high lined with crumbling concrete ribs blacker than midnight in there graffiti sprawled everywhere most of it the usual names and dates except for a fresh smear charcoal spirals wrapping a stick figure dear its jaw a gaping crescent the lines glistened wet still shedding droplets
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a gust barreled out of the tunnel carrying the fishy ammonia odor so strong my eyes watered i raised the glock two-handed slow breaths to keep the tremor out the beam now barely bit ten feet into the tunnel before disintegrating into misty smoke Somewhere deep inside, water dripped in an arrhythmic pattern that almost, but not quite, matched the tapping stones.
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It felt like hearing someone talk behind a wall thick enough to thin every consonant. "'Park Ranger!' I shouted, voice bouncing back, shredded and small. "'Step into the light with your hands up!' Silence answered, first from the tunnel, then from the woods behind."
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when you realize the whole world's gone still in a rainstorm that's when your heartbeat sounds like violence my next step sent a pebble skittering it ricocheted off the wall with a metallic ting and right then the tapping resumed but faster and right above me i swung the light upward
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For half a second, the beam froze on pale limbs splayed across the arch, fingers spider-crawling the concrete ribs, head twisted at an angle no neck should manage. Eyeshine, two green coins, flared in the glare. Then the figure jerked sideways, melded with shadow. Gone. Dust motes spiraled where it had been.
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skin ice-cold i backed toward the tunnel mouth for open space but a wet slap echoed behind me bare feet hitting gravel i spun nothing lamp wobbled searched treeline only ferns bowing under the deluge A voice rasped from somewhere in that compound darkness, stretched thin as fishing line. It ended in a gurgling laugh that shot adrenaline straight into my teeth.
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My headlamp flickered, battery icon bleeding red. Perfect timing. Rain hissed down, louder, like static turned to max. I thumbed the radio again. Jess, about fifty yards inside the tunnel. Suspect is mobile and— Crackles devoured the words. The only reply was wind keening through the treetops like distant screaming.
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Lamps sputtering, I inched backward until my shoulders brushed the basalt outside the arch. The tunnel echoed every drip, magnified every shaky breath. Footsteps slapped once more, behind me this time. I lunged around, weapon up, empty grade. Ferns jigged in the wind, and my halo caught twin droplets sliding off a branch, red, not rainwater.
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I knew I had to move, had to get out, had to run if I had to, but fear had rooted me to my seat. Eventually, desperation overcame paralysis, and I reached for my flashlight in the glove compartment, forcing myself to open the door. The moment my feet touched the ground, the silence pressed harder around me.
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i tracked the streak up to bark gouged by fingernails heartbeat vibrating in my ears i whispered show yourself a breath so close it stirred the hair by my ear answered my light died the dark stampeded in thick and absolute somewhere close gravel scattered the rush of something sprinting I pivoted by instinct, Glock raised, finger tightening on the trigger I could no longer see.
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Thunder cracked overhead, a white flash silhouetting a lean form lunging out of the trees, arms outstretched, teeth bared. I pulled the trigger, but the storm swallowed the gunshot and the scream together, and then everything was motion and rain and the smell of salt-wrought breath closing in.
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When people talk about time slowing down during a fight, they forget to mention the way memory breaks apart. The thunder flash seared the tunnel mouth white, and in that strobe I saw everything at once. The attacker's ribs knotted with bite scars, water glittering on his teeth, arms veined like tree roots. Then darkness crashed back in, thick enough to choke on. My first shot went wide.
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Muzzle flash lit maybe three feet, but he was already inside that radius, swinging a fist that felt more like a wooden mallet. Stars burst in my skull. The glock skittered somewhere into black water. The next moment my shoulders slapped slick gravel, and a knee speared into my chest, forcing air out with a squawk I barely recognized as my own.
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He smelled of brine and rotted kelp, breath hot enough to scald despite the cold rain. Fingernails, cracked, soil-packed, dug for my face. I clawed at his wrist, felt tendons flex like braided wire under mud-slick skin. He growled the same half-word, gra, spittle flecking my cheek. Then teeth flashed, aiming for my throat. Instinct, not bravery, saved me.
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i jammed my forearm between his jaws pain detonated as incisors punched through raincoat and flesh but bone stopped the bite before he severed anything vital i screamed half rage half terror and head butted him square in the nose cartilage crunched warm blood sprayed my face his weight shifted I used the opening, rolled a sideways and slammed an elbow into the side of his neck.
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He hissed, scrambling like a wet cat. My knee found his ribs once, twice, until something gave with a hollow snap. He retreated a yard on all fours, hacking wet breaths that sounded too close to barks. Lightning pulsed outside, silhouetting him, thin, shaking, yet still coiled to spring. In the brief bloom of light, my eyes snagged on a glint halfway between us. The Glock. Ten feet, maybe twelve.
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Felt like a mile over slick ballast. He moved first, lunging for me instead of the gun. I fainted right, dove left, palms skidding through ankle-deep water, fingers latching cold steel. In the same motion, I spun onto my hip, brought the pistol up two-handed. His shadow loomed, arms wide, head thrown back in an animal scream. I fired. The tunnel exploded with sound and light.
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Impact folded him mid-stride, a crimson mist mixing with rain spray. Second shot, center mass dropped him to his knees. He pitched forward onto gravel, clutching his stomach, howling something that might have been words if pain hadn't chewed them into mush. I crab crawled back, gun trained on the dim lump. Adrenaline tried to shake the weapon from my hands.
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I swung my flashlight wildly, its beam slicing through dense, curling fog that swallowed everything around it. I stepped cautiously away from the car, turning slowly, looking for any sign of what had pursued me. Then I heard it. A quiet crunching of footsteps on gravel, rhythmic, slow, deliberate. It echoed from somewhere in the fog, just beyond sight.
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He twitched, fingers raking stones, then went still except for ragged breaths. Every drip in the tunnel sounded like a gun cocking. I held aim, counting them. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. By twenty, I risked the radio again. Static. Then Jess's voice finally punched through, warped but clear enough. Luke, status. Suspect down. Tunnel mouth. Need medevac, backup, rabies protocol. I'm, uh, bit.
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on our way the words tasted surreal suspect down like this was paperwork not a man bleeding into midnight water but the training took over unload mag replace with fresh keep him covered from eight yards My arm throbbed where teeth had met skin. Blood ran warm inside my sleeve, washed cold outside by rain. Minutes stretched until red-blue strobes painted the forest wall.
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Jess arrived first, pump-action ready, eyes wide even for her. Deputies right behind, guns up. i barked positions voice wobbling like bad radio they cuffed the suspect he didn't resist just whimpered and muttered about echoes and the hollow under storm king paramedics rolled in slit my raincoat flushed the bite wrapped my forearm
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Another team packed gauze into the attacker's wounds, slipping an airway between crimson-foamed lips. As they loaded him onto a litter, he locked eyes with me, pupils blown black, nose crooked, still smiling through blood. "'The mountain's still hungry,' he rasped, words wet and ruined. They pumped fentanyl, and whatever fight remained leaked out of him."
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sirens carried him into the storm jess stayed silent while deputies swept the tunnel with beams and cameras evidence piled fast quartz clicking stones stained dark rabbit pelts half eaten two driver's licenses from missing hikers laminated in gore
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and charcoal spirals on concrete still damp enough to smear when the adrenaline dump finally let go i shook so hard jess had to guide me outside dawn bled peach across lake crescent mist curling like breath from a tired giant wind rattled the fir crowns rain had slackened to drizzle fragile as cobweb threads
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I remember thinking the world looked exactly the same, which felt obscene after what had happened in the dark. A month later, I sat in Clallam County Superior Court, arm in a sling, rabies shots complete, nightmares just finding their stride. The man, Caleb Norris, 29, runaway vet with a pharmacy in his bloodstream, pled guilty to attempted murder and two counts of assault.
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Bandages cocooned his torso. Eyes stared through people like they were tinted glass. When the judge asked if he had anything to say, he leaned toward the microphone, lips splitting around the gauze. I kept it fed, but it's still there, voice barely above a whisper. Storm King needs more. Court officers hustled him out before reporters could scramble. Didn't matter.
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The phrase headlined every local site by noon. I drove back to the ranger station, stepped into my cabin, and found an envelope on the bunk. No return address. Inside, a photo of Mara and Katie outside Harborview Medical Center. Arms raised in mock victory, stitches peeking under gauze.
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on the back in looping sharpie because you were there we're still here i pinned it above the desk right over my incident report some nights when fog presses against the window and raindrops tap like quartz on quartz i catch myself staring at that picture listening for footsteps in the tunnel's echo then i remember the storm the scream the taste of kelp rot breath and i check the safety on my sidearm before bed i signed on for a second season at olympic
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My chest constricted painfully as I spun, frantically shining my flashlight in every direction. The beam illuminated only empty pavement, ghostly trees, and thick, swirling mist. The sound stopped. Silence engulfed me again, thick enough to smother. My breath formed clouds in the damp air. I moved instinctively toward the edge of the road, flashlight shaking in my grip.
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Someone has to walk the grade after dark, make sure Storm King's hunger stays caged. If the mountain ever asks for seconds, I'll be there, flashlight up, heart hammering, ready to make the night sing thunder again. I've done seasonal work before, fire watch gigs, backcountry surveying, property sits. I like the quiet.
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The isolation never bothered me, and I've always found the desert to be kind of peaceful in a way most people don't understand. You either feel alive out here, or you feel like the place is trying to erase you. There's not a lot of in-between. Last October, I took a temp job watching over an old ranger outpost in southern Utah. Just a week, maybe two. Easy money.
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My handler Clint told me the place used to be an active fire lookout post until a lightning strike took out half the tower frame and buckled the concrete footings. They rebuilt part of it lower down the ridge and used it now and then for off-season monitoring. Clint was this gruff ex-jumper with a limp and a voice like gravel in a blender.
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He picked me up in a dust cake Silverado and drove me three hours east of Kanab, off pavement the last 20 miles. No cell service, just miles of sagebrush, wind-shaped rock, and that dead silence that sets in the further you get from anything human. The outpost sat atop Horsehead Ridge. No joke, it looked like a spine of rock ending in a crooked horse-like crag.
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From the front porch, you could see everything. The wash below, the red rock bluffs to the west, and on a clear day, maybe even the edge of the Arizona Strip. The building itself? Two rooms, one barely more than a closet, with a busted antenna, dented generator, and a cot that smelled like a high school locker room. The back door had a crack wide enough for wind to sing through.
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Clint helped me haul in my gear, gave me a key to the gun locker, just a flare gun and a rusted hunting rifle, and warned me about scorpions nesting in the corners. Then he clapped me on the shoulder and said something I haven't been able to forget. You hear knocks at night, don't answer right away. Wait, listen first.
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He must have seen my face because he grinned, all crooked teeth and sunburnt lips. Kidding, probably. Anyway, the last guy bailed halfway through his first weekend, claimed he saw shadows moving in the rocks, but who knows, meth's a hell of a drug. With that, he tipped his hat, got back in the truck, and disappeared in a storm of dust down the winding trail. I didn't think much of it at the time.
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Guys like Clint say creepy stuff all the time, especially if you're green or new to the job. It's part of the culture, like hazing, but with more coyotes and less beer. The first day was nothing. I logged the generator hours, made some instant ramen, and walked the perimeter with my flashlight. The sun sets early this time of year, and by 7pm the ridge was cloaked in purple shadows.
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It's the kind of darkness that feels heavy, like it's pressing in. I read until my eyes burned, cracked a lukewarm beer from my cooler, and eventually decided to turn in early. I wasn't scared, just tired. It was around 9.30 when I noticed it. I'd stepped outside to take a leak and cool off. The wind was dead still. No rustling, no coyotes yipping in the distance. Nothing.
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And that's when I saw the stones. Stacked about twenty feet from the porch steps was a small cairn. Five flat river stones balanced perfectly on top of one another. It hadn't been there earlier. I'm not some city kid. I always scan my surroundings. and there sure as hell wasn't a pile of rocks sitting right there when I'd done my walkabout before dinner. I walked over to it.
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Nothing strange about the rocks themselves. Normal river stones. But the balance was too perfect. Not like something you'd stumble into by accident. Could have been a leftover marker. Maybe from Clint. Maybe from the last guy. Or maybe it had been knocked down in the wind. Rebuilt it? No, that's not how wind works. I should have knocked it over. I almost did.
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That's when I spotted a faint glow deeper in the woods, barely noticeable, half obscured by branches. Against every screaming instinct, I moved toward it, desperate for answers, for anything familiar. As I stepped over roots and tangled brush, the flashlight beam revealed remnants of an old campsite, tattered canvas flapping gently, tent poles rusted and bent.
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But something in my gut said leave it, so I did. I went back inside, made sure the doors were locked, front and back, and settled into the cot. My pocket knife under my pillow like always. I didn't sleep well. The wind picked up just after midnight, whistling through that crack in the back door frame. It almost sounded like breathing.
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That kind of ragged nasal inhale you hear when someone's standing too close. I got up around 1am and put a towel in the gap to muffle the sound. That helped. For a while. The rest of the night was uneventful. But I swear, when I woke up just before dawn I could still smell dust in the air. Not normal dust. It had this metallic edge to it, like wet pennies in dried blood. I brushed it off.
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First night nerves, sleep deprivation. Maybe even Clint's stupid don't answer the knocks joke rolling around in my head. I got dressed, made some instant coffee, and stepped outside to greet the sunrise. The rock pile was gone. No stones. No tracks. No sign it had ever been there. Just empty dirt and wind. I told myself I wasn't going to let the rock thing get to me.
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There had to be some explanation. Maybe Clint came back and moved it as a joke. Maybe some old cairn had collapsed and I just didn't remember where it was. I logged the missing stones in the ranger notebook anyway. Not because I thought it mattered, but because something about seeing it in writing made it easier to believe it actually happened.
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If I was already starting to imagine things, I wanted a paper trail to prove otherwise. The day was quiet. I hiked about a half mile down the ridge around noon, just to get my legs moving and shake the weird vibes from the night before. I didn't see a soul. No fresh tire tracks on the fire road. No distant hikers. Just a couple jackrabbits and a snake sunning itself near the edge of the wash.
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When I got back, I fired up the generator to charge the lanterns. The fuel read low even though I'd only run it twice, chalked it up to age or a leak I hadn't found yet. Around 6pm, I ate another ramen cup and boiled some instant coffee.
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The sun dipped low behind the crags, casting those long, finger-like shadows that crawl over the hills until everything turns purple and blue, and eventually black. That's when the feeling came back. Not fear exactly, but something else. That prickling sensation you get when someone's watching you from behind. Like your body knows before your brain does.
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Like your spine remembers something you don't. I tried to shake it. Sat by the window with a paperback and let the coffee warm my hands. Told myself I was just wired from being alone. I almost convinced myself.
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until eight forty three p m three knocks slow steady not loud but not timid either i froze my first thought honest to god was clint it sounded like the kind of prank a guy like him would pull maybe he'd driven back up just to see if he could rattle me But then I remembered the road. No sound of tires crunching gravel, no headlights, no engine, nothing.
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I'd been sitting right by the window all evening. If a truck had come up, I'd have seen it. The knocks came again. I walked to the door and pressed my ear to the wood. Whoever it was didn't say a word. I thought about Clint's warning. Wait, listen first. My gut twisted, but I pushed it aside and peeked out the slit between the curtain and the glass.
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There was a man standing at the bottom of the porch steps. Early twenties, maybe. Long, dark hair stuck to the side of his face with sweat. Thin build, looked like he hadn't slept in days. He wore a tattered denim jacket, dirty jeans, and boots so beat up they looked like they were held together by willpower alone. He was staring straight at the door, not moving, not blinking, just standing there.
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Beside the crumbling fire pit lay a weathered notebook, its cover swollen and warped from exposure. Kneeling, I grabbed it, flipping through fragile pages. The handwriting was frantic, uneven, as if scribbled in haste or fear. I've been following them for days. The red eyes. They lead you nowhere. Time bends around them. Nothing makes sense here. My breathing quickened.
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I opened the door halfway and leaned out. You alright, man? He looked at me, eyes glassy and sunken like he'd been walking through hell. He licked his cracked lips and finally spoke. My truck broke down. I walked from the wash. His voice was low, dry, barely audible over the breeze. The wash, I asked.
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that's five miles easy you didn't pass anyone he just shook his head something about him unsettled me but i stepped aside and gestured in come in i've got water land line's down but i've got a short wave he nodded once almost robotically and walked inside he didn't ask to sit didn't look around he just stood by the fireplace arms stiff at his sides
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I handed him a glass of water and watched as he drank the entire thing in one long gulp, like he hadn't had a sip in days. "'You want food? Coffee?' I asked. He didn't answer, just turned and stared at the window. I tried again. "'You didn't see any cars out there? No hikers?' "'Nothing. Just silence. He wasn't twitchy or wild-eyed. He didn't seem high, but he also didn't seem right.
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There was something vacant behind his eyes.' Something wrong with how he held himself. Like his body remembered being a person, but the mind inside had forgotten how. Where exactly did your truck break down? I asked. He raised one hand slowly and pointed east, toward the canyon rim. Past the wash, about five miles. Five miles, in those boots, in this heat.
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He should have been dead on his feet, but he didn't even look winded. Well, sit tight, I said. I'll try the shortwave. I left him staring at the glass and went to the corner table where the radio sat, twisted the dial, got nothing but static, reached for the clipboard to note the attempt, and when I turned around, he was gone. I hadn't heard him move, no footsteps, no door creak, just gone.
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I rushed to the front door, still locked, kitchen, empty, bathroom, empty. the back door was still bolted shut and the windows were too narrow for anyone to squeeze through i even checked the closet half expecting to find him crouched there like some sick joke nothing just me and the wind i stood in the middle of the room for a long time waiting listening Eventually, I sat down.
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I didn't turn off the lamp. I didn't touch my book. I just stared at the fireplace for what felt like an hour, heart still thudding like I'd run a mile. Then the floorboards creaked behind me. Slow, measured, deliberate. I turned. He was back, sitting in the chair by the window. Exactly where he'd been before. Same posture, same expressionless stare. "'Hey, where did you go?' I asked."
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He didn't look at me. I took a step forward. Did you find your truck? Did someone come get you? Still nothing. Then he spoke. Just three words. Quiet. Measured. Like he'd rehearsed them. There are others. What others? I asked. But he didn't respond. The room felt colder. The shadows heavier. My skin prickled like a cold sweat was building under my clothes. Are you hurt?
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I asked, keeping my distance. He blinked slowly, then turned to look at me for the first time since reappearing. His lips barely moved. They walked too. That's when the generator cut out. The light flickered once, then everything went black. I fumbled for my flashlight and snapped it on. When the beam hit the chair, it was empty. He was gone. Again. No sound. No footsteps. No door.
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The next entries grew more frantic. i tried to leave but the road loops endlessly i'm trapped something whispers to me speaking in voices from home but it's not them it's never them my hands shook as i flipped through pages eyes scanning faster near the end a single phrase stood out repeated in scrawled desperate handwriting It sees you when you follow it. It wants a second set of lights.
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Just vanished into thin air like the air swallowed him. That was the first time I felt something close to real fear. I checked the back door again, still bolted. Walked around the outpost with the flashlight. Every corner. Every creek. Every room. Empty.
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but when i stepped outside with the light and scanned the dirt i found them footprints bare human deep in the dust circling the entire outpost in wide loops long narrow feet no tread toes spread like hands there were dozens of them and they weren't mine i didn't sleep that night not even a little
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After seeing the footprints, dozens of them, circling the outpost like coyotes around a dying thing, I sat with my back to the closet door and the hunting rifle in my lap. It felt stupid, holding that old rifle like it would matter if... whatever this was came inside, but it gave me something to grip, something real in a place that was rapidly slipping away from reason. I didn't call for help.
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I didn't even try the radio again. I don't think I really believed help would come anymore. Not from Clint. Not from the sheriff. Not from anyone. Whatever was out there, it felt old. Older than Rhodes. Older than the people who mapped them. It was quiet until just after 4am. That's when the shortwave crackled to life on its own. Not with static, with a voice.
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it came through faint warped like it was buried beneath ten layers of sand and time it walked too far i stared at the receiver frozen the voice came again the same words but this time lower more distorted
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doesn't remember what it was and then silence no click no fade out just gone i stepped away from the receiver like it might bite me gripping the rifle tighter that's when i heard it the front door creaking open not slamming not crashing just that slow deliberate sound of old hinges turning i hadn't locked it After everything that happened, I never even thought to lock the damn door.
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The air turned cold. Not desert at night cold. Dead of winter inside your bones cold. I crept into the main room. And he was back. The stranger. Standing in the open doorway. Same torn denim jacket. Same boots. Same dark hair. Though now it looked damp. His back was to me. Arms slack at his sides. He wasn't moving. The porch light behind him was flickering.
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casting his shadow long and distorted across the floor like it didn't quite belong to him. I raised the rifle slowly, arms trembling. And then he spoke. But his voice wasn't his. It came out layered. Two voices at once. One low and rasping, like a dying animal trying to speak. The other was high, almost childlike. Too high. I need help. I lowered the rifle. Not because I wasn't afraid.
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Because my arms just gave out. He turned around slowly. His eyes were pitch black. Not dark. Black. No whites. No iris. Just void. And his mouth. It didn't open the way mouths are supposed to. It stretched, wide and long, cracking at the corners, until it split his face almost in half. He didn't scream. He didn't lunge. He just stood there, mouth open, staring at me.
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And that's when everything went black. I woke up to the sun on my face. The first thing I noticed was the silence. Not eerie silence. Just the normal kind. Birds chirping. Wind in the brush. The kind of morning peace I used to like. The second thing I noticed was where I was. I wasn't in the station.
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I was standing barefoot 300 yards from the ridge in the middle of the open desert, arms at my sides, back perfectly straight, staring directly at the horizon. My lips were dry, my tongue swollen, my eyes burned like they hadn't blinked all night. I heard a voice behind me. Jesus, Eric. Clint. He jogged up out of breath, grabbing my shoulder hard like he wasn't sure I was real. Are you hurt?
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I dropped the notebook, my pulse roaring in my ears. The flashlight flickered suddenly, plunging me into momentary darkness. Frantically, I smacked it against my palm, cursing silently until the beam returned, weaker than before. I bolted back toward the road, stumbling, branches clawing at my clothes.
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What the hell happened? I couldn't answer. I didn't even know where to begin. He brought me back to the outpost. I walked, but I don't remember moving. My feet were shredded from the rocks, blood smeared across my heels and calves. When we reached the station, Clint got even more tense. Two perfect holes in the front door, hunting rifle rounds, fired from inside. Did you shoot at someone?
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He asked. I shook my head slowly, or maybe I nodded. I don't know. I was barely hanging on. Inside, the place was in chaos. The attic panel was nailed shut from the inside. The furniture had been pushed against the walls. The flare gun was on the floor by the window, unused. And the shortwave? Still on, still humming. Later, at the station in Kanab, the sheriff asked me questions.
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I told them someone came to the door, that I let him in, that he left, that I felt threatened, that I fired two shots through the door. It wasn't a lie, it just wasn't the truth either. They found no sign of another person, no tire tracks. No boot prints. No second mug. No name in the logbook. Nothing. Just me. They kept me for two nights in the clinic. Gave me fluids.
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Told me I'd had a stress-induced dissociative event. That being alone out there for too long sometimes does that to people. When I finally spoke to Clint, I asked him one thing. You ever see anything up there? He looked at me for a long time before answering. There's a reason we stopped using that post, he said. It wasn't the lightning strike. That's all he gave me.
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A month later I left Utah, moved north, changed my number, no contact with the agency, no more solo gigs. I tried to forget. But sometimes, when I'm driving through empty country and the light hits just right, I'll look out toward the horizon, and I'll see someone standing out there, back turned, head tilted slightly, waiting. And in those moments, the desert smell hits me again.
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That strange mix of dust, copper, and something older. Something that doesn't belong in this world. I don't know what I saw up on Horsehead Ridge. I don't know if it was ever human. But I know this much. Whatever it was, it walked too far, and it brought something back with it. The camping trip was Mikey's idea. We deserved a little vacation, he had said.
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An opportunity to escape our cramped, cluttered college house and commune with the great outdoors. He had leaned into the center of our clump one night, the same devious glint in his eyes that he always got whenever he was about to drag us into trouble and said, How about a trip up the mountain?
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I don't know, Cynthia had replied, a bottle of grenadine in one hand and a bottle of Tito's in the other. I'm not very outdoorsy. "'None of us are.' My boyfriend, Josh, agreed. "'Oh, come on,' Mikey urged, slinging an arm around my shoulder. "'Katherine thinks it's a great idea. Right, Kath?' I looked around the room at my friends, at our messy, half-hearted attempt at a pregame.
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Autumn cuddled up against her girlfriend, Sylvia, Josh, and Mikey, bookending me on the lumpy couch." I loved every part of that small, crappy house I shared with my friends, the wall full of Polaroid pictures, the TV we never got around to mounting, the cat we adopted off the street curled up by my feet. I was going to miss it all.
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When I reached the pavement, my car sat quietly, the driver's door now wide open, interior lit dimly by the dashboard lights. The seat was empty, but condensation coated every window. Wet leaves lay scattered across the hood and roof, though no wind stirred the air. I froze, flashlight pointed at the open door. Inside, faintly, I saw movement.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
We would all be graduating from college in just a couple weeks, and then our little gang would be disbanding for the summer. It would be nice to spend some quality time with friends before we all had to grow up and enter the real world. Sure, I agreed. Why not? Let's go. Mikey fist pumped a little too forcefully and sloshed his drink onto my jeans. Autumn giggled and raised her cup. What the hell?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I'm in too. So even though we all preferred the sanctuary of our dilapidated college house to the great outdoors, we had moshed our half-empty solo cups together and agreed to a trip up the mountain. After Friday classes surrendered their hold on us, our group of five piled into Mikey's old van and took off into the mess of patchy forest that surrounded campus.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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the balmy april air and the gentle jostling of country roads quickly put me to sleep as i rested my head on josh's steady shoulder it was the kind of sleep that never fully took hold making me aware that i was going somewhere but completely unaware of where that somewhere might be when the jolting dip of a pothole shoved me back into consciousness We were on the third hour of our journey.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The old van shook as we climbed the steep mountain toward the campsite, and the overgrown gravel road we were following looked as if it hadn't been driven on in years. In the seats in front of me, Autumn and Sylvia were looking out their respective windows, admiring the deep ocean of trees that flew past us as we drove.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Eventually, our gravel path disappeared under a suffocating layer of encroaching vines, and Mikey pulled the van to the side of the road. Rise and shine, campers, he called back to us. We're hiking the rest of the way up. After an hour of trudging over rocks, weighed down by our heavy backpacks, we crested the summit.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
the top of the mountain was idyllic a flat expanse of untrampled grass that felt like it had been tucked away just for us the rocky ground plateaued out into a perfect clearing curtained off by a dense border of tall tangled trees It felt like our own secluded paradise high above the rest of the world. I shrugged off my bag and breathed in the clean forest air. We had made it.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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We wasted no time setting up camp. By the time the three tents were pitched and the fire was built, we were all exhausted, but none of us wanted to be the loser who went to sleep first. So we sat around the campfire for hours telling ghost stories and cracking jokes. Somewhere in the middle of Mikey's third story about Mothman, I turned to Autumn. "'How did you find this campsite, Autumn?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Have you been here before?' "'No, I haven't. I just asked for campsite suggestions on Reddit, and someone suggested this place.' She shrugged, her blonde curls bouncing over her flannel-clad shoulders. "'Because that's not sketchy at all,' Josh laughed."
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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autumn gave josh a defensive shove and he snatched her up into a playful headlock their embrace collapsing into a mess of giggles as sylvia jabbed at them both with a pointy stick she had claimed off the ground you've heard the stories about this place though haven't you sylvia asked us arching an eyebrow
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
You know, I grew up around here, and my parents were always telling us stories about the mountain. They didn't want us coming up here. They said there were always stories about hikers getting lost in the forest and never being found. That's it? Mikey asked. The stories I heard were way more interesting.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I heard people used to live on this mountain, but they had to evacuate the whole place because of some Chernobyl type situation. Either that or a huge forest fire wiped them all out. I can't remember. I rolled my eyes. Mikey was never one for the specifics. Where did you hear all that nonsense? On one of your weird conspiracy blogs? Josh laughed.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I actually don't think Mikey is completely wrong this time. Look. I pointed across the perfectly empty clearing to a lump in the overgrown darkness that I had noticed while we were setting up camp. It was a small pile of bricks, the collapsed remnants of a wall that hadn't stood for a very long time. Whatever building used to be here, it was long gone. Sylvia shook her head.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Just the slightest shift, as if something had leaned forward from the shadows in the passenger seat. A soft, familiar voice drifted outward again, heart-achingly sweet. "'Come back inside, Aaron. It's okay.' Terror surged through me. Without a thought, without hesitation, I turned and sprinted down the road. My footsteps echoed loudly, filling the silence around me."
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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"'I don't know anything about all that, but there was a small commune that tried to live up here a while ago.' I don't remember exactly what happened, but they kind of just fell off the radar. I think the police were looking into it. Josh looked around the silent clearing. Well, I don't know what happened to them, but they're definitely not here anymore. Maybe one day they all just vanished.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Autumn leaned in close, wiggling her fingers at us, letting the flames of the fire light up her face dramatically before she erupted into a drowsy fit of giggles. Okay, I chuckled. That's enough conspiracy theory talk for tonight. Let's head to bed. I woke to the crackling sound of sausages cooking over the fire and the pink light of morning piercing its way through the mesh of my tent.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I emerged from the tent to see Josh, Autumn, and Sylvia sitting around the fire laughing and poking each other with the skewered hot dogs they were broiling. My stomach growled hungrily at the sight of breakfast. "'Hey guys,' I greeted. "'Is Mikey still asleep? He's gonna be mad y'all are eating without him.'" Josh turned to me, the fresh light of the morning haloing his handsome face.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I expected him to make a joke about Mikey oversleeping. I expected him to pull me into a tight embrace and to cook me some breakfast over the campfire. I expected a smile, his eyes crinkling in amusement. Instead, his eyes were completely dead, void of any semblance of recognition. I'll never forget that look he gave me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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That was the look that started it all, and all these years later, I can still see his blank eyes when I close my own. He quirked his head to one side and asked, "'Who's Mikey?' I stopped dead in my tracks, the wet grass scratching at my halted legs. "'Mikey,' I repeated. "'Where is he? Is he still sleeping?' "'What are you talking about, Catherine?'
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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After dropping Emma and Mason at school, kissing them a bit too long, holding them a bit too tightly, I found myself drawn inexplicably back toward that isolated stretch of road. My heart beat faster as familiar landmarks blurred past, anxiety simmering beneath my skin. I tried to convince myself I was overreacting, that daylight would make my fears vanish.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Sylvia asked, her sharp brow cutting across her forehead. "'Who is Mikey?' "'They were just messing with me. They had to be messing with me.' I tried to wipe the dumb expression off my face and take a breath. I felt a little stupid for falling for their little charade. It was so typical of Mikey to want to pull a prank on the friend who slept in the longest.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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He was always the jester, and I was always the fool who worried and fretted over his stupid antics." The only thing that surprised me was how committed the rest of the gang was to acting out Mikey's dumb idea of a prank. Usually one of them would have cracked by now. I turned and stomped away from my friends. I was tired, and I wasn't in the mood for whatever stupid prank they were trying to pull.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I unzipped the door to Mikey's tent and was met by an empty interior. A mess of clothing, books, and snacks littered the floor, but there was no Mikey inside the lumpy sleeping bag. When I turned to rejoin my friends, I expected to see stolen glances and stifled laughter, but I was met with the same hauntingly blank confusion. What are you doing? Autumn asked. I threw my hands up in exasperation.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Well, he's not in his tent, so where is he hiding? That's my tent, Josh said. We agreed to bring two tents for the two of us because I'm such a slob, and you like your personal space. Do you not remember? He was looking at me with such confusion and concern that I had to look away, unable to meet his falsely sincere eyes. This was so stupid.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I was always the gullible friend the others loved to mess with, always the butt of one of their stupid jokes. No matter how stupid this prank was, their commitment had me almost doubting my own memory. It was a nauseating sensation I wanted to be rid of as soon as possible. This would all be over faster if I just went along with the joke. Okay, very funny.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Behind me, I heard the sound of the car door slamming shut, followed by an impossibly gentle whisper carrying clearly through the night air. "'Don't go, Aaron. Stay with me.' But I didn't look back. I ran into the dark, lungs burning, legs numb, desperate only to escape whatever had trapped me in these endless woods.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I laughed, coming to sit next to Josh on one of the logs that surrounded the fire. If he wants to hide in the woods and try to scare me instead of eating breakfast, that's his choice. I turned to give Josh a kiss, but his face was still twisted into a look of total bewilderment. He looked so convincingly dumbfounded by my words that it gave me the creeps.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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There was no hint of amusement or playfulness behind his eyes, only emptiness. Whatever weird joke was being played on me, he didn't show any sign of being in on it. I averted my gaze toward the flames, breathing in its smoke and letting the awkward silence wash over our circle. Everything was so quiet. Then we heard the screaming.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It was faint, but all four of us snapped our heads toward the forest where we could hear the cries echoing through the trees. They sounded like they were coming from a short distance away, just past our clearing, down the other side of the mountain. "'What the hell is that?' Autumn asked, jumping to her feet. "'It sounds like someone is crying for help,' Sylvia added a little nervously."
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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My first instinct was to call my friends out on their increasingly dumb and elaborate prank, but the cries coming from within the dense forest sounded too high-pitched and pitiful to belong to Mikey. It almost sounded like a wounded animal or a baby was wailing out calls of complete and utter desperation.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I could just barely make out the word help, but everything else about the cries rang out with an eerie pitch that seemed entirely inhuman, like some creature trying to mimic the cries of a child. Whatever that thing was, it wasn't Mikey. Okay guys, this seriously isn't funny anymore. Please just tell me if this is a joke or not. I pleaded. "'Catherine.' Josh gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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"'We're just as confused as you are, I promise.' "'I'm gonna check it out,' Autumn announced, confidently stepping toward the tree line. "'It's probably nothing, but I would feel horrible if someone actually needed our help.' Sylvia looked almost as nervous as I felt, but she hesitantly let go of her girlfriend's hand and let her continue on toward the woods."
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I didn't want to let Autumn go, but I selfishly didn't want to be the one to step foot into the woods. The noise stabbed at my ear with an incessant drone that I wanted more than anything to end. I just wanted the noise to stop. I was naive enough to believe Autumn might be able to make that happen.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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A sharp chill crawled its way up my spine as I watched Autumn's body disappear between the twisted branches of the thick forest. I looked down at the three forgotten hot dogs broiling over the fire, and my stomach twisted. I had lost my appetite. Sylvia and Josh wanted to play cards while they waited for Autumn to return, but I wasn't in the mood.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I faked a headache and retreated from the group, stepping over the forgotten hot dogs and slipping inside Mikey's tent. The crying from the woods had faded to a dull weeping, but whispers could still be heard cresting over the dense expanse of treetops. I zipped Mikey's tent shut behind me, drowning out the last of the wilting whimpers.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I ran until the burning in my lungs was unbearable, until the muscles in my legs seized and refused to push any further.'
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I tried to distract myself by flipping through some books that Mikey had brought. Part of me was looking for some belongings of Mikey's to show to the group, something that would remind them of his existence. The other part of me was still in complete denial about what was happening to us. The messy collection contained mostly sci-fi novels, but the largest book was different.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It was large and leather-bound, the worn edges of its pages spilling out the sides. I flipped through a few pages and was faced with scratchy scrawl and disturbing depictions of creatures I could have never imagined. I knew Mikey was into some weird stuff. I was fairly certain he believed in Bigfoot, but this was a whole different level of weird.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I wanted to believe it was another prank, something he had brought to show off around the campfire to scare us all, but some of the pages had bookmarks and notes in Mikey's handwriting scribbled in the margins. it was pretty clear he was taking what was written in this book seriously.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I turned through pages depicting woodland yetis and wendigos of increasing horror until my eyes felt itchy and my brain pulsed with even more paranoia. When I reached the middle of the book, a small stack of papers fell out. They were printed out website pages of research Mikey had done on our campsite.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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my shoes skidded on loose gravel as i finally stumbled to a stop gasping desperately for air the fog had thickened even further pressing against me with a tangible weight and my flashlight barely illuminated more than a few feet ahead the road stretched ahead of me dark silent empty i glanced behind me half expecting to see those dreadful red lights approaching once more but there was nothing just the emptiness of the night
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It was all there, information on the missing hikers, the commune, and even some research on settlers who had lived in this area. I skimmed all the printouts, and nothing seemed overtly strange about the stories. It just seemed like a string of bad luck to me. The thing I found the most odd was Mikey's obsessive fascination with this place.
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I pushed the papers away, curling up on Mikey's sleeping bag and shutting my eyes. I didn't feel panicked, just exhausted. What was happening around me was so wrong that my brain had no choice but to reject it entirely. Sleep found its way to me, muffling my awareness for moments of fitful dreaming before I would once again come back to myself and hear the sounds of crickets and birds.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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In my dreams, I had no choice but to replay the sound we had heard in the forest until even that found its way into my waking moments, mingling discordantly with the chirping crickets. It took me far too many dizzy, half-conscious moments to realize that the sound was no longer merely a remnant of my dreams. It was real. The screaming had returned.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Josh and Sylvia were sitting on logs playing a ferocious game of Go Fish when I rejoined them. I had no idea how long I had been asleep for, but the sky had already begun to soften into a dusty orange, and my heart sank when I noticed that Autumn was nowhere to be seen. Do you guys hear that? I asked.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The sound was still faint, but I was certain I could hear it cresting over the mountain once again. The same quiet but desperate calls for help echoing off the abundant sea of trees that surrounded us. The incessant, wailing drone continued to roll over me, sending a new bout of nausea through my body. Yeah, I hear it too, Sylvia confirmed. Should one of us go check it out?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Someone might be in trouble out there. Yeah, Josh nodded in agreement. I can go see what the problem is. No, I shouted a bit too frantically. I don't think anyone else should go out there until Autumn comes back. Sylvia looked me dead in the eye and asked. Who is Autumn? Chills prickled at every inch of my clammy skin. Autumn! I yelled. Your girlfriend!
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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She went into the forest hours ago and she still isn't back. What the hell, Catherine? Sylvia spat at me. Having to be the third wheel on you and Josh's camping trip is bad enough without you making jokes about me having some imaginary disappearing girlfriend. Whatever joke you're trying to make seriously isn't funny.
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I turned to Josh, hoping he might back me up, but his usually supportive gaze conveyed only disappointment, as if I was truly making a joke at Sylvia's expense. It's not a joke, I insisted, and you aren't a third wheel. The five of us all agreed to come on this trip together.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I pulled out my phone and frantically tapped at the screen, attempting to produce some kind of evidence to support my claims. Our group chat or a picture of all five of us together. Anything. Anything that could prove to my friends and to myself that I wasn't completely losing my grip on reality. It was dead. Of course it was. All our phones were probably dead by now.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The gravity of the situation I had been denying all morning finally hit me. We were miles and miles away from civilization. All our phones were dead. There was something out there drawing us into the forest, and anyone who crossed the tree line was being forgotten. Autumn was gone, Mikey was gone, and Mikey had the car keys.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The insurmountable circle of trees that surrounded us felt like it was closing in on me. flooding our once idealistic campsite with a wave of dense, sticky dread that crept up my spine and tightly wound around my throat. I couldn't breathe. Whatever. Sylvia rolled her eyes. I'll let you guys spend some quality time together. I'm gonna go on a long walk, alone.
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I wanted to reach out and stop her, but my feet felt like they were rooted to the ground. The sounds from the forest had faded once again, but the fear they had awoken in me still pulsed through my arteries. As I watched Sylvia's back sink into the tree line, I prayed once again that this was all just some horrible prank. Josh and I passed the remaining hours until sunset in silence.
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We sat side by side on a log, watching the tree line that Sylvia's body had sunk into. I could tell from Josh's pursed lips and furrowed brow that he was upset and confused by my crazed outburst. And he was worried about Sylvia. He wouldn't look at me. He would only look straight forward at the forest. I couldn't think of a single thing to say. My body was paralyzed and my brain was foggy.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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My pulse thundered in my ears and I bent over, hands on my knees trying to regain my breath and my bearings. When I finally straightened, I noticed an old wooden sign at the edge of the road, partially obscured by branches. I moved closer and swept the flashlight beam across faded lettering. Hawksbill Summit Trail. It was familiar. I'd hiked this trail before years ago.
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This all still felt to me like some odd dream, nothing that could exist in our realm of reality. I felt a tug toward the now too silent forest. My friends were in there and I was the only person left to save them. Could I really just sit here and let them disappear? Could I walk away from Josh and leave him to come in after me?
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We sat there in silence watching the forest as the sun began to set and the orange sky began to burn into black. The tension in Josh's face began to ease. The worried creases on his forehead flattened out, and a thoughtless smile lifted the corners of his lips. He had forgotten. He had forgotten everything. The forest is so beautiful, isn't it? He asked me.
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I'm so glad we decided to take this trip together, just the two of us. I told Josh I wanted to head to bed early, and he agreed. As soon as I heard his breathing become slow and even, I crept from our tent as silently as I could. I tiptoed around our mostly abandoned campsite and tried to ignore how creepy our once lively circle of tents now felt.
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As I rummaged through each of my friend's belongings, looking for anything that could help Josh and I get out of here, I felt like I was traipsing through a ghost town. In the end, I found nothing. The car keys were nowhere to be found, and the food and water we had left would only last us another day or two at most.
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I made my way back down the mountain, constantly tripping and scuffing up my hands and knees as I tried to traverse the massive boulders in the dark. After what felt like hours, I reached the van. I pulled desperately at each of the locked handles, but none of the doors budged. I collapsed against the cool metal of the van and let myself exhale a loud, frustrated sob.
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I felt completely and utterly defeated. Whatever was going on, within my own broken, twisted mind, or out in the dense shadows of the forest was completely out of my control, and there seemed to be no escape. I was so tired and confused. I just wanted to sleep. But the fear of Josh wandering into the forest while I slept kept me from closing my weary, drooping eyelids.
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If he was all I had left, if the rest of my friends were truly gone, the only thing I could do was get him out of this forest alive. I steeled myself and forced my shaking hands to pick up a rock off the ground. I was readying myself to smash through one of the van's windows when a faint wail made me stutter.
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The sound was faint from where I now stood, but it was undeniably present in the otherwise silent forest. The screams had returned. As I scrambled my way back up the mountain, getting lost, tripping, and falling over my feet in the darkness, I realized the sound was growing louder than ever, and even more high-pitched and pitiful sounding than I remembered.
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I tried to follow the sound back to our campsite, but it seemed to pulsate from every direction, bleeding through every inch of the forest, making me completely unsure of where I was going. Help! It cried over and over again until the word tangled in on itself and lost all meaning. When I finally reached camp, it was just in time to see Josh's silhouette disappear into the treeline.
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I screamed after him, but it was too late. He was gone. I had only one choice left. I had to go in after him. I sprinted past our deserted tents and into the dense treeline. Twisted branches seemed to come at me from every direction, scratching my face and arms as I sprinted deeper and deeper into the dark forest. ''Josh! Josh!''
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I called again and again until my voice turned hoarse and unrecognizable. I could feel my breath becoming more and more desperate and erratic, but I had no time to rest or slow down. I had to find Josh before it was too late, before he disappeared into the forest forever. The mountain was steeper on this side, descending into a cliff that jutted out in odd, uncontrollable angles.
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Something inside me stirred. Maybe hope. Maybe desperation. Trails led somewhere, didn't they? Anywhere was better than here. I stepped onto the narrow path. Flashlight trained carefully on the uneven ground. Shadows stretched and twisted around me with each careful step. The dense canopy overhead blocked out any remaining traces of moonlight.
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I hung onto the trees to keep myself upright, scanning the impenetrable darkness for any signs of movement. At one point, I thought I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, but when I scrambled my way over to the shape, it was just another pile of fallen bricks, more remnants of what had been lost on this mountain.
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My legs felt numb and uncontrollable, and I was too disoriented to catch myself, as one of my ankles twisted and I fell blindly. I could feel the impact of sharp rocks and branches as my body flipped and rolled down the side of the mountain, stopping only when my leg snagged under a boulder and pulled my limp body to a halt with a jolt of excruciating pain.
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I felt myself cry out with uncontrollable pain and rage. I couldn't stop the pitiful sobs that wracked my broken, mangled body as I lay helpless in the dark, deserted forest. I stared up at the beautiful, starry sky, and I blindly felt my way down to my wound. I was met with hot, wet blood, torn fabric, and something sharp.
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I know now that I was feeling my protruding bone, but back then, my brain refused to even consider this. I couldn't fathom it. I couldn't fathom any of it. Tears stung my eyes. I was stuck. There was no way I could make it to safety, and everyone I had brought with me onto this cursed mountain was now gone. I cried and begged for help for what felt like eternity.
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I screamed with pitiful, high-pitched desperation until my words tangled in on each other and lost all meaning. I don't know how long I was there, alone on the side of the mountain. It was probably only an hour, but it felt like days. My wailing became subconscious, just something that happened with every haggard breath I took.
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I winced every time I heard the pitiful, inhuman cries for help, but I could not seem to bring myself to stop. All I could seem to do was listen as the strange, broken creature continued to cry. I didn't hear the sound of approaching feet until it was almost on top of me. Then, finally, a figure emerged from between the trees.
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I thought my broken mind might be playing tricks on me until the figure came closer and I could make out a face. It was Mikey. It was so odd, I barely even recognized him at first. He looked like a complete stranger or someone I had not set eyes on in several years. He just stood there for a moment, staring at me, and I wasn't even sure if he could see my face in the darkness. I heard screaming.
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He muttered so softly I could barely hear the words. Mikey. I finally managed to croak out into the empty air between us. It's me, Catherine. He looked at me so strangely, none of his usual mirth brightening his features, and for one horrible moment, I was certain he was going to open his mouth and ask, Who's Catherine?
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Instead, he scooped me up in his long arms and carried me back up the mountain. We made it back to the campsite, and I was certain I was imagining things when I saw Autumn, Sylvia, and Josh emerge from their tents, bleary-eyed and confused at the sounds of Mikey's cries for help. They had crowded around us, asking a million questions.
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I was somewhat aware of Josh's hands on my face, Sylvia's shrill voice, but everything was muted behind the searing pain in my leg and the ringing in my ears. Everything was happening very fast. I was jostled into Josh's arms and taken back down to the van. We rode back to civilization, bringing only the bare essentials with us.
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Soon, even the faint outline of the road behind me vanished completely into the fog. The silence on the trail was oppressive, a thick, unnatural quiet that amplified every ragged breath I took. I kept moving, focused on each careful footfall. Eventually, the terrain steepened, and the air grew colder, sharper.
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My friends were shouting and crying in confusion, trying to talk to me, but I couldn't hear anything they said. In my mind, all I could hear were the screams. I'm sure you can infer what happened after that. Hospital, home, concerned parents, concerned friends, psych evaluations, a college graduation that I barely remember.
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I existed in a dense smog for a while, sleepwalking my way through a reality that never felt all that real to me. I'll let you make your own theories about what really happened on that mountain, because your guess is as good as mine. My friends all tell the story the exact same way. We all went to sleep after telling ghost stories around the fire.
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Mikey woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of my screams. He found me collapsed with a broken leg and carried me back to safety. I was in shock and wasn't making much sense, but they all figured I had sleepwalked into the forest, tripped, and fell. The story makes sense, a lot more sense than my version anyway, but I've never really been able to accept it.
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The dissonance between our two distinct versions of what happened caused a rift. I lost touch with my friends not too long after we all graduated. and Josh and I broke up not long after that. I know what happened to me isn't their fault, but I couldn't separate them from it. After that trip, we all looked at each other a little differently.
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I know it's crazy, but some small part of me still wonders if it was all some stupid prank gone terribly wrong. Maybe Mikey wanted us to become a part of the mountain's lore. Maybe they were just trying to mess with me, And they took it way too far, to a point they could never be honest with me about. There's one part of that theory that doesn't fit, though. The screams. My screams.
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Either way, I wanted to write all this out. Maybe get a few of your opinions on what you think could have caused all this. Sleepwalking? A stress-induced psychotic break? Like I said, your guess is as good as mine. The only thing I do know is that it's been ten long years since that camping trip. and I've never been the same since.
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Still, my memory of that night is eroding with time, and I wanted to jot it down before I forget everything. I hadn't seen Danny in over five years when he called me out of the blue that January. Said he was heading up to northern Wisconsin for a solo trip and asked if I wanted to tag along.
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His voice was the same, too confident for someone with a long history of half-baked ideas, but I said yes anyway. I needed a break, and something about the cold had always cleared my head better than any vacation ever could. We met up in Bayfield, a tiny town off Lake Superior's southern shore. The plan was to hike across the frozen lake and check out the ice caves along the Apostle Islands.
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The park service officially only opens them when the lake ice is thick enough, but Danny wanted to go deeper, beyond the marked caves and into spots that didn't show up on the tourist maps. You know the real ones, he said grinning, the stuff nobody sees. The locals weren't thrilled about that idea.
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One old guy at the gas station near our drop-off said it had been a weird winter, warmer than usual, unstable ice. He told us to stick to the main routes and if we heard anything strange, especially after dark, to stay in our tent and don't follow it. I figured he meant wolves. Or maybe he was just trying to spook the out-of-towners.
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My lungs burned with every inhalation, but at least here, away from the road, away from those terrible lights, I felt some small measure of control. Then as I rounded a sharp bend in the path, my heart stopped. Ahead, just off the trail, two red lights hovered motionlessly in the shadows beneath a massive oak. The same lights from before, except this time, they were clearer, brighter.
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We started from Myers Beach and trekked out across the frozen surface of Lake Superior, dragging two sleds behind us loaded with cold-weather gear, food, a small camp stove, and a portable ice drill Danny insisted we bring. The wind cut like broken glass, and the sky was that grayish-white that makes it impossible to tell what time it is. Still, it was beautiful in its own dead way.
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After a few miles, the shoreline transformed. The caves started as small crevices, then yawning mouths of crystal blue ice, like nature had carved out cathedral vaults in frozen time. Some of the caves glittered with icicles the length of streetlights. Others had spiraling formations along the ceilings that looked like they were melting mid-scream.
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We made camp in a narrow inlet near Swallow Point. No one else was out there. It was too far from the main areas, and the ice had a habit of cracking unpredictably this time of year. Danny, of course, thought that made it perfect. No crowds, no rules, he said. That night, just after we'd crawled into our sleeping bags and zipped the tent, we heard something.
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It wasn't the wind, it was deeper, more drawn out. A low wail, like a scream that had been drowned under fifty feet of water. It echoed across the lake, bounced off the caves, and then faded like it had never been there at all. Danny laughed it off. Ice shifts. Caves make noise. That's science, man. I nodded, but my stomach didn't buy it.
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I'd been in enough backcountry spots to know what natural sounds felt like. That didn't feel natural. It felt aware. The next morning, the sun never really came out. Just a dim glow behind clouds. We unzipped the tent and Danny cursed under his breath. I stepped out after him and froze. There were tracks in the snow, leading straight to our tent. They weren't boot prints.
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They were off, long, narrow, like something walking upright but dragging weight behind it. Claw marks at the front of each print, digging deep into the crusted snow. No animal I'd ever seen moved like that. The prince circled the tent once, then disappeared toward the caves. Danny stared at them, then shrugged. Wolf dragging a deer, maybe. Ice plays tricks.
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They probably look weird because of the snowmelt. But the snow hadn't melted. It was below zero all night. Still, he convinced me to push on. We packed light and went deeper into a cave network on the far side of the point. There was no trail, no signs, just a narrow opening barely tall enough to duck into.
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Inside, it widened into a winding corridor of ice that looked like it had been carved by fire, not water. Smooth and black in places, rippling and jagged in others. The deeper we went, the more I noticed the smell. A thick, wet stink, like rotting meat left too long in the sun. Danny lit a headlamp and aimed it at the walls. That's when we saw them. Symbols.
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Carved into the ice, like someone had taken a hot blade to it. Circles. Lines. Rough shapes like stick figures with deer antlers and hollow bellies. Circles. One figure had its mouth open wide, almost cartoonish, but something about it made my spine go rigid. Danny found what looked like a shaft in the back, just a hole that disappeared down into blackness.
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He dropped a rock into it, but we never heard it hit bottom. He laughed, called it badass, and said we'd come back tomorrow with rope. I didn't respond. I just wanted out of there. By the time we got back to camp, it was already dusk. The sun bled out behind the horizon like it was trying to escape and the temperature plunged.
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We cooked a fast dinner and zipped into the tent before the wind kicked up. I lay there for a long time listening to it whistle and moan across the lake. i thought i'd imagined it at first but then i heard it again footsteps crunching snow slow heavy they circled the tent once then stopped and right outside the nylon wall barely a foot from my head i heard breathing shallow wet guttural
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Not reflections, not headlights. They hung impossibly still, suspended about chest height, glowing softly in the darkness. Instinctively, I froze in place, breath hitching painfully in my chest. The lights remained perfectly still, their glow steady and unblinking. Swallowing my fear, I forced myself forward, step by cautious step, flashlight shaking uncontrollably in my grip. I had to know.
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I held my breath and didn't move a muscle. Danny was already asleep. Whatever it was, it stayed there for what felt like hours. Then it left. When I finally slept, I dreamed I was under the ice and something was tapping from the other side, waiting to be let in. I woke up to silence. Not the kind you get in nature, the peaceful kind filled with birdsong or wind through trees. This was wrong.
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It was too quiet. Even the ice wasn't groaning like it had the day before. It felt like the lake was holding its breath. Danny wasn't in the tent. I scrambled out, boots half-laced and adrenaline already pounding through my chest.
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I expected to see his orange parka near the gear pile, or maybe him off relieving himself behind a snowbank, but instead I found a trail of disturbed snow leading away from our sight. Not prints, just a long erratic path like something heavy had been dragged. One of our sleds was gone, the one with most of the meat packs, when Danny finally came back.
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Twenty minutes later and totally unaware of my near heart attack, he was grinning like nothing was wrong. Found some cool stuff up by that ridge past the caves, he said, like he hadn't just vanished before sunrise. Tracks going toward the cliffs. Could be wolves.
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he noticed the missing sled the same time i pointed it out then shrugged maybe wind caught it or coyotes got bold i didn't believe that for a second we'd staked everything down and there were no prints no claw marks no blood Just that drag line, veering toward the caves like something had calmly taken what it wanted. We argued. I told him we needed to head back.
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But he reminded me the path to Myers Beach was iced over and cracking when we came in. Even if we tried now, it could buckle under us. We were trapped. So instead we did something colossally stupid. We went back to the caves. Danny was obsessed with the shaft we'd found. He said there might be a collapsed lava tube under the lake, or some secret glacial cavern.
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I didn't want to go back, but the alternative was sitting alone at camp while something circled our tent at night. We brought ropes, headlamps, a handheld flare gun, and what was left of our food in case we didn't make it back by dark. Inside, it was even worse than I remembered. The smell had intensified. It was no longer just rot, it was sick.
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Like a freezer full of spoiled meat mixed with mold and sulfur. I had to breathe through my scarf to keep from gagging. When we reached the back chamber, something had changed. There were bones now. Dozens of them, stacked in a loose pile near the shaft. Long bones, deer maybe, but some were unmistakably human. One femur had what looked like bite marks on it.
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Another still had a tattered pant leg frozen to it. Danny finally hesitated. Maybe, maybe we shouldn't be down here, he said, his voice lower than usual. No crap, I whispered. Still, he pulled out a flare, lit it, and dropped it into the shaft. The red glow fell for what seemed like forever, finally casting light on something below. It moved. Just for a second, I saw it.
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Something long and pale, crawling across the floor like a spider, with limbs that bent the wrong way. I didn't get a clear look, but it was enough to make every part of my brain scream, run. Danny started muttering, no way, that's gotta be a person, or a bear. Maybe it's just shadow tricks. No, no, man. That's not shadow tricks. We backed out slowly.
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I refused to turn my back on the shaft, convinced that thing could launch up at any moment. Back at camp, things got worse fast. Danny went quiet, didn't eat, curled up in his sleeping bag and wouldn't respond when I talked to him. His skin looked gray under the lamplight.
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not frostbite just wrong his lips were cracked his breathing was shallow but when i checked our thermometer it read forty two degrees fahrenheit inside the tent not hypothermic territory i offered him food he pushed it away then a few minutes later i caught him gnawing on a frozen strip of meat like an animal Mouth open, tearing with his front teeth, barely chewing.
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When I said his name, he stopped, looked at me like he didn't recognize me, then went back to chewing. Around 2am, I heard something outside again. Footsteps. Crunch. Pause. Crunch. Pause. I reached for the flare gun. The footsteps circled the tent. Then I heard a voice. It was mine. It said my name in my exact tone. Whispered. right outside the nylon wall.
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I needed to see clearly what this thing was, what had haunted me along Skyline Drive. As I drew closer, my flashlight beam slowly illuminated the space beneath the lights. The realization was immediate, visceral, and horrifying. They weren't lights at all. They were eyes. Two glowing red orbs set far apart in a darkness that revealed no shape, no body.
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Then again, louder, more strained, like it was learning. Then silence. When I finally worked up the nerve to peek outside, there was nothing but fresh snow and a trail of bare human footprints. No boots, no animal tracks, circling the tent again, and disappearing into the dark. I dragged Danny out the next morning, convinced we couldn't spend another night out there.
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I needed walls, a radio, a signal. The caves, I realized, were at least shelter from the thing stalking us. Whatever it was. So we went back. I set us up inside the wider chamber, away from the shaft. Used the sled to block the entry. built a small fire, even though I knew the smoke might draw attention. Danny didn't speak for hours.
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When he finally did, it was a whisper, soft, like he was remembering something. I can hear it under the ice, he said. I asked him what it sounded like. He smiled, too wide, and said, my voice. When I woke up that evening, Danny was gone. The cave was quiet. Too quiet. Near the back wall, drawn in something that looked like blood mixed with ash, were words I'll never forget. It wants the warm one.
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I was alone. And I think whatever was down there had decided I was next. I didn't move at first. I just stared at the wall. It wants the warm one. The fire had burned out. The cave floor beneath me was so cold it hurt to breathe. My hands shook. Not from the cold, but from something deeper. Primal. Like my body already knew I wasn't alone anymore. Danny was gone. That part had sunk in.
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But I wasn't sure if he'd walked out on his own, or if something had taken him. I grabbed what gear I had left. My pack, the flare gun, three actual flares, my flashlight, and unblocked the entrance.
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i stepped out into the pale morning light it had snowed lightly while i slept just enough to blur tracks the wind was dead the lake stretched out gray and flat like a frozen sheet of steel no movement no sound no birds just behind me the cave let out a low groan not from shifting ice it sounded like a breath i turned and ran i followed what i thought were danny's prints but they twisted doubled back
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veered into places that made no sense tight gaps in rocks cracks in the lake ice that no human could squeeze through whatever i was following it wasn't danny any more the sun barely broke the clouds casting long distorted shadows across the ice I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to see him there, or it. Hours passed.
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Then, near a collapsed section of shoreline ice, I found the first real sign. A parka. Danny's. Half frozen. Stuck in the snow. His boots were still in it. No blood, just… empty. And beside it, a print, one, just one. It looked human, but stretched, toes like claws, longer than my forearm. The ice under it had begun to melt, even in sub-zero weather.
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I backed away slowly and nearly fell through a soft patch. When I looked back, the parka was gone. I knew I couldn't stay out in the open. I needed higher ground, or at least a spot where I could see what was coming. I climbed up a frozen ridge near the edge of a broken cave, flares in my chest pocket. As I crested the top, I finally saw it.
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Down below, slithering between shards of ice and drifted snow, was a thing. Seven, maybe eight feet tall when upright, but it moved mostly on all fours, emaciated, pale, limbs too long and bent the wrong way, like an insect mimicking a person.
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just the eerie stillness beneath the branches of the tree. My stomach clenched violently as my limbs went numb. My breath became shallow, rapid gasps. I wanted to turn, to flee back down the trail, but my legs refused to obey. All I could do was stare, transfixed, caught between terror and fascination. Slowly, around me, the forest began shifting subtly.
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its head looked human almost but its mouth hung slack and split too far back on both sides its eyes were gone just black sockets and on its head a crown of twisted antlers like dead branches strung with bits of fur and tendon It stopped moving, and turned its head toward me. Even without eyes, I knew it saw me. It let out this sound, like a person inhaling and screaming at the same time.
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Then it charged. I panicked and fired a flare, mist wide. The thing ducked and twisted under the arc, impossibly fast. I ran, not back to the tent, not back to the cave. I just ran across the lake, praying the ice held. The sun was higher now, which helped. In the distance, miles away, I saw a snowmobile. Bright orange. A Coast Guard rescue unit.
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My beacon must have finally transmitted through a gap in the clouds. I waved my arms, screamed, fired a second flare. The rider turned toward me, and that's when I heard it behind me, bare footsteps slapping across the ice. Close. I turned. The Wendigo.
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Danny, whatever it was now, was sprinting after me, its mouth opening wider than I thought possible, tongue dragging against its chest, leaving a trail of ice that hissed and melted. I fired the last flare directly into its face. The creature reared back and shrieked, so loud I felt it in my teeth. Its skin bubbled where the flare hit, steaming like dry ice on fire.
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It clawed at its head, and in that moment of weakness, the sun crested fully over the ridge behind me. The creature let out a final hiss and collapsed into the snow, limbs twitching, steaming. Then, as I watched in horror, it sank through the ice, not cracking it, not breaking it. just slowly melting into it like it belonged there, like it was returning. The rescue team got to me minutes later.
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They thought I was suffering from exposure. I told them what I saw. They didn't believe me, but they didn't argue either. They just nodded. And one of them, a bearded older guy who looked like he'd worked this area for decades, leaned in and whispered, "'You weren't the first, and you won't be the last.' They never found Danny's body, not even his prints."
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The park closed the entire section near Swallow Point indefinitely due to ice instability. That's what they told the news. I haven't gone camping since. Sometimes late at night, I'll hear wind outside my apartment window. A low, hollow howl. And sometimes, just barely, I swear I hear my own voice whispering from across the dark.
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By the time we reached Baxter State Park, it didn't feel like the end. It felt like the beginning of something we weren't supposed to see. Sarah and I had been hiking the Appalachian Trail for six months straight. Nobo, northbound, the long way. We'd been through heat waves in Georgia, storms in Virginia, black flies in Vermont, and now here we were, late September, two days from finishing.
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The leaves in northern Maine were already halfway to red, and the air had that early bite to it, cold, clean, and too quiet. Most thru-hikers finish earlier in the season. By then, the trail was nearly abandoned. We didn't see another soul for two days leading into Baxter, just gray skies, empty trees, and silence. Mount Katahdin loomed ahead, 5,000 feet of bare rock and sharp ridges.
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I'd dreamed about that summit since Springer Mountain, but when we finally stood beneath it, something in my gut twisted. The mountain didn't look majestic. It looked ancient, like it had been waiting for us. We checked in with a ranger at Katadyn Stream Campground to confirm our rote. He was in his sixties, thick beard, looked like the kind of guy who'd seen things but never talked about them.
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When we told him we were planning to summit via Knife Edge and descend through Dudley Trail, he squinted through the fog behind us and said, Knife Edge is open, but fog's been thick lately. Be careful up there. It's easy to lose the trail when the clouds roll in. Some folks have gone missing this season. Three, I think. Missing how? I asked. He shrugged. Gear left behind. Campsite's still warm.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The trail beneath my feet twisted unnaturally, warping into impossible curves. Branches rearranged themselves silently, shadows dancing in strange shapes under my weakening flashlight beam. I remembered the desperate scrawl from the notebook. Break the line of sight. Break the loop. Could that truly be the key? Could something so simple free me from this endless nightmare?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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No bodies. No radio contact. Makes you hear things that aren't real. Sarah raised an eyebrow at me like, okay, horror movie vibes. But we thanked him and moved on. We camped at Chimney Pond that night. The spot was perfect. Nestled against the east face of Katadin, with a narrow alpine lake reflecting the sheer stone cliffs above us. The silence was total. No wind. No insects. No birds.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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But as the narrow road came into view, dread returned with suffocating strength. Slowing down, I peered carefully toward the roadside, my pulse hammering like a trapped bird against my ribcage. A rusted metal sign emerged from behind thick brush, partially concealed and leaning precariously. My breath caught sharply. Dead end.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Just cold and the distant sound of dripping water echoing off the cliffs. I woke up sometime around 2am to the sound of branches snapping. Not twigs. Thick branches. Crunch. Crack. Pause. Then again. I thought maybe it was a moose or a bear, so I reached over to shake Sarah awake, but her eyes were already open. She whispered, something's pacing out there. We waited in silence. Nothing else came.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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When we checked in the morning, there were no prints. Just that eerie feeling in your chest when you know something was close. Still, we geared up and started our ascent. Knife Edge Trail is exactly what it sounds like. A long, narrow ridge connecting several peaks, with sheer drop-offs on either side. One misstep, and you're gone. It's not a trail you want to rush.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The fog started rolling in as we reached Pamola Peak. At first it was just mist, but within minutes the trail disappeared behind us in a wall of white and visibility dropped to maybe 10 feet. Wind gusted over the ridge howling through rock crevices like something screaming far off in the distance. We kept moving, careful and deliberate. Sarah was ahead, her orange pack barely visible.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Then she disappeared. Just like that. I called out her name. No answer. I waited. Called again. Still nothing. Then from the fog ahead I heard her voice. Hey. Back here. Flat. Quiet. Wrong. I started walking toward the sound. She called again. Hey, this way. Except her voice was coming from the left, not the trail. Toward the cliff. I stopped and looked down. Bare rock. A hundred foot drop.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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And then I saw a figure, just for a second, in the mist. My height. My build. Back turned. Slowly walking away from the trail. But the backpack was black, not orange. Then Sarah's hand grabbed my shoulder from behind. "'Where the hell are you going?' she snapped. I turned. She was panting, pale, eyes wide. "'I heard you,' I said. "'You called me.' She shook her head. "'No. I lost sight of you.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I've been calling for five minutes. You didn't respond.' We stood there in silence, surrounded by White, both trying not to panic. Eventually, we made it across Knife Edge, slowly and without talking." We bivvied just below the summit, on a narrow flat patch of rock. It wasn't ideal, but it was flat and protected from wind. We didn't eat much.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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We just stared out into the fog, waiting for it to lift. It never did. That night I woke again, but it wasn't noise this time. It was the sound of my own voice, faint, just outside the tent. Hey, back here. I froze. Then it said again, closer. Hey, this way. I slowly unzipped the tent and stuck my head out into the dark. Nothing.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Then, just at the edge of the fog, I saw bare footprints in the gravel. Not boot prints. Not animal tracks. Bare feet. Human. Long. Narrow. They circled the tent. Once. Twice. Then disappeared into the stone. I woke Sarah. We sat up until sunrise, staring at the wall of fog, flares in hand. She didn't say a word, just stared at her bare feet. One heel had a fresh cut.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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She didn't remember leaving the tent. When the fog started to clear that morning, I finally stepped outside fully to look around. That's when I noticed something wrong with the footprints. There were two sets. One set came from the trail behind us. Boot prints. Mine. The other set. Came from the woods. From nowhere. Bare. Humanish. They circled our tent, and only one set left.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I closed my eyes, shutting out the red glow. Shutting out the terrifying distortions of reality around me. with trembling limbs i forced myself to move backward stepping carefully blindly retracing my path the air felt colder now a chill seeping deep into my bones each step backward was agonizingly slow the urge to open my eyes overwhelming but i resisted I couldn't afford to see it again.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Sarah looked at me and asked quietly, Did you come back inside last night? I didn't answer, because I wasn't sure. The fog didn't lift. It retreated, like it had just been waiting for us to move on. We started our descent down the Dudley Trail late that morning. It was a steep, winding scramble over boulders slick with moss and patches of snow that hadn't yet melted.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The knife edge was still behind us, partially veiled in a cloud that clung unnaturally to the ridge. A ragged piece of sky broke through over our heads, but the trail below was shaded and cold. Sarah didn't talk much. She'd barely touched her food. Her face looked gaunt, like she'd aged five years overnight. Her lips were dry, eyes bloodshot.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Every time I checked on her, she was staring back up toward the summit. We made it a few miles before she stopped and sat on a boulder near a bend in the trail. She pulled off her gloves and started rubbing her arms. I feel like I'm freezing, she said. Even with the layers, my chest, it's like it's hollow. I checked her temperature. Her skin felt cold. Ice cold.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Even though she was bundled up tighter than me. No visible frostbite. No fever. But she was shivering and sweating at the same time. Something was wrong, but we were still hours from shelter. We pushed on. The farther we got, the more I noticed how wrong the woods felt. There was no wind. Not a single bird. Even the snowmelt streams were silent.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The trail twisted through a gully lined with black spruce, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching us from the trees, always just out of sight. Then Sarah started talking to herself. At first it was just mumbling, then whole conversations. Her voice would change mid-sentence, cadence, pitch, even accent.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I heard her repeat a full conversation we'd had two weeks ago in Vermont, word for word. Then she said something I hadn't said out loud, something I'd only thought, in the tent back on the summit. I didn't mention it, not yet. We reached the Russell Pond shelter by late afternoon. It was a lean-to. Three wooden walls, open front, and a raised platform barely big enough for two sleeping pads.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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No one else around. No sign anyone had been there in weeks. We unpacked, built a fire, and boiled what little water we had left. That's when I noticed her shirt, lifted as she knelt by the fire. Scratches, not surface level. Deep ones. Three, maybe four long gouges across her ribs angling down toward her stomach, still raw. What the hell is that? I asked.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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She looked down like she hadn't noticed, touched them lightly, didn't flinch. I... I think I scratched myself on a rock, she said. Or branches. I don't know. It doesn't hurt. But the skin around them was pale and shiny, like it was healing wrong. She didn't want to talk after that. Just crawled into her bag, rolled away from the fire, and passed out. I stayed up for a while. The fire crackled.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The sky above was perfectly clear, stars sharp and bright, and that dead silence still pressed in around the trees. Then I heard it again. Footsteps. Slow, dragging, coming from the woods behind the shelter. Not boots. Not hooves. Bare feet on frozen earth. I grabbed the flare gun and held my breath. The steps circled the shelter once. Then again. Then, a voice. Sarah's voice.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Come on, it's okay, we can go now. But she was asleep, right next to me. I turned to look at her, still bundled, still facing the wall. The voice came again, from the woods this time. Come on, it's okay. This time it wasn't just Sarah's voice, it was mine too. Layered, speaking at the same time, like it was practicing. I stayed still, trying to breathe silently. The fire crackled louder.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The footsteps stopped. Then something sniffed, long and wet, just behind the back wall of the shelter. And then, silence. I must have passed out at some point. When I woke up, Sarah was gone. The fire had gone out. Ashes cold. Her pack was still there. Boots too. I found her footprints in the snow leading away from the shelter, and another set next to them, identical but spaced wider, heavier.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Then my heel caught on something unseen, sending me sprawling onto the ground, my flashlight skittering away into the underbrush. Darkness enveloped me completely, and for an instant my mind went utterly blank. When I opened my eyes again, the cold dawn light seeped gently through the trees. I was lying in a shallow ditch alongside Skyline Drive, leaves and dirt clinging to my clothes.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I followed them, maybe a quarter mile into the trees I found her, standing barefoot in the snow, staring up at the canopy. Her eyes were rolled back, lips cracked and purple. She was whispering something. At first I thought it was just gibberish. Then I heard it, my name, over and over, in my voice. I called out to her. She turned her head slowly like it took effort, and smiled. Something was off.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Her jaw hung too low, like it was dislocated. Her skin was so pale I could see the blue veins spidering beneath it. Her fingernails were black at the tips. Then she lunged. I didn't think. I just fired the flare gun. It hit her shoulder and exploded in a burst of orange and red. She screamed, not in pain, but like something had been burned awake inside her. Her voice split, literally.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The scream became two screams layered over each other, one hers, one deeper, lower, older. She dropped, convulsing in the snow. I dragged her back to the shelter, heart hammering, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run and not come back. She was quiet for hours. When she finally came to, her voice was hoarse. Her eyes were normal again. She didn't remember attacking me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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She didn't remember leaving the shelter. But she said one thing I can't forget. It's not me anymore. I sat in that shelter until sunrise with the flare gun gripped in both hands, and Sarah curled up under two emergency blankets, silent. She didn't sleep. Neither did I.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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She never said another word, just stared off into the trees like she was waiting for something to step out and finish what it started. By morning, her skin looked paper thin. You could see the bones in her hands. Her breathing was shallow but not weak, controlled, like someone pretending to breathe like a person. That was the moment I knew.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Whatever had come down from that fog-wrapped mountain, it was inside her, watching through her eyes, learning. I made a decision. I packed my gear, gave her the last flare, and told her I was heading south to try and find help. She didn't protest, just nodded, once, and whispered, don't let it take your voice. I didn't ask what that meant. The trail out was no trail at all.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I was heading for the edge of Baxter State Park, maybe 20 to 25 miles away. No blazes, no markers, just compass, GPS, which barely worked, and instinct. By mid-morning, the trees changed. Birch gave way to fir, denser and twisted. The forest floor coated with frozen moss and icy mud. The temperature dropped, hard. My breath came out like smoke.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The quiet deepened, but now, I could hear something under it. A second silence, like the forest was waiting. Around noon I found the first sign. A rabbit, frozen upright, mid-hop. No wounds. Eyes gone. Skin frost-bitten black, steam still rising off it in the cold. A hundred feet further, deer bones. Clean, white, stacked neatly against a tree like a shrine.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The antlers were tied to the branches above it with strips of flesh, hanging like wind chimes. I started to run. That night I found a structure, not a ranger station exactly, more like a field cabin, log built, maybe 10x10, with a sloped tin roof and a rusted chimney. No power, no radio, but it had a door that locked. Inside I found a journal.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The pages were damp, curled with age, but the ink was still legible. A ranger named Don Farrell had kept notes from the late 90s to early 2000s. Most of it was trail conditions, wildlife sightings, snowpack levels. Then, starting in October of 2003, the entries changed. October 11th Girl came off knife edge mumbling in French. Said the mountain was whispering to her. We flew her out.
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My body ached as though I'd been tossed down a rocky slope. Slowly, I sat up, disoriented but alive, breathing deeply the cool morning air. My heart quickened as memories flooded back. The red lights, the impossible loop, the voice on the radio. Ahead, parked along the roadside, sat my car, engines silent, doors ajar, battery long dead.
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Frostbite on her tongue. October 16th Found hiker boots frozen to stone No body No prints leaving October 20th Saw someone in the woods last night Looked like me Didn't move right Closed station early this season The final page was torn halfway through They let the cold thing in It wears the voice Remembers the shape It's waiting to feel warm again Don't let it near you Don't let it s- That was it
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That night, I locked the door, piled furniture against it, built a fire in the rusted stove. I didn't sleep. Around 2 a.m., I heard the crunch of snow outside. Slow, deliberate. Then a knock. Knuckle against wood. Knock, knock.
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then my voice through the door soft almost kind hey open up it's me i didn't move the knock came again then scraping like nails or claws dragging in slow arcs across the wood then silence
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i waited an hour before checking nothing was outside but the snow in front of the cabin had melted in a perfect human-shaped outline bare feet long fingers a head crowned with antlers by morning i knew i couldn't outrun it forever i left the cabin before sunrise and headed toward the south branch pond area i'd heard there was a ranger outpost further south
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as i crossed a frozen stream i felt it not wind breath on the back of my neck i turned it was there not sara not anything human any more seven feet tall gaunt like famine incarnate gray skin stretched over bone like wax over a skeleton Its head looked carved from frostbitten wood, antlers tangled with moss and bits of clothing.
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Its mouth opened sideways, splitting along the jaw, revealing a second set of black teeth beneath. And from its mouth my voice, so warm, so loud. It lunged. I ran. I dropped the compass, lost the trail. I sprinted through brush, fell, scrambled over rocks. It didn't chase like an animal. It stalked.
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never touching the ground with more than two limbs at once, gliding through the trees like a puppet in the wind. I made it back to the frozen stream, the same one from before, thin ice, frigid water underneath. I stopped in the center and turned. It followed slowly. I pulled the last flare from my pocket, struck it, held it high, Come on, I said in my voice. Come on. It stepped onto the ice.
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Crack. Another step. Crack. I threw the flare at my own feet. The fire hit the ice and exploded in light and heat. The ice beneath me shattered. My boots slammed into water, the stream swallowing me to my thighs. The creature screamed. It hit the water chest first, and steam erupted around it.
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It flailed, skin sloughing off in the current, that awful mimicry breaking apart as it screeched in voices not its own. Sarah's. Mine. The ranger's. It tried to climb out, but the current dragged it down, and it sank. Eyes still locked on me, mouth still grinning. Then it was gone. I crawled out of the stream, half frozen, half dead, but alive. They found me two days later.
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A ranger patrol spotted me wandering near the south trailhead. I don't remember most of it, just heat packs, IV fluids, a hospital in Millinocket, I told them what happened. They didn't believe me, not really. But they closed Knife Edge two days later, said it was due to erosion. That was a lie. Sarah was never found. Three months later, I got a voicemail from a 207 number I didn't recognize.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Static. Then a voice. My voice. It whispered, still not warm, and laughed. If you ever find a rock stacked neatly on your sleeping bag in the middle of the woods, just one, perfectly centered, with tiny, deliberate claw marks carved along its base, don't pick it up. Don't touch it. Don't kick it. Just leave your pack, your tent, your friends, and go. I didn't. I picked it up.
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Condensation coated every window, and scattered leaves lay across the hood and roof. Carefully, painfully, I pushed myself upright and limped toward the vehicle. By the time park rangers found me wandering barefoot near Big Meadows Lodge, the sun had fully risen. Their expressions were skeptical as I babbled my story, their eyes filled with quiet disbelief.
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But I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm Jake, and if you know me from my channel, The Unexplained Northwest, Then yeah, this was supposed to be my big breakout series. Ape Canyon, the truth, 100 years later.
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We were supposed to hike in, find the spot where the old miners said they were attacked in 1924, film some eerie b-roll, throw in a few creepy ambient noises, and rack up a couple hundred thousand views. But what happened out there wasn't content. It was a trap. One we walked into willingly. We left the Marble Mountain Snow Park at 7.42 a.m., August 18th. Clear skies. Spirits were high.
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Molly, my girlfriend, had that look she always gets before a backpacking trip. Calm, laser-focused, ready for anything. Aaron had his drone kit and thermal camera strapped to his back. Jess, his little sister, was dragging behind with an energy drink and a bag of trail mix she'd mostly spilled in the car. And David... Well, David was along because we needed a fifth, and he had a forerunner.
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The trail started normal. Dusty switchbacks. Old Douglas firs crowding in. Patches of ash where the forest hadn't fully recovered from the last fire. But even an hour in, I felt it. That off feeling. Not fear. Not yet. Just… too quiet. No birdsong. No wind. Just the crunch of our boots and the occasional can't-quite-place-it echo that followed a little too long after we spoke.
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Jess joked that the forest felt judgy. David rolled his eyes. It's just a hike, guys. Bigfoot isn't real. And even if it was, the dude would be dead of Lyme disease by now. We laughed. I didn't tell them that the first time I came out here a year ago to scout, I found nails, rusty, square-cut ones, buried in the moss near an overgrown ridge.
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And next to them, a crossbeam, split in half, burnt on one side like lightning had struck it. I marked the location on my GPS and planned our return. When we reached the ridge that afternoon, everything felt wrong, not dangerous, just too still, like the woods had decided to watch. "'This the spot?' Molly asked, brushing sweat off her neck. "'Yep,' I said, trying to sound casual.
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"'This is where Fred Beck and his crew built the cabin, or what's left of it.' We found the nails again, the charred beam. Aaron scanned with the thermal but didn't catch anything unusual. Still, we all agreed the air felt thicker here, like walking into a room where someone had just been yelling. We set up camp on the flattest ground we could find. Trees surrounded us on all sides.
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Pine needles blanketed everything. Our fire pit crackled to life as the sun dipped low. Dinner was freeze-dried chili and cheap whiskey. The mood was light at first. Aaron cracked jokes. Jess pulled out tarot cards. David wandered off for a smoke saying we were all nuts. But around 9.30pm things shifted. The wind died. Not slowly. Not gradually. Just stopped. No breeze. No rustling leaves.
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Even the smoke from our fire started rising straight up like a pillar. Then came the tapping. Three knocks. Faint. Like someone tapping a rock against a tree trunk. We all froze. Woodpecker, David said too quickly. Jess shook her head. Not that rhythm. That was deliberate. We sat in silence, listening. Ten minutes passed. Nothing. Then three more taps. Closer.
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When I mentioned the notebook and the frantic writings of someone named Eli, their skepticism turned to confusion. Later, after a brief search, they told me no such person had ever been reported missing. The journal I swore I'd seen was never found. Months later, safely home in Richmond, I tried to rationalize my experience as stress-induced hallucinations, nightmares brought on by exhaustion.
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I turned on the parabolic mic and scanned the tree line. Nothing obvious, but there was a sound under the white noise. A kind of slow, labored breathing. Guttural, low, like someone exhaling through a cavern. Then silence. At 11.04, Molly screamed. I ran to her tent, heart in my throat. She was sitting upright, drenched in sweat, eyes wide. "'They were inside,' she whispered. "'Watching me.
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I wasn't dreaming, Jake. I saw them. Not faces. Just eyes. Silver eyes. So many. We didn't sleep. At some point Jess threw up behind a log. Aaron sat up with the drone tablet in his lap, scanning thermal feeds, muttering, "'Something moved. I swear it moved.' At 3.27 AM, the first rock hit. It smashed into our solar panel with a sharp crack. Everyone jumped.
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I unzipped my tent and scanned the darkness with my headlamp. Nothing. Then another rock landed near Jess's tent. Then another, and another. The pattern wasn't random. 3, pause, 4, pause, 3 again. Aaron activated the drone, and for a split second, we saw something. Tall, upright, just at the edge of the tree line, then static.
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The drone dropped like a stone, like it had been swatted out of the sky. Dawn couldn't come fast enough. When the sun finally rose, the woods looked unchanged. But the feeling, that pressure in the air, it hadn't left. Jess stepped out of her tent and screamed. At the foot of her sleeping bag was a single stone, small and smooth, with three tiny claw marks etched into its side.
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And that was the last time any of us felt safe. By the time the sun came up, none of us really believed we were in control anymore. We packed fast, barely speaking. Aaron had that wired, half-manic look he gets when something rattles him, eyes darting, jaw clenched like he was chewing on glass. Jess wouldn't go near the stone that was left beside her tent.
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She just stood there shaking, arms crossed, whispering over and over. That wasn't here last night. It wasn't. Molly looked like she hadn't slept at all. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she kept flinching whenever a twig snapped. She'd barely touched her breakfast. None of us had. We were ready to leave. But the trail was gone. I don't mean we missed a turn or wandered a few hundred feet off path.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I mean it wasn't there anymore. The switchback we'd taken down to the ridge. The dead tree with the hollow trunk we passed on the way in. Gone. Not just moved. Erased. Everything looked the same in every direction. Perfect symmetry. Pines spaced just far enough apart to keep you second-guessing. Same moss. Same lichen. No footprints. No trash. No sign we'd ever arrived.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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At first I thought I'd made a GPS error. Maybe the fire pit had just disoriented us. But Aaron's topo map glitched too, coordinates shifting in real time. He pulled up the last drone footage and started swiping through the thermal captures. That's when he stopped talking. "'What is that?' he asked, pointing to a blurry corner frame. We all leaned in.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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On the edge of the thermal display was a silhouette. Tall. Upright. Longer limbs than a person should have. Its heat signature barely registered. Just cold enough to be real. Just warm enough to not be dead. It was standing still. Too still. We watched in silence as Aaron cycled through the footage. The shape was in frame in three different clips, always from a new angle. It had been circling us.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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We should have left everything and bolted right then. But we didn't. Because something bigger than fear kept us there. It wasn't curiosity anymore. It was this pull, like the woods were reeling us in. We tried moving west, hoping to reconnect with a logging road or a ranger marker. But after 30 minutes of hiking, we found ourselves back at the ridge. Back at camp. Only now, it was different.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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But deep down, I knew the truth. I kept glancing at the darkened windows of my apartment, expecting red lights to appear in the reflection. One night, months afterward, parked at a quiet rest stop not far from Shenandoah, I caught movement at the edge of the tree line, a familiar, silent glow.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The fire pit was gone, covered in a thick, unnatural carpet of moss that hadn't been there five minutes earlier. Our footprints were gone too. In their place were five sets of much larger prints. Barefoot, human-like but impossibly wide. Toes long and splayed like claws. That's when Jess started crying. I saw it, she said, last night. I thought it was a nightmare, but it leaned over my tent.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I saw its hand. It had fingers, but they bent backward. We didn't know what to say. Molly hugged her, but it didn't help. Nothing was helping. Then Aaron's mic picked up something. He'd left the parabolic dish running and stepped away from it earlier. When we listened back, the recording was faint, buried under static, but unmistakable. A voice. A whisper. And it was Molly's.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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repeating the same phrase over and over. Let them through. Let them through. Let them through. We all looked at her. She looked right back, her face pale. I didn't say that, she whispered. The air went still again. That's when Jess screamed. She'd wandered a few steps off to throw up, and when we rushed over, we found her standing at the edge of a creek, one we hadn't crossed before.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Her boots were gone. She was ankle-deep in ice-cold water. staring down like she was in a trance. When I touched her shoulder, she flinched like I'd burned her. There are faces, she muttered, in the water. They're watching. They're underneath us. I wanted to believe she was hallucinating, dehydrated.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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But when I looked down into that stream, I swear, I swear, I saw something shift beneath the current, long and pale, not a fish, not a fish. We got her back to camp. She was shaking, wouldn't stop muttering. It's like they're learning us, like they're studying. Then Aaron disappeared, just like that. One second he was filming the tree line.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The next his camera lay sideways on the forest floor, lens cracked, still recording. The audio went haywire. We found no drag marks, no broken branches, no blood. Just his boots, perfectly placed side by side and one of those stacked rock formations beside them. This one had three tooth-like bones on top, small, human-sized. That's when David snapped.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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He shouted at the trees, threatened to burn the whole forest down. I tried to stop him, but he shoved me and took off into the trees with the drone controller clutched to his chest. We never saw him again. The drone signal cut out five minutes later. We thought about running, but where would we go? The sun was already low, every path looked the same, and we were down to three. Molly, Jess, me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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That night we didn't sleep. Jess sat upright against her pack, rocking, nails chewed to the quick. Molly was dead silent, staring into the fire. I sat with the parabolic mic aimed into the trees, listening to… something… Low vibrations. Breathing. Once I heard laughter, but not the kind that sounded human.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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At some point past midnight, I stepped away to clear my head, and I found something in the dirt. A notebook. Old, weather-stained, leather-bound and wrapped in brittle rope. Inside were pages covered in frantic handwriting. Fred Beck's name was inside the front cover.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Two red lights hung there patiently, unmoving, watching from the darkness of the forest, waiting for someone else to follow them into the endless loop. We reached our campsite deep in Canyon de Chelly, just as the sun dipped below the sandstone cliffs, painting them in deep hues of rust and violet.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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the last few entries chilled me they don't speak but they understand they watch from the trees and below the roots they hate the sun the miners broke the covenant they killed one the wrong one now they come in threes the final entry was scrawled with what looked like blood First the watcher, then the shepherd, then the mouth.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I didn't sleep, I just watched the tree line, and I counted every sound. There were three distinct knocks, then four, then three again, just like the first night. And I finally understood, they weren't trying to scare us. They were counting us. It's hard to explain what it feels like when the forest stops pretending to be a forest. By morning, the woods weren't just quiet. They were dead.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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No birds. No insects. No light breeze rustling the canopy. Even the temperature didn't change. It just… held. Like the whole place was stuck in the same second of time, looping over and over. We didn't eat, we didn't speak. Jess hadn't said a word since Aaron vanished. Her lips were cracked, and her fingers trembled constantly, like she was listening to something the rest of us couldn't hear.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Molly was worse. Her expression had flattened. Not fear, not shock, just vacant. Like she wasn't in her body anymore. She kept looking west, toward the canyon. I'd catch her whispering under her breath, things I couldn't quite hear. I only caught one sentence clearly, and I'll never forget it. It's hungry, but it's patient. We decided to move again. We had to. I didn't care if the trail was gone.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I didn't care if we wandered in circles. I just needed motion. Stillness out here felt like death. We headed down the ridge, following an animal trail that shouldn't have existed. I say that because the prints in the dirt weren't from deer or elk. They were too deep. Too wide. And the gate was off. The stride was wrong. Whatever made them wasn't running. It was walking. Slowly.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Like it had all the time in the world. That trail led us straight into the canyon. At first it looked like any other ravine, steep sides, fallen timber, moss-choked stones. But then we started seeing the symbols, carved deep into trees, scratched into rock, symmetrical spirals, triangle clusters, six-fingered handprints. Some were filled with a black resin like sap, but colder.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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We passed a tree where the bark had been stripped in a perfect spiral up its trunk, ten feet high. Bones had been jammed into the spiral like teeth, small ones, human-shaped. That's when I realized we weren't walking through the woods anymore, we were walking through a graveyard. Molly walked ahead like she was being guided, like she knew where to go.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I tried to grab her arm but she pulled away and whispered, ''He's underneath us.'' He who? I snapped, finally cracking. Who the hell are you talking about? She looked at me then, just briefly, and in that second I knew she wasn't coming back. The mouth. We reached a wall of stone. She stopped, laid her hand against it. And just like that, a section of rock shifted. Not crumbled, not cracked.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Shifted, like a door. Behind it was a narrow slit, just wide enough for a person. Beyond it, pitch black. A stench hit me then, like rot, like centuries of decay sealed in stone. My stomach turned. I tried to pull her away, but she stepped inside, and vanished, like the dark had swallowed her. I screamed her name, over and over, nothing. Jess collapsed behind me, sobbing. I turned and froze.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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They were everywhere. not moving not breathing just standing all around us dozens of them tall thin black as ash their faces hidden beneath thick matted hair their arms hung down to their knees their chests rose and fell with slow quiet precision their eyes glowed silver not like headlights More like wet stone in moonlight. One stepped forward. It didn't make a sound.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It knelt beside me and reached out. Not to strike. Not to grab. To touch. Its hand pressed against my chest and I swear to you. Everything went silent. Not just sound. My heartbeat. My breath. My thoughts. Gone. In that moment, I didn't see memories. I didn't see light. I saw roots. Miles of them. Thick black.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The desert heat that scorched us during the hike quickly surrendered to the crisp coolness of nightfall. Our flashlights danced across the rocky terrain as we hurried to pitch our tents beneath the towering cottonwoods, their leaves whispering softly as darkness closed around us.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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pulsing with a slow, oily rhythm, wrapping around bones, skulls, ribcages, femurs, all buried beneath us. And deeper still, I saw something else. A mouth, not a face, not a head. Just a mouth, wider than a cave, ringed with teeth carved from stone and bone and something still moving. It was asleep, but it was dreaming. And in that dream, it had already swallowed us whole.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I don't remember what happened after that. I woke up three weeks later on the side of a rural road near Cougar, Washington. Covered in mud, half naked, 30 pounds lighter, no gear, no camera, just Fred Beck's notebook stuffed in my jacket pocket. I don't talk about what happened to authorities. What could I say? They never found Molly. Or Jess. Or David. Or Aaron. They found no trace.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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My YouTube channel. Wiped. Every file gone. Every backup corrupted. But the worst part? Sometimes, late at night, when everything's quiet, I hear three knocks on my bedroom window. Always three. Never four. And sometimes when I'm dreaming, I'm back in that canyon. I see Molly, standing in front of the stone slit. She turns, smiles, and says, We never needed the sun. My name is Sarah Branch.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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A few years ago, when I was 24 years old, I had left my home state of Utah and moved abroad to work as an English language teacher in Vietnam. Having just graduated from BYU and earned my degree in teaching, I suddenly realized I needed so much more from my life. I always wanted to travel, embrace other cultures, and most of all, have memorable and life-changing experiences.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Feeling trapped in my normal, everyday life outside of Salt Lake City, where winters are cold and summers always far away, I decided I was no longer going to live the life that others had chosen for me, and instead choose my own path in life, a life of fulfillment and few regrets.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Already attaining my degree in teaching, I realized that if I gained a further ESL certification, teaching English as a second language, I could finally achieve my lifelong dream of traveling the world to far away and exotic places, all the while working for a reasonable income. There were so many places I dreamed of going, maybe somewhere in South America or Far East Asia.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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As long as the weather was warm and there were beautiful beaches for me to soak up the sun, I honestly did not mind. Scanning my finger over a map of the world, rotating from one hemisphere to the other, I eventually put my finger down on a narrow, little country called Vietnam. This was by no means a random choice.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Jason, Amber, Maya, Caleb and I had been friends since college, always seeking adventures in remote places, but this spot felt different, older, lonelier. I could sense an uneasy quiet clinging to the ancient canyon walls, heavy and watchful.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I had always wanted to travel to Vietnam because... I'm actually one-quarter Vietnamese. Not that you can tell or anything. My hair is brown and my skin is rather fair. But I figured, if I wanted to go where the sun was always shining, and there was an endless supply of tropical beaches, Vietnam would be the perfect destination. Furthermore, I'd finally get the chance to explore my heritage.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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fortunately enough for me it turned out vietnam had a huge demand for english language teachers they did prefer it if you were teaching in the country already but after a few online interviews and some visa complications later i packed up my things in utah and moved across the world to the land of the blue dragon
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I was relocated to a beautiful beach town in central Vietnam, right along the coast of the South China Sea. English teachers don't really get to choose where in the country they end up, but if I did have that option, I could not have picked a more perfect place.
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I swallowed hard, guiding my car carefully onto the shoulder, gravel crunching softly beneath my tires. For a long moment, I just sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles whitened. The memory of the couple's vacant stares and rigid postures was vivid, haunting. The compulsion to understand, to unravel this unsettling mystery, proved stronger than my fear.
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Because of the horrific turn this story will take, I can't say where exactly it was in central Vietnam I lived or even the name of the beach town I resided in just because I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea. This part of Vietnam is a truly beautiful place and I don't want to discourage anyone from going there.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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So for the continuation of this story, I'm just going to refer to where I was as Central Vietnam, and as for the beach town where I made my living, I'm going to give it the pseudonym Bien Hoa Hen, which in Vietnamese, roughly, but rather fittingly translates to Sea of Promise. Sea of Promise truly was the perfect destination.
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It was a modest sized coastal town, nestled inside of a tropical bay, with the whitest sands and clearest blue waters you could possibly dream of. The town itself is also spectacular. Most of the houses and buildings are painted a vibrant sunny yellow, not only to look more inviting to tourists, but also to reflect the sun during the hottest months.
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For this reason, I originally wanted to give the town the nickname Tran Mau Vang , but I quickly realized how insensitive that pseudonym would have been, so Sea of Promise it is. Alongside its bright sunny buildings, Sea of Promise has the most stunning oriental and French colonial architecture, interspersed with many quality restaurants and coffee shops. The local cuisine is to die for.
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Not only is it healthy and delicious, but it's also surprisingly cheap, like we're only talking 90 cents. You wouldn't believe how many different flavors of coffee Vietnam has. I mean, I went a whole 24 years without even trying coffee, and since I've been here, I must have tried around two dozen flavors.
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as if the land itself held secrets we weren't meant to disturb once we got the camp-fire crackling the comforting warmth briefly banished my unease we settled on to fallen logs around the fire tired but relaxed joking about past hikes and minor misadventures caleb handed around marshmallows which amber eagerly skewered the sweet scent mixing with the aroma of burning mesquite
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Another whimsical little aspect of this town is the many multicolored little plastic chairs that are dispersed everywhere. So... Whether it was dining on the local cuisine or trying my 22nd flavor of coffee, I would always find one of these chairs. A different color every time. Sit down in the shade and just watch the world go by. I haven't even mentioned how much I loved my teaching job.
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My classes were the most adorable 7 and 8 year olds, and my colleagues were so nice and welcoming. They never called me by my first name. Instead, my colleagues would always say chow-um or chow-um guy, which basically means hello little sister. When I wasn't teaching or grading papers, I spent most of my leisure time by the town's beach.
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And being the boring vanilla person I am, I didn't really do much. Feeling the sun upon my skin while I observed the breathtaking scenery was more than enough. Either that or I was curled up in a good book. I was never the only foreigner on this beach. Sea of Promise is a popular tourist destination, mostly western backpackers and surfers.
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So, if I wasn't turning pink beneath the sun or memorizing every little detail of the bay's geography, I would enviously spectate fellow travelers ride the waves. As much as I love Vietnam, as much as I love Sea of Promise, what really spoils this place from being the perfect paradise is all the garbage pollution. I mean, it's just everywhere.
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There is garbage in the town, on the beach, and even in the ocean. And if it isn't the garbage that spoils everything, it certainly is all the rats, cockroaches, and other vermin brought with it. Sea of Promise is such a unique place, and it honestly makes me so mad that no one does anything about it. Nevertheless, I still love it here.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It will always be a paradise to me, and if America was the promised land for Lehi and his descendants, then this was going to be my promised land.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I had now been living in Sea of Promise for four months, and although I had only three months left in my teaching contract, I still planned on staying in Vietnam, even if that meant leaving this region I'd fallen in love with and relocating to another part of the country.
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Since I was going to stay, I decided I really needed to learn Vietnamese, as you'd be surprised how few people there are in Vietnam who can speak any to no English.
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Although most English teachers in Southeast Asia use their leisure time to travel, I rather boringly decided to spend most of my days at the same beach, sitting amongst the sand while I studied and practiced what would hopefully become my second language.
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On one of those days, I must have been completely occupied in my own world, because when I looked up, I suddenly saw someone standing over me, talking down to me.
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i take off my headphones and shading the sun from my eyes i see a tall late twenty-something tourist wearing only swim shorts and cradling a surfboard beneath his arm having come in from the surf he thought i said something to him as he passed by where I then told him I was speaking Vietnamese to myself and didn't realize anyone could hear me.
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We both had a good laugh about it, and the guy introduced himself as Tyler. Like me, Tyler was American, and unsurprisingly, he was from California. He came to Vietnam for no other reason than to surf. Like I said, Tyler was this tall, very tanned guy, like he was the tannest guy I had ever seen.
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He had all these different tattoos he acquired from his travels, and long brown hair, which he regularly wore in a man bun. When I first saw him standing there, I was taken aback a little, because I almost mistook him for Jesus Christ. That's what he looked like.
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Tyler asks what I'm doing in Vietnam, and later in the conversation, he invites me to have a drink with him and his surfer buddies at the Beach Town Bar. I was a little hesitant to say yes, only because I don't really drink alcohol, but Tyler seemed like a nice guy, and so I agreed. Later that day, I met Tyler at the bar, and he introduced me to his three surfer friends.
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As the stars came out, bright and impossibly numerous, Jason nudged me with a grin. Come on, Eli, tell us one of your creepy stories. You always have something that'll keep us awake. I hesitated, glancing at the flickering shadows cast by the firelight on the cliff face. It felt wrong to speak of dark things here, but my friends were insistent.
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The first of Tyler's friends was Chris, whom he knew from back home. Chris was kinda loud and a little obnoxious, but I suppose he was also funny. The other two friends were Brody and Haley, a couple from New Zealand. Tyler and Chris met them while surfing in Australia, and ever since, the four of them have been traveling, or more accurately, surfing the world together.
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Over a few drinks, we all get to know each other a little better, and I told them what it's like to teach English in Vietnam. Curious as to how they're able to travel so much, I ask them what they all do for a living. Tyler says they work as vloggers, bloggers, and general content creators, all the while traveling to a different country every other month.
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You wouldn't believe the number of places they've been to. Hawaii, Costa Rica, Sri Lanka, Bali, everywhere. They didn't see the value of staying in just one place and working a menial job when they could be living their best lives, all the while being their own bosses. It did make a lot of sense to me, and was not that dissimilar to my reasoning for being in Vietnam.
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The four of them were only going to be in Sea of Promise for a couple more days. But when I told them I hadn't yet explored the rest of the country, they insisted that I tag along with them. I did come to Vietnam to travel, not just stay in one place. The only problem was I didn't have anyone to do it with. But I guess now I did. They even invited me to go surfing with them the next day.
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Having never surfed a day in my life, I very nearly declined the offer, but coming all this way from cold and boring Utah, I knew I had to embrace new and exciting opportunities whenever they arrived. By early next morning, and pushing through my first hangover, I had officially surfed my first ever wave.
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I was a little afraid I'd embarrass myself, especially in front of Tyler, but after a few trials and errors, I thankfully gained the hang of it. Even though I was a newbie at surfing, I could not have been that bad. Because as soon as I surfed my first successful wave, Chris would not stop calling me Johnny Utah. Not that I knew what that meant.
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If I wasn't embarrassing myself on a board, I definitely was in my ignorance of the guy's casual movie quotes. For instance, whenever someone yelled out, Charlie don't surf, all I could think was, who the heck is Charlie? By that afternoon, we were all back at the bar and I got to spend some girl time with Haley. She was so kind to me and seemed to take a genuine interest in my life.
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Or maybe she was just grateful not to be the only girl in the group anymore. She did tell me she thought Chris was extremely annoying, no matter where they were in the world, and even though Brody was the quiet, sensible type for the most part, she hated how he acted when he was around the guys.
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Five beers later and Brody was suddenly on his feet, doing some kind of native New Zealand war dance while Chris or Tyler vlogged. Although I was having such a wonderful time with the four of them, anticipating all the places in Vietnam, Haley said we were going, in the corner of my eye, I kept seeing the same strange man staring over at us.
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I thought maybe we were being too loud and he wanted to say something, but the man was instead looking at all of us with intrigue. Well, ten minutes later, this very same man comes up to us with three strangers behind him. Very casually, he asks if we're all having a good time.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Amber teased gently, and Maya leaned forward eagerly, eyes wide with expectation. Alright, I finally conceded, clearing my throat. But just remember, you asked for it. I leaned in, lowering my voice for effect. There's an old Navajo legend. They call it the Skinwalker. It's said they're witches who've taken a dark path, learning to change their forms, shifting into animals or even other people.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
We kind of awkwardly oblige the man, a fellow traveler like us who, although he was probably in his early thirties, looked more like a middle-aged dad on vacation, in an overly large Hawaiian shirt as though to hide his stomach, and looking down at us through a pair of brainiac glasses. The strangers behind him were two other men and a young woman,
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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One of the men was extremely hairy, with a beard almost as long as his own hair, while the other was very cleanly presented, short in height, and holding a notepad. The young woman with them, who was not much older than I, had a cool combination of dyed maroon hair and sleeve tattoos, although rather oddly she was wearing way too much clothing for this climate.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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After some brief pleasantries, the man in the Hawaiian shirt then says, I'm sorry to bother you folks, but I was wondering if we could ask you a few questions. Introducing himself as Aaron, the man tells us that he and his friends are documentary filmmakers and were wanting to know what we knew of the local disappearances.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Clueless as to what he was talking about, Aaron then sits down, without invitation, at our rather small table, and starts explaining to us that for the past 30 years, tourists in the area have been mysteriously going missing without a trace. First time they were hearing of this, Tyler tells Aaron they have only been in the Sea of Promise for a couple of days.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Since I was the one who lived and worked in the town, Haley asks me if I knew anything about the missing tourists, and when she does, Aaron turns his full attention on me. Answering his many questions, I told Aaron I only heard in passing that tourists have allegedly gone missing, but I wasn't sure what to make of it.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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But while I'm telling him this, I notice the short guy behind him is writing everything I say down, word for word, before Aaron then asks me, with desperation in his voice, well, have you at least heard of the local legends? Suddenly gaining an interest in what Aaron's telling us, Tyler, Chris, and Brody drunkenly inquire, Legends? What local legends?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Taking another sip from his light beer, Aaron tells us that according to these legends, there are creatures lurking deep within the jungles and cave systems of the region, and for centuries local farmers or fishermen have only seen glimpses of them. Feeling as though we're being told a scary bedtime story, Chris rather excitedly asks, Well, what do these creatures look like?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Aaron says the legends abbreviate, and there are many claims to their appearance, but that they're always described as being humanoid. Whatever these creatures were, paranormal communities and investigators have linked these legends to the disappearances of the tourists.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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All five of us realized just how silly this all sounded, which Brody highlighted by saying, You don't actually believe that crap, do you? Without saying either yes or no, Aaron smirks at us, before revealing that there are actually similar legends and sightings all around Central Vietnam, even by American soldiers as far back as the Vietnam War.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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You really don't know about the cryptids of the Vietnam War? Aaron asks us, as though surprised we didn't. Further educating us on this whole mystery, Aaron claims that during the war, several platoons and individual soldiers who were deployed in the jungles came in contact with more than one type of creature. You never heard of the rock apes, the devil creatures of Kuang Bin, the big yellows?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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If you were like us and never heard of these creatures either, apparently what the American soldiers encountered in the jungles was a group of small bigfoot-like creatures that liked to throw rocks and some sort of lizard people that glowed a luminous yellow and lived deep within the cave systems. Feeling somewhat ridiculous just listening to this, Tyler rather mockingly comments,
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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So you're saying you believe the reason for all the tourists going missing is because of Vietnamese Bigfoot and lizard people? Aaron and his friends must have received this ridicule a lot, because rather than being insulted, they looked somewhat amused. Well, that's why we're here, he says.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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We're paranormal investigators and filmmakers, and as far as we know, no one has tried to solve the mystery of the Vietnam Triangle. We're in sea of promise to interview locals on what they know of the disappearances, and we'll follow any leads from there.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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They're malicious, hateful beings who thrive on fear and chaos. The others chuckled nervously, exchanging glances. Jason rolled his eyes. Classic Eli. Ignoring him, I continued, deepening my tone. The skinwalker hunts by mimicking voices, luring victims away from safety and pretending to be someone they trust.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Although I thought this all to be a little kooky, I tried to show a little respect and interest in what these guys did for a living, but not Tyler, Chris, or Brody. They were clearly trying to have fun at Aaron's expense. So what did the locals say? Is there a Vietnamese Loch Ness monster we haven't heard of?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Like I said, Aaron was well acquainted with this kind of ridicule, because rather spontaneously he replies, "'Glad you asked,' before gulping down the rest of his low-carb beer."
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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according to a group of fishermen we interviewed yesterday there is an unmapped trail that runs through the nearby jungles apparently no one knows where this trail leads to not even the locals do and anyone who tries to find out for themselves are never seen or heard from again.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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As amusing as we found these legends of ape creatures and lizard men hearing there was a secret trail somewhere in the nearby jungles where tourists are said to vanish, even if this was just a local legend, it was enough to unsettle all of us.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Maybe there weren't creatures abducting tourists in the jungles, but on an unmarked wilderness trail, anyone not familiar with the terrain could easily lose their way. Neither Tyler, Chris, Brody, nor Haley had a comment for this. After all, they were fellow travelers. As fun as their lifestyle was, they knew the dangers of venturing into the more untamed corners of the world.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The five of us just sat there, silently, not really knowing what to say, as Aaron very contentedly mused over us. We're actually heading out tomorrow in search of the trail. We have directions and everything. Aaron then pauses on us. Before he says, If you guys don't have any plans, why don't you come along? After all, what's the point of traveling if there ain't a little danger involved?
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Expecting someone in the group to tell him we already had plans, Tyler, Chris, and Brody share a look with one another. And to mine and Haley's surprise, they then agreed. Haley obviously protested. She didn't want to go gallivanting around the jungle where tourists supposedly vanished. Oh, come on, Hale. It'll be fun. Sarah, you'll come, won't you? Yeah. Johnny Utah wants to come, right?"
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Haley stared at me, clearly desperate for me to take her side. I then glanced around the table to see that so too was everyone else. Neither wanting to take sides nor accept the invitation, all I could say was that I didn't know what I wanted to do. Although Haley and the guys were divided on whether or not to accompany Aaron's expedition,
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It was ultimately left to a majority vote, and being too sheepish to protest, it now appeared our plans of traveling the country had changed to exploring the jungles of central Vietnam. Even though I really didn't want to go on this expedition, it could have been dangerous after all. I then reminded myself why I came to Vietnam in the first place. To have memorable and life-changing experiences.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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and I wasn't going to have any of that if I just said no when the opportunity arrived. Besides, tourists may well have gone missing in the region, but the supposed legends of jungle-dwelling creatures were probably nothing more than just stories. I spent my whole life believing in stories that turned out not to be true, and I wasn't going to let that continue now.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Later that night, while Brody and Haley spent some alone time, and Chris was with Aaron's friends, smoking, you know what. Tyler invited me for a walk on the beach under the moonlight. Strolling barefoot along the beach, trying not to step on any garbage, Tyler asks me if I'm really okay with tomorrow's plans, and that I shouldn't feel peer pressured into doing anything I didn't really want to do.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Sometimes you'll hear your own voice, echoing back at you from the darkness, twisted and distorted, just enough to unsettle you before. I pause dramatically, letting silence fill the gap. Before what? Caleb urged, a cautious grin on his face. I shrugged slowly. Before it takes you. My friends broke into awkward laughter, dismissing the story with exaggerated relief.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I told him I was okay with it, and that it should be fun. Don't worry, he said, I'll keep an eye on you. I'm a little embarrassed to admit this, but I kinda had a crush on Tyler. He was tall, handsome, and adventurous, If anything, he was the sort of person I wanted to be. Traveling the world and meeting all kinds of people from all kinds of places. I was a little worried he'd find me boring.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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A small city girl whose only other travel story was a premature mission to Florida. Well, soon enough, I was going to have a whole new travel story. This travel story... We get up early the next morning, and meeting Aaron with his documentary crew, we each take separate taxis out of the Sea of Promise. Following the cab in front of us, we weren't even sure where we were going exactly.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Curving along a highway that cuts through a dense valley, Aaron's taxi suddenly pulls up on the curve, where he and his team jump out to the beeping of angry motorcycle drivers. Flagging our taxi down, Aaron tells us that according to his directions, we have to cut through the valley here and head into the jungle.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Although we didn't really know what was going to happen on this trip, we were just along for the ride. After all, Aaron's plan was to hike through the jungle to find the mysterious trail, document whatever they could. and then move onto a group of cave systems where these creatures were supposed to lurk.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Reaching our way down the slope of the valley, we follow along a narrow stream which acted as our temporary trail. Although this was Aaron's expedition, as soon as we start our hike through the jungle, Chris rather mockingly calls out, Alright everyone, keep a lookout for lizard people, Bigfoot and Charlie. Where again, I thought to myself, who the heck is Charlie?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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it was a fun little adventure exploring through the trees hearing all kinds of birds and insect life one big problem with vietnam is that there are always mosquitoes everywhere and surprise surprise the jungle was no different I still had a hard time getting acquainted with the Vietnamese heat, but luckily, the hottest days of the year had come and gone.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It was a rather cloudy day, but I figured if I got too hot in the jungle, I could potentially look forward to some much-welcomed rain. Although I was very much enjoying myself, even with the heat and biting critters, Aaron's crew insisted on stopping every ten minutes to document our journey. This was their expedition after all, so I guess we couldn't complain.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I got to know Aaron's colleagues a little better. The two guys were Steve, the hairy guy, and Miles, the cameraman. They were nice enough guys, I guess, but what was kind of annoying was that Miles would occasionally film me in the group, even though we weren't supposed to be in the documentary. The maroon-haired girl in their group was Sophie.
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The two of us got along really great, and we talked about what it was like for each of us back home. Sophie was actually raised in the Appalachians in a family of all boys and already knew how to use a firearm by the time she was 10. Even though we were completely different people, I really cared for her because like me, she clearly didn't have the easiest of upbringings.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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As I noticed under her tattoos were a number of scars. A creepy little quirk she had was whenever we heard an unusual noise, she would rather casually say the same thing. If you see something, no, you didn't. If you hear something, no, you didn't. We had been hiking through the jungle for a few hours now, and there was still no sign of the mysterious trail.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Aaron did say all we needed to do was continue heading northwest, and we would eventually stumble upon it. But it was by now that our group was beginning to complain, as it appeared we were making our way through just a regular jungle that wasn't even unique enough to be put on a tourist map. What were we doing here? Why weren't we on our way to Hu City or Ha Long Bay?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Amber shook her head, muttering something about me needing better hobbies. but as their laughter faded a heavy silence suddenly pressed down on us even the breeze had died and the cottonwood leaves stilled entirely it was as if the canyon itself had drawn in a slow deep breath holding it waiting jason was the first to notice
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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These were the questions our group was beginning to ask, and although I didn't say it out loud, it was now what I was asking. But as it turned out, we were wrong to complain so quickly. Because less than an hour later, ready to give up and turn around, we finally discovered something.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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In the middle of the jungle, cutting through a dispersal of sparse trees was a very thin and narrow outline of sorts. It was some kind of pathway. A trail. We had found it.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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covered in thick vegetation our group had almost walked completely by it and if it wasn't for haley stopping to tie her shoelaces we may still have been searching clearly no one had walked this pathway for a very long time and for what reason we did not know but we did it We had found the trail, and all we needed to do now was follow wherever it led us.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I'm not even sure who was the happier to have found the trail, Aaron and his colleagues, who reacted as though they made an archaeological discovery, or us, just relieved this entire day was not for nothing. Anxious to continue along the trail before it got dark, we still had to wait patiently for Aaron's team.
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But because they were so busy filming their documentary, it quickly became too late in the day to continue. The sun in Vietnam usually sets around 6pm, but in the interior of the forest, it sets a lot sooner. Making camp that night, we all pitched our separate tents.
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I actually didn't own a tent, but Haley suggested we bunk together, like we were having our very own sleepover, which meant Brody rather unwillingly had to sleep with Chris. Although the night brought a boatload of bugs and strange noises, Tyler sparked up a campfire for us to make some s'mores and tell a few scary stories.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I never really liked scary stories, and that night, although I was having a lot of fun, I really didn't care for the stories Aaron had to tell. Knowing I was from Utah, Aaron intentionally told the story of Skinwalker Ranch, and now I had more than one reason not to go back home. There were some stories shared that night I enjoyed, particularly the ones told by Tyler.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Having traveled all over the world, Tyler acquired many adventures he was just itching to tell. For instance, when he was backpacking through the Bolivian Amazon a few years ago, a boat pulled up by the side of the river. Five rather shady men jump out, and one of them walks right up to Tyler, holding a jar containing some kind of drink and a dozen dead snakes inside.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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This man offered the drink to Tyler, and when he asked what the drink was, the man replied it was only vodka, and that the dead snakes were just for flavor. Rather foolishly, Tyler accepted the drink, and only half an hour later, he was spitting up white foam from his mouth.
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Thinking he had just been poisoned and was on the verge of death, the local guide in his group tells him, no worry señor, it's just snake poison, you probably drink too much. Well, the reason this stranger offered the drink to Tyler was because, funnily enough, if you drink vodka containing a little bit of snake venom, your body will eventually become immune to snake bites over time.
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Of all the stories Tyler told me, both the funny and idiotic, that one was definitely my favorite. Feeling exhausted from a long day of tropical hiking, I called it an early night. That and most of the group were smoking. You know what? Isn't the middle of the jungle the last place you should be doing that? Maybe that's how all those soldiers saw what they saw. There were no creatures here.
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"'Did anyone else just—' Before he could finish, laughter burst forth from somewhere high above us, a perfect imitation of Jason's own amused chuckle, echoing unnaturally clear from the cliffs. The sound felt profoundly wrong, mocking and distorted. My skin prickled as we all stared upward, faces illuminated in pale firelight.
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They were just stoned, and not from rock-throwing apes. One minor criticism I have with Vietnam, aside from all the garbage, mosquitoes, and other vermin, was that the nights were so hot I always found it incredibly hard to sleep. The heat was very intense that night.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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And even though I didn't believe there were any monsters in this jungle, when you sleep in the jungle in complete darkness, hearing all kinds of sounds, it's definitely enough to keep you awake. Early that next morning, I get out of Mai and Haley's tent to stretch my legs.
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I was the only one up for the time being, and in the early hours of the jungle's dim daylight, I felt completely relaxed and at peace. Very zen, as some may say. Since I was the only one up, I thought it would be nice to make breakfast for everyone, and so, going over to find what food I could rummage out from one of the backpacks, I suddenly get this strange feeling I'm being watched.
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Listening to my instincts, I turn up from the backpack, and what I see in my line of sight, standing as clear as day in the middle of the jungle, I see another person. It was a young man, no older than I. He was wearing pieces of torn, olive-green jungle clothing, camouflaged as green as the forest around him.
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Although he was too far away for me to make out his face, I saw on his left side some kind of black charcoal substance trickling down his left shoulder. Once my tired eyes better adjust to this stranger, standing only 50 feet away from me, I realize what the dark substance is. It was a horrific burn mark, like he'd been badly scorched.
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What's worse, I then noticed on the scorched side of his head, where his ear should have been, it was... it was hollow. Although I hadn't picked up on it at first, I then realized his tattered green clothes. They were not just jungle clothes. The clothes he was wearing, it was the same color of green that American soldiers wore in Vietnam all the way back in the 60s.
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Telling myself I must be seeing things, I try and snap myself out of it. I rub my eyes extremely hard, and I even look away and back at him, assuming he would just disappear. But there he still was, staring at me, and not knowing what to do, or even what to say. I just continue to stare back at him, before he says to me words I will never forget.
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The young man says to me, in clear, audible words, "'Careful, miss. Charlie's everywhere.'" Only seconds after he said these words to me in the blink of an eye, almost as soon as he appeared, the young man was gone. What just happened? What? Did I hallucinate? Was I just dreaming? There was no possible way I could have seen what I saw. He was like a... ghost.
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Once it happened, I remember feeling completely numb all over my body. I couldn't feel my legs or the ends of my fingers. I felt like I wanted to cry, but not because I was scared, but because I suddenly felt sad, and I didn't really know why. For the last few years, I learned not to believe something unless I see it with my own eyes, but I didn't even know what it was I saw.
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"'Very funny guys,' Jason muttered, clearly uncomfortable, scanning our faces for some admission of guilt." But the canyon was not finished. The laughter shifted seamlessly into screams. First Jason's voice, then Maya's terrified cry, followed by Caleb's desperate shout for help. Every anguished imitation echoed down from the cliffs, perfectly replicated with a chilling malicious precision.
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Although my first instinct was to tell someone once the others were out of their tents, I chose to keep what happened to myself. I just didn't want to face the ridicule for the others to look at me like I was insane. I didn't even tell Aaron or Sophie, and they believed every fairy tale under the sun. But I think everyone knew something was up with me. I mean, I was shaking.
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I couldn't even finish my breakfast. Haley said I looked extremely pale and wondered if I was sick. Although I was in good health, physically anyway, Haley and the others were worried. I really mustn't have looked good, because fearing I may have contracted something from a mosquito bite, they were willing to ditch the expedition and take me back to Sea of Promise.
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Touched by how much they were looking out for me, I insisted I was fine, and that it wasn't anything more than a stomach bug. After breakfast that morning, we pack up our tents and continue to follow along the trail. Everything was the same as the day before. We kept following the trail and occasionally stopped to document and film.
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Even though I convinced myself that what I saw must have been a hallucination, I could not stop replaying the words in my head. Careful, miss. Charlie's everywhere. There it was again. Charlie. Who is Charlie? Feeling like I needed to know. I asked Chris what he meant by, keep a lookout for Charlie.
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Chris said in the Vietnam War movies he'd watched, that's what the American soldiers always called the enemy. What if I wasn't hallucinating after all? Maybe what I saw really was a ghost. The ghost of an American soldier who died in the war, and believing the enemy was still lurking in the jungle somewhere. He was trying to warn me. But what if he wasn't?
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What if tourists really were vanishing here, and there was some truth to the legends? What if it wasn't Charlie the young man was warning me of? Maybe what he meant by Charlie was something entirely different. Even as I contemplated all this, there was still a part of me that chose not to believe it. That somehow, the jungle was playing tricks on me. I had always been a superstitious person.
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That's what happens when you grow up in the church. But why was it so hard for me to believe I saw a ghost? I finally had evidence of the supernatural right in front of me and I was choosing not to believe it. What was it Sophie said? If you see something, no you didn't. If you hear something, no you didn't. Even so, the event that morning was still enough to spook me.
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spooked me enough that I was willing to heed the figment of my imagination's warning. Keeping in mind that tourists may well have gone missing here, I made sure to stay directly on the trail at all times, as though if I wandered out into the forest I would be taken in an instant.
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What didn't help with this anxiety was that Tyler, Chris, and Brody, quickly becoming bored of all the stopping and starting, suddenly pull out a football and start throwing it around amongst the jungle, zigzagging through the trees as though the trees were linebackers.
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They ask me and Haley to play with them, but with the words of caution given to me that morning still fresh in my mind, I politely decline the offer and remain firmly on the trail. Although I still wasn't over what happened, constantly replaying the words like a broken record in my head, thankfully, it seemed as though for the rest of the day, nothing remotely as exciting was going to happen.
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But unfortunately, or more tragically, something did. by mid-afternoon we had made further progress along the trail the heat during the day was intense but luckily by now the skies above had blessed us with momentous rain seeping through the trees we were spared from being soaked and instead given a light shower to keep us cool
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Yet again, Aaron and his crew stopped to film, and while they did, Tyler brought out the very same football, and the three guys were back to playing their games. I cannot tell you how many times someone hurled the ball through the forest only to hit a treeline backer, where after they had to go forage for it amongst the tropical floor.
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Amber grabbed Caleb's arm, eyes wide in panic. Maya rose slowly, her voice trembling. That… that can't be one of us. That's impossible. We stared at one another, hearts pounding, all traces of humor gone. The night seemed colder now, the shadows deeper and more alive. I swallowed hard, regretting every word I'd spoken. The silence returned, but the damage was done. Something had hurt us.
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Now, finding a clearing off trail in which to play, Chris runs far ahead in anticipation of receiving the ball. I can still remember him shouting, Brody, hit me up, hit me. Brody hurls the ball long and hard in Chris's direction, and facing the ball, all the while running further along the clearing, Chris stretches, catches the ball, and he just vanishes.
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One minute he was there, then the other, he was gone. Tyler and Brody call out to him, but Chris doesn't answer. Haley and I leave the trail towards them to see what's happened, when suddenly we hear Tyler scream, Chris! The sound of that initial scream still haunts me, because when we catch up to Brody and Tyler, standing over something down in the clearing, we realize what has happened.
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What Tyler and Brody were standing over was a hole. A six feet deep hole in the ground. And in that hole was Chris. But we didn't just find Chris trapped inside the hole because... It wasn't just a hole. It wasn't just a trap. It was a death trap. Chris was dead. In the hole with him was what had to be at least a dozen long and sharp rust-eaten metal spikes.
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We didn't even know if he was still alive at first because he had landed face down. Face down on the spikes. They were protruding from different parts of him.
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one had gone straight through his wrist another out of his leg and one straight through the right of his ribcage honestly he chris looked like he was crucified crucified face down once the initial shock had worn off tyler and brody climbed very quickly but carefully down into the hole trying to push their way through the metal spikes that repelled them from getting to chris
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But by the time they did, it didn't take long for them or us to realize Chris wasn't breathing. One of the spikes had gone through his throat. For as long as I live, I will never be able to forget that image. Of looking down into the hole and seeing Chris's lifeless, impaled body just lying there on top of those spikes. It looked like someone had toppled over an idol.
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An idol of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ when he was on the cross. What made this whole situation far worse was that when Aaron, Sophie, Steve, and Miles catch up to us, instead of being grieved or even shocked, Miles leans over the trap hole and instantly begins to film. Tyler and Brody, upon seeing this, were furious.
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Carelessly clawing their way out of the hole, they yell and scream after him. What the hell do you think you're doing? Put the damn camera away. That's our friend. Climbing back onto the surface, Tyler and Brody try to grab Miles' camera from him, and when he wouldn't let go, Tyler aggressively rips it from his hands. Coming to Miles' aid, Aaron shouts back at them. Leave him alone!
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This is a documentary! Without even a second thought, Brody hits Aaron square in the face, breaking his glasses and knocking him down. Even though we were both still in extreme shock, hyperventilating over what just happened minutes earlier, Haley and I tried our best to keep the peace. Haley dragging Brody away, while I basically threw myself in front of Tyler.
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Once all of the commotion had died down, Tyler announced to everyone, that's it, we're getting out of here. And by we, he meant the four of us. Grabbing me protectively by the arm, Tyler pulls me away with him, while Brody takes Haley, and we all head back towards the trail, in the direction we came.
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Thinking I would never see Sophie or the others again, I then hear behind us, if you insist on going back, just watch out for mines. Mines. Stopping in our tracks, Brody and Tyler turned to ask what the heck Aaron is talking about. 16% of Vietnam is still contaminated by landmines and other explosives. 600,000 at least. They could literally be anywhere.
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Even with a potentially broken nose, Aaron could not help himself when it came to educating and patronizing others. "'And you're only telling us this now?' said Tyler." We're in the middle of the damn jungle. Why the hell didn't you say something before? Would you have come with us if we did? Besides, who comes to Vietnam and doesn't fact check all the dangers? I thought you were travelers.
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Something ancient and malevolent, awakened by careless words whispered around the campfire. And now, it knew our voices. My heart slammed against my ribs, beating frantically as adrenaline surged through me. We stood frozen by the fire, eyes locked on the towering canyon walls, our breath forming shaky clouds in the cold desert air.
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It goes without saying, but we headed back without them. For Tyler, Brody, and even Haley. Their feeling was that if those four maniacs wanted to keep risking their lives for a stupid documentary, they could. We were getting out of here, and once we did, we would go straight to the authorities so they could find and retrieve Chris's body. We had to leave him there.
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We had to leave him inside the trap, but we made sure he was fully covered and no scavengers could get to him. Once we did that, we were out of there." As much as we regretted this whole journey, we knew the worst of everything was probably behind us, and that we couldn't take any responsibility for anything that happened to Aaron's team.
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But I regret not asking Sophie to come with us, not making her come with us. Sophie was a good person. She didn't deserve to be caught up in all of this. None of us did. Hurriedly making our way back along the trail, I couldn't help but put the pieces together. On the same day, an apparition warned me of the jungle's surrounding dangers. Chris tragically and unexpectedly fell to his death.
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Is that what the soldier's ghost was trying to tell me? Is that what he meant by Charlie? He wasn't warning me of the enemy. He was trying to warn me of the relics they had left. Aaron said there were still 600,000 explosives left in Vietnam from the war. Was it possible there were still traps left here too? I didn't know.
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But what I did know was, although I chose not to believe what I saw that morning, that it was just a hallucination, I still heeded the apparition's warning, never once straying off the trail. And it more than likely saved my life. Then I remembered why we came here. We came here to find what happened to the missing tourists. Did they meet the same fate as Chris? Is that what really happened?
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They either stepped on a hidden landmine or fell to their deaths. Was that the cause of the whole mystery? The following day, we finally made our way out of the jungle and back to the Sea of Promise. We told the authorities what happened, and a full search and rescue was undertaken to find Aaron's team. A bomb disposal unit was also sent out to find any further traps or explosives.
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Although they did find at least a dozen landmines and one further trap, what they didn't find was any evidence whatsoever for the missing tourists. No bodies, no clothing, or any other personal items. As far as they were concerned, we were the first people to trek through that jungle for a very long time. But there's something else.
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The rescue team, who went out to save Aaron, Sophie, Steve, and Miles from an awful fate. They never found them. They never found anything. Whatever the Vietnam Triangle was, it had claimed them. To this day, I still can't help but feel an overwhelming guilt that we safely found our way out of there, and they never did. I don't know what happened to the missing tourists.
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I don't know what happened to Sophie, Aaron, and the others. And I don't know if there really are creatures lurking deep within the jungles of Vietnam. And although I was left traumatized, forever haunted by the experience, whatever it was I saw in that jungle, I choose to believe it saved my life. And for that reason, I have fully renewed my faith.
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To this day, I'm still teaching English as a second language. I'm still traveling the world, making my way through one continent before moving on to the next. But for as long as I live, I will forever keep this testimony. Never again will I ever step inside a jungle. Never again.
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The echoes of our own screams had faded, leaving behind a dreadful silence so deep it felt suffocating. We can't stay here, Amber whispered, her voice ragged with panic. We need to leave, right now. I glanced at the others, meeting their frightened eyes in the flickering firelight. Jason nodded quickly, his expression grim. Grab essentials, leave the rest.
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Reluctantly, I stepped out, my shoes sinking slightly into the soft earth, damp from the morning dew. The woods surrounding me felt oppressive. Their thick branches forming a natural tunnel that seemed to suck the sunlight away. An unnatural silence enveloped everything. Not a bird chirped, nor leaves rustled. It was as if the forest itself was holding its breath, waiting.
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We moved as one, gathering our backpacks, flashlights, and jackets. Nobody spoke as we kicked dirt onto the fire, smothering the flames. Darkness engulfed us instantly, thick and oppressive. Flashlights clicked on, beams of trembling white slicing through the inky night, illuminating twisted tree limbs and ancient rocks that now seemed sinister and alive.
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I took the lead, my feet crunching nervously on loose gravel. Every shadow felt like it hid something watching, something waiting. I kept my eyes forward, focused only on the narrow path illuminated by my shaking flashlight. Caleb suddenly stopped, raising a hand sharply. "'Wait,' he hissed. We froze, listening intently. My breath sounded loud and ragged in the eerie stillness.
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Then, faint but unmistakable, I heard it. Footsteps above us, soft and rhythmic, pacing along the ridgeline high on our right." "'Something's up there,' Caleb whispered urgently, pointing toward the cliffs. I lifted my flashlight, catching only glimpses of shadowy movement slipping effortlessly between moonlit boulders. Whatever it was matched our pace perfectly, keeping us in constant sight.
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"'Coyotes,' Maya said weakly, desperation creeping into her voice. "'It has to be coyotes.' But as I stared, dread tightened like a fist in my stomach." The shapes moved with an eerie fluidity, too precise, too deliberate. Coyotes would scatter, make noise. These figures were silent, careful, their movements disturbingly human. No, I murmured, voice barely audible, throat dry with fear.
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That's not an animal. Another voice came from the darkness, a twisted echo of my own words drifting down mockingly from above. Not an animal. I shivered violently, the beam of my flashlight shaking uncontrollably. Maya clutched my arm hard enough to hurt, her breath hitching in sharp gasps. Keep moving, Jason growled behind me, his voice tight with barely contained panic.
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We surged forward, feet stumbling over stones and tangled roots, desperate to put distance between us and the stalking shapes above. Every rushed step, every gasp and whispered instruction was cruelly echoed from the darkness. twisted into something sinister, taunting us relentlessly. Caleb, always steady and confident, suddenly broke into a full sprint, bolting ahead down the trail.
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His flashlight beam jerked wildly as he disappeared into the blackness. "'Caleb!' Amber screamed after him, her voice cracking." Don't split up! But his pounding footsteps quickly faded into silence. Seconds stretched into eternity as we stood rigid, straining to hear. Then his scream erupted from the shadows ahead, raw, agonized, abruptly cut off. Horrified silence swallowed us again. "'Caleb?'
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Amber's voice trembled. There was no reply." Only another chilling, mocking echo. Caleb's voice distorted, blending seamlessly into guttural animal snarls. Amber sobbed softly, a desperate sound filled with hopelessness. The shapes above us seemed closer now, moving swiftly along the cliffs, shadowy silhouettes etched against the moonlit stone.
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"'We have to go,' Jason urged frantically, pushing us forward." Now! I forced my legs to move, heart hammering painfully, my mind racing with terror and guilt. We'd left Caleb behind, but there was no going back now. The darkness was alive, watching, closing in around us. whispering our names in voices disturbingly familiar yet horrifyingly wrong.
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Mason shrieked, his voice shrill enough to make my temples throb. "'I'm not even touching you!' Emma shot back, her tone equally indignant. "'Guys, enough!' My voice cracked slightly, betraying my frayed nerves. Taking a deep breath, I reluctantly signaled and pulled off to the gravel shoulder of the isolated highway, nestled deep within the Appalachian countryside."
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Whatever haunted this ancient canyon knew exactly who we were, and it wasn't letting us go easily. We ran blind through the darkness, our feet barely keeping traction on the loose gravel. My flashlight swung chaotically, casting distorted shadows that danced along the canyon walls like twisted specters. Every pounding heartbeat echoed painfully inside my chest.
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Taking cautious steps toward the dead-end sign, I noticed faint tire marks in the gravel. Beside them were clearer footprints, fresh imprints leading from where the car had parked toward the impenetrable darkness of the woods. The couple had walked straight into the trees, leaving no trail beyond the initial line of trees, as if they'd simply dissolved into the shadowed depths.
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Caleb's screams haunted me, the memory sharp and raw, driving my desperate flight. The trail narrowed abruptly, hemmed in by walls of jagged sandstone. Ahead, Jason stumbled, nearly falling face-first into the dirt. Amber yanked him up roughly, urging him forward. "'Keep going! Don't stop!'
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A quick glance upward revealed the figures still pacing us effortlessly, their outlines stark against the pale moonlight. My stomach churned. Whatever they were, they moved with chilling ease, each step precise and deliberate as if toying with us. Don't look at them, I shouted, remembering the old stories I'd foolishly recited earlier. Just keep running.
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We rounded a sharp bend and my blood froze. A solitary figure stood perfectly still, blocking our narrow path, silhouetted grotesquely by moonlight. Amber screamed, pressing a hand over her mouth. "'Oh my god, what is that?' Jason hesitated, his voice ragged with fear. We're trapped! No! I shouted, the panic breaking through. It's a trick! Don't stop! Go around it!
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I surged forward, ducking my head, squeezing past the horrible shape. Cold, fetid air brushed my cheek. An angry snarl hissed inches from my ear. pure primal terror erupted within me and adrenaline pushed me on faster harder amber and jason followed breathing in harsh panicked gasps the incline steepened as we neared the canyon rim and i glanced behind us regretting it instantly
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Shadows flooded the trail, limbs and figures stretching and morphing, skittering rapidly in pursuit, their eyes catching the moonlight, glowing with malevolent hunger. Jason's breath came in frantic wheezes. Amber stumbled, sobbing, exhaustion beginning to claim us all. I reached back, grabbing her trembling hand, dragging her forward. "'We're almost there. Just keep moving.'
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The horizon began to pale faintly, the promise of dawn just beyond reach. The shadowy pursuers drew closer, growling softly, voices merging into distorted whispers, our whispers, calling our names, pleading for help in Caleb's voice, chillingly real. A clawed hand brushed my jacket, snagging briefly. I jerked free, feeling the fabric tear, stumbling upward.
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Another snarl erupted behind us, rage and frustration evident in its tone. Amber screamed as something tugged at her backpack. She yanked free desperately, discarding it without hesitation, racing onward beside me. Finally, we crested the canyon's rim, collapsing onto flat ground, gasping for air. The first rays of sun broke the horizon, golden and warm, spilling across the desert landscape.
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I rolled onto my back, half expecting to be grabbed and dragged back down into the darkness. But the figures stopped abruptly, lingering at the canyon edge, their outlines blurring in the morning light, shifting uneasily. They paced anxiously, snarling, growling low and guttural, angry but seemingly unable or unwilling to follow us further into daylight.
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We watched helplessly as they melted back into the canyon's shadowy depths. A final, mournful howl rose, echoing in our ears, the distorted, familiar voice of Caleb woven hauntingly into it. A final taunt as dawn reclaimed the canyon. We staggered to the car without speaking, shaken and broken.
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My pulse quickened as I followed the footprints to the treeline, peering into the tangled, shadow-filled thicket. Something unsettlingly large had recently passed through here. Branches were snapped at unnatural angles, bark freshly torn. A chill prickled along my spine as my eyes caught sight of something on the forest floor.
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As we sped away from Canyon DeShelly, the weight of silence filled the vehicle, punctuated only by Amber's quiet sobs. Days later, search teams scoured the canyon for Caleb, finding nothing. No body, no trace, just empty desert and relentless silence. I understood then, with sickening certainty, that the ancient evil had claimed him, adding Caleb's voice forever to its mocking chorus.
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We never returned to that place, nor spoke openly of what happened. But the echoes of that night remain, relentless and clear, haunting my dreams, a grim reminder of the ancient shadows waiting patiently in Canyon de Chelly for those foolish enough to doubt their existence. I'd chased sunsets before, but nothing compared to the way Monument Valley glowed as twilight settled over it.
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The massive sandstone towers stood silent, almost otherworldly, silhouetted against the fading amber sky. It was my last day out here, a solo photography trip intended as a creative reset. Tomorrow, I'd be heading home, back to the noise and lights of the city. But tonight, on impulse, I'd taken a rough dirt road, thinking I could capture just one more perfect shot near the totem pole rock spire.
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The road wasn't marked, barely wide enough for my car. Red dust kicked up in clouds behind me as I bounced slowly over ruts and potholes. My GPS had lost signal miles ago, but I wasn't worried. Yet. After all, I'd studied maps before heading out here. Kayenta wasn't far, just a half-hour drive south at most. If I turned around now, I could still make it back to my motel before full dark.
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But I didn't turn back, and soon the desert decided for me. A sudden cough from the engine jerked me to attention. My dashboard lights flickered, the radio crackled static, and then, without warning, the engine sputtered once, twice, and died. The silence that followed felt absolute, an oppressive weight settling instantly over the darkening landscape. My pulse quickened.
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Come on, I whispered, gripping the key tight, cranking the ignition. The engine wheezed weakly, refusing to start. My stomach twisted sharply with anxiety. I grabbed my phone from the passenger seat, praying for at least a bar of service. Nothing. Great, I muttered, leaning my head back against the seat.
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Through my windshield, the desert sprawled infinitely outward, a shadowy maze of mesas and rock formations that now seemed vaguely threatening. The crimson glow that had seemed so magical moments ago was vanishing, replaced by stark darkness, punctuated only by faint moonlight. I sat a moment, collecting my thoughts, rationalizing. Someone would come along eventually, right? I glanced around.
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Shattered glass and rusty, twisted metal half buried in fallen leaves, hinting ominously at long-forgotten violence.
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No one would be coming this way after dark. not down a dirt road that wasn't on any tourist maps. Panic crept closer, tightening my chest. I decided to check the engine, though I knew little about cars beyond changing a tire. At least it felt proactive. I stepped out, my shoes crunching loudly in the gravel, and popped the hood. Cool night air slipped around my shoulders, colder than I'd expected.
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The quiet unsettled me, unnatural in its completeness. No birds, no insects, nothing but the muted sigh of a distant wind. The engine looked normal enough, nothing visibly damaged or leaking. Frustrated, I slammed the hood shut, the sound echoing harshly against the valley walls. That's when I heard it, a faint, distinct clicking noise, rhythmic and deliberate, somewhere off to my left.
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I froze, ears straining. Silence. Then footsteps. Soft, almost hesitant, circling slowly around the far side of my car. "'Hello?' I called, my voice trembling slightly. My words died quickly in the desert air. Nothing answered, but the footsteps stopped. Heart pounding, I scanned the darkness. I saw nothing but shadows, distorted shapes beneath the distant mesas."
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suddenly a faint nauseating odor curled through the air a smell of rot damp earth and something darker coppery unmistakably familiar blood i stumbled backward nearly tripping over roots hidden beneath the grass my heart raced adrenaline flooding my veins as panic threatened to overtake me Whirling around, desperate to return to my car, I froze.
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It's nothing, I whispered shakily, climbing quickly back into my car, locking the doors behind me. The silence deepened. I stared at the dashboard, willing the lights back on, willing anything to happen. Movement caught my eye. Far out atop a distant rock ledge, a figure shifted suddenly. I squinted, desperately trying to make sense of it.
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It moved fluidly, too fast, shifting abruptly from human-like to something animalistic, hunched and agile. Goosebumps prickled my skin. What was that? I breathed, gripping the steering wheel. My instincts screamed danger, but reason fought back. Shadows played tricks at night. Maybe just a desert animal. A coyote. A bobcat. Maybe nothing at all.
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I reached down, fumbling with the ignition again, but still the car refused to start. Panic rising, I glanced toward my camera bag on the passenger seat, my hand trembling as I reached for the flashlight tucked within. As I flicked it on, a harsh white beam illuminated the dusty road ahead, starkly highlighting the eerie emptiness of the valley around me.
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Then my camera shutter snapped, a sharp electronic click. I jumped, startled, whirling around, grabbing the camera. My breath caught as I stared down at the screen, a sick dread settling heavy in my gut. I hadn't touched the camera, I hadn't even turned it on, but there it was, an image glowing on the small screen, slightly blurred from the low light but unmistakable.
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My car, surrounded by darkness, and directly behind it stood a figure, tall and thin, facing toward me. My breath quickened into short gasps as my fingers fumbled desperately to delete the picture. I shut my eyes, swallowing the fear rising like bile. It's a glitch, I told myself. A camera error. Maybe the heat or... Another sharp click pierced the silence.
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My eyes snapped open, and dread flooded every cell of my body as the same image appeared again. Only this time, the figure had moved closer, now standing just behind my rear bumper.
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i spun around in the seat flashlight shaking violently in my hands i stared through the rear windshield into black emptiness nothing was there not yet but something was out there something moving toward me something watching from the darkness And now it knew that I knew it was there. For what felt like eternity, I sat frozen, eyes locked on the impenetrable darkness outside the car.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My breath fogged the windows slightly, obscuring my already limited view. My flashlight trembled in my hands, sending erratic beams of white across the empty road, the rocks, the barren landscape beyond. Every muscle in my body felt knotted, tense with a fear I'd never experienced before. A deep, primal sense that something was terribly wrong. The silence was suffocating.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Then, without warning, every light in the car flickered once more and went completely dark, leaving me isolated in complete blackness. My heart lurched. I hit the ignition again, turning the key in desperation. Nothing. No clicking. No sputter.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
just the deafening emptiness of a dead vehicle stranded on a desolate road my breathing quickened and in the absolute silence that followed i heard something new a soft deliberate tapping gentle but persistent The sound came from the passenger side window. My blood ran cold. My mind screamed at me not to look, not to turn my head, but something compelled me to glance toward the source.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
At first, I saw nothing but my own reflection, pale and frightened in the glass. But as I focused beyond, the outline of a figure slowly emerged. It stood close enough for me to make out details. A frail, elderly man dressed in traditional Navajo clothing, his face deeply lined, his hair thin and silvery beneath a wide-brimmed hat.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
From deep within the shadowy woods, barely visible but unmistakable, stood two figures. My throat tightened painfully, heart pounding as if ready to burst from my chest. The couple stood motionless, staring directly at me through gaps between twisted trunks, their pale expressionless faces half hidden in the shadows. It was impossible.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
He looked harmless, even frail, yet my skin crawled as his eyes met mine through the thin glass. Please, he said softly, his voice muffled by the window but clear enough to send chills down my spine. Please help me. My son. He's lost. He went into the desert, and he hasn't returned. A rush of conflicting emotions surged through me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The instinctual urge to help clashed violently with the gut-deep feeling of dread that radiated from this man. My mind raced, debating my options, but caution won. I cracked the window barely an inch, heart thumping hard enough to hear in my own ears. Do you have a phone? I asked, my voice unsteady. He shook his head slowly, never blinking, never breaking eye contact.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
"'No phone,' he replied softly, his voice almost sing-song, hypnotic in the way it curled gently through the crack. "'Please, he's just over there, near our Hogan, it's not far.' My eyes flicked in the direction he pointed. There was nothing but inky blackness and empty desert." You shouldn't be here, the old man whispered suddenly, his voice changing slightly, deeper, harsher.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Not on this land, not tonight. My breath caught sharply. I'm sorry, I said weakly, my throat dry and tight with fear. I can't leave my car. He stared silently for a long moment, his expression never changing, the emotionless gaze sending a ripple of cold down my spine. You're safer with me. He murmured softly, leaning closer, pressing his thin fingers gently against the window. Come with me now.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My instincts screamed. Every fiber of my being told me to pull back, lock down, retreat. But something drew my eyes involuntarily toward my side mirror as he leaned in, fingers still pressed softly to the glass. The mirror distorted him somehow. His face wasn't right, stretched oddly in reflection.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My heart stopped as I watched his image twist, his features elongating grotesquely, his jaw dropping into an unnatural grin, teeth sharpened into jagged points, eyes becoming hollow sockets dark as pitch. I gasped and jerked away, rolling up the window as fast as my shaking fingers would allow.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
He moved quickly now, circling the car with terrifying agility, tapping insistently on every window in succession. Tap, tap, tap. He moved fluidly, one second elderly and fragile, the next predatory and wrong. His limbs contorted bizarrely, bones shifting visibly beneath his clothing, his shadow dancing wildly under the moonlight.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I scrambled backward in my seat, tears of terror blurring my vision. Go away! I screamed, banging desperately on the dashboard, fighting the steering wheel. Please start! Please! Then without warning, silence returned. Absolute crushing silence. I turned slowly, cautiously. searching for any sign of him in the dark. I found nothing. My ragged breath filled the car, the only sound left.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My trembling hand reached again toward the key, turning it once more, hopelessly, expecting the same failure. And then, miraculously, the engine coughed weakly and roared back to life, dashboard lights flickering into existence. I nearly sobbed with relief, tears blurring my sight as I threw the gearshift into drive.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
They couldn't have been standing there unnoticed all this time, yet there they were, unblinking, statuesque, their eyes gleaming dully like marbles in the gloom. A sudden whisper drifted from the darkness, a low, rasping sound that crawled over my skin like spider legs. My blood ran cold.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
but as i slammed my foot down on to the gas a heavy weight crashed on to the roof sending the car shuddering violently beneath me the metal above my head dented sharply inward claws or fingers scraping horribly against steel a snarling guttural growl rattling my teeth
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I screamed, gripping the wheel tighter, speeding wildly down the narrow dirt road, praying I could shake whatever nightmare clung to my car. The road ahead stretched endlessly, darkness pressing in from all sides, and in my rearview mirror, I saw nothing but shadows chasing me through Monument Valley, relentless and hungry in their pursuit.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My foot pressed harder on the accelerator, the car fishtailing on loose gravel, as I sped blindly through the desert night. Adrenaline blurred reality around me. Behind and above, claws or hands, I couldn't tell anymore, scraped and thudded violently against the roof, sending vibrations of pure terror down my spine.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I swerved left and right, desperately trying to shake whatever monstrous thing clung so determinedly to my car. Get off, I screamed, tears streaming down my face, mixing with cold sweat. The headlights flickered erratically, casting wild shadows across the road ahead, the world becoming a chaotic whirlpool of dark mesas and suffocating dust.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
With a final wrenching motion, I jerked the wheel sharply left. Tires screeched against packed earth, and the vehicle lurched violently, nearly rolling over as the passenger side wheels left the ground for a terrifying second. The thing atop the car snarled viciously, then abruptly vanished, tumbling heavily onto the road behind me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Heart hammering in my chest, I straightened the wheel and accelerated again. My headlights stabilized, illuminating a battered wooden sign emerging suddenly from the gloom. The letters faded and weathered, but readable enough to send another jolt of dread through me. ''Do not enter after dark tribal land.''
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I barely had time to absorb the warning before the road forked ahead, split by a rusted cattle guard and two narrow dirt paths leading into opposite voids of darkness. I slowed instinctively, eyes darting between the shadowy paths ahead. Which way led out? Which way took me deeper into this nightmare? I stopped completely, engine idling, breath ragged and uneven.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
For a moment, there was only silence and darkness, my hands trembling on the steering wheel as I tried to quiet my racing mind. Then, from the right-hand road, a voice drifted toward me. A voice impossibly familiar and gentle, yet utterly impossible. "'Elise?' My body froze, blood chilling instantly in my veins. I knew that voice.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I'd heard it countless times throughout my life, though not once since the day he'd died five years ago. My father. "'Elise, please, sweetheart, help me.' His tone was weak, pleading, heartbreakingly vulnerable." I swallowed back a sob, tears springing to my eyes. No, I whispered, shaking my head desperately. No, it can't be.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It was not a language I recognized, just unintelligible murmurs that filled the silence with malicious intent. Terrified, I forced myself to turn away, stumbling back to my car on numb legs, certain that any moment I'd feel a cold hand grip my shoulder or hear footsteps chasing me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But his voice continued, becoming clearer, more desperate with every word. I'm hurt, Elise. Please, I'm right here. Come quickly. My chest ached, every instinct begging me to go toward him, to save the one person I missed more than anyone else in this world. My hands twitched on the wheel, tempted, but deeper, beneath the raw grief, my gut twisted, screaming warnings.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Whatever stood out there, calling my name, was not my father. It was the same creature that had stalked me through Monument Valley, wearing his voice like a mask. I'm sorry, I whispered hoarsely. Tears spilling unchecked down my cheeks. You're not him. You're not real. The voice turned pleading, frantic, breaking into sobs now. Elise, don't leave me here. I'm scared.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Ignoring every screaming nerve in my body, I jammed the accelerator down and turned hard to the left, tires spinning furiously over the cattle guard.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
i barreled down the unfamiliar dirt road blind to where it might lead refusing to glance backward refusing to listen to the heart-wrenching screams now dissolving into hateful animalistic shrieks echoing behind me minutes stretched eternally as the road gradually widened and smoothed turning from rough dirt to packed gravel then mercifully to paved asphalt the comforting glow of distant headlights appeared far ahead marking highway one hundred and sixty three
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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A lifeline back to safety. As I neared the main road, lights emerged suddenly from the darkness at the roadside, illuminating a small vendor's stand, a weathered structure of weather-beaten wood and tarps, framed by strings of gently swaying lights. Beside it stood a traditional Hogan, softly illuminated by a fire burning gently in a metal pit outside.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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An elderly Navajo woman, wrapped in a colorful shawl, stepped quietly forward from the shadows. She watched me approach, her eyes calm, knowing. My car slowed involuntarily, as if drawn toward her presence. Her gaze locked onto mine, steady and compassionate. Wordlessly, she lifted a bundle of smoking sage, waving it gently, rhythmically in my direction.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The thick smoke curled softly through my open window, its sweet, cleansing scent wrapping around me, offering something like comfort for the first time since nightfall.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
my shoulders shook as i began to sob openly overwhelmed by gratitude relief and lingering terror you're lucky the old woman murmured quietly her voice strong yet soothing it followed you for a reason you saw it and it saw you my throat constricted What? What was it? I managed to ask, my voice cracking. Her dark eyes flickered slightly, carrying both sadness and a stark warning.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The door slammed shut behind me, and I quickly twisted the key, the engine roaring to life, a lifeline anchoring me back to reality. Glancing in the rearview mirror, my blood froze one final time. The figures had moved forward, closer to the road's edge, still unmoving, still staring. I peeled away, tires scattering gravel, heart hammering in chaotic rhythm.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A Yi Nald Lushi, she whispered. Skinwalker. It's angry you escaped. Don't return here, not after sundown. It won't forget. A shuddering breath left my lungs, and I nodded, unable to speak, only able to offer silent gratitude with my eyes. Her gaze softened as she stepped back into the glow of her fire, watching me drive onto the highway, back toward civilization, toward safety.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But safety felt fleeting, fragile. Even after I reached my motel, even after sunrise dispelled the darkness, even after leaving Monument Valley far behind, I carried it within me, a shadow lingering, ever watchful. Because some nights when sleep eludes me, I still hear tapping. Soft, patient taps. Not on a car window, but against my own bedroom glass.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It was half past one in the morning when I first heard it. The sound jolted me awake from the groggy haze I'd slipped into while grading my seventh-grader's history essays. My pen lay slack in my fingers, and my glasses had slipped halfway down my nose. The house was quiet, eerily still, aside from the persistent wind rustling the old cottonwood branches outside my window. Scratch.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My head snapped toward the kitchen door, heart catching sharply in my chest. Scratch, scratch. A low, faint whine followed, rising into something almost desperate. My pulse quickened as hope mixed with dread. I knew that sound. I recognized the familiar pleading, frantic pawing at the back door. It was Coase, my blue healer mix. But it couldn't be.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
He'd been missing for three days, vanished into a sandstorm that had swept through town so violently it turned midday into twilight. i rose slowly papers sliding off my lap and scattering across the worn rug a small voice whispered caution from deep within my mind my grandmother's voice clear as when she'd warned me as a child never answer the door after midnight
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
whatever knocks may no longer be what you think i reached the kitchen stopping a few feet from the back door a faint silhouette pressed against the gauzy lace curtain that covered the window shifting restlessly my breath felt thick like molasses caught in my throat another scratch slower heavier
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
my hand trembled as i inched forward pulling back the curtain just enough to see cos stood there unmistakable at first glance the familiar shape the speckled coat the slightly curled tail my heart surged at the sight then i froze The proportions were off, subtly, but undeniably wrong. His torso stretched unnaturally, elongated as if something inside him had rearranged.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
His front legs bent oddly at the joints, bowed inward as though bearing an impossible weight. And those eyes, they caught the dim porch light and glowed softly. Not the reflective sheen of an animal's normal vision, but a dull, sickly yellow that seemed to shine even when he turned his head away. My stomach twisted, panic-filling every nerve.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Koza's mouth opened slightly, exposing teeth that were too long, too sharp. My grandmother's warnings flooded back again. Warnings of things that wore familiar forms to deceive us. Creatures that hunted near the desert's edge. Creatures that mimicked voices, faces, even pets. I stepped back slowly, reaching blindly for my phone.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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my fingers slipped on the screen dialing clumsily as i struggled to keep the creature in sight it tilted its head sharply as though listening then stood up fully rising onto hind legs elongated torso stretching grotesquely taller Then the handle of the door rattled, once, twice, forcefully. A choked gasp escaped me as the kitchen lights flickered, casting shifting shadows across the curtain.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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In that brief flash, I saw the impossible clearly. Muddy paw prints streaked up the doorframe, ascending unnaturally high. They stopped nearly seven feet off the ground. I backed away faster now, pressing the phone hard to my ear, my voice barely a whisper as dispatch finally answered. "'Hello?' My voice cracked, betraying a terror I couldn't hide. "'Please hurry, something's outside my house.'
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I vowed silently never to return to this cursed road again. Yet even now, fifteen years later, their lifeless faces still haunt me in nightmares, whispering from the darkened woods, waiting patiently, endlessly waiting, for another unfortunate soul to follow them into the shadows. I'd driven Route 322 east of Cleveland hundreds of times.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The dispatcher's calm voice repeated again." Officer Yazzie will be there in eight minutes. Just stay inside and lock the doors." Eight minutes felt impossibly long. Each passing second was heavy, pressing down on me. My eyes darted frantically around the room, looking for something to defend myself, but all I saw were useless kitchen utensils and ceramic plates.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I froze again at the sound of metal creaking overhead. The tin roof warped beneath shifting weight, groaning softly under the slow, deliberate movements. My throat tightened, breath held tight in my lungs. The thing had climbed up onto the roof. Then I heard a gentle tapping, like nails slowly scraping against glass. I looked upward instinctively toward the skylight.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
A shadow moved against the cloudy pane, a snout briefly pressed to the glass, elongated and distorted. My pulse thundered in my ears, adrenaline surging like wildfire through my veins. I wasn't staying here, I couldn't. Without hesitation, I grabbed my keys from the counter and bolted toward the front door, throwing it open and stumbling into the cool desert air.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I jumped into my pickup and slammed the door shut, fumbling to jam the keys into the ignition. The engine sputtered to life, headlights slicing through darkness as I accelerated toward town. In my rearview mirror, movement drew my attention back to the house. My heart clenched. The creature slid effortlessly from the rooftop, landing silently in the dust.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It stood upright for a moment, stretching unnaturally before dropping onto all fours and bounding forward in pursuit. Gravel kicked up behind my tires as I sped down the dusty road toward Highway 160, desperation driving my foot harder against the gas pedal.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
in my side mirror the twisted shape was gaining fast bounding awkwardly yet impossibly quick keeping pace easily despite the truck racing at nearly fifty miles an hour my hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly they ached the desert blurred by empty and unforgiving the dark mesas looming on either side massive and indifferent in the pale glow of the headlights
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My breath caught as I glanced to my left. The creature paralleled the road, its twisted body gliding fluidly through sagebrush and sand, head snapping sharply to keep me in view. As I approached the junction of State Route 264, my phone buzzed, startling me nearly enough to lose control of the truck. Officer Yazzie's voice crackled through the speaker.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I'm almost to the Chevron by the health clinic. Can you get there? I forced myself to speak clearly through my panic. I'm heading there now. It's following me. It won't stop. Just keep driving, Yazzie said. Do not slow down. The lights of Tuba City appeared ahead, an oasis of civilization after the suffocating darkness of the open desert.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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My chest loosened slightly, hope clawing its way back into my heart. The Chevron station glowed warmly, bright floodlights spilling across the pavement. I skidded into the parking lot, tires screeching against the asphalt. Yazzie was already there, his patrol truck's lights flashing reassuringly, his presence a sudden lifeline. He waved urgently for me to get behind him.
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Stepping shakily out of my truck, I nearly collapsed from relief. But when I glanced back toward the darkness I'd just escaped, dread tightened its grip once more. The creature had stopped at the edge of the streetlight's reach. Its shape blurred in the shadows, yellow eyes gleaming coldly.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It lingered for only a moment longer, head twisting sharply, before turning back toward the blackness of the mesas, slipping silently away. Yazzie's gaze followed mine, understanding flickering in his eyes. He'd seen it too. They've come before, he murmured grimly. We'll need to trap it, or it'll keep returning.
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I stared out into the dark, heart hammering still, wondering if I would ever feel safe again. The pre-dawn sky was gray and flat, heavy clouds hanging motionless over Black Mesa as Officer Yazzie and I prepared for the creature's arrival.
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the abandoned mine entrance gaped in front of us a hollow darkness framed by rusted iron beams and faded warnings from years long past yazzie moved quietly deliberately scattering cedar ash and white cornmeal in a broken circle a pattern i recognized from childhood a protective rite our elders once used I clutched Koze's old collar, turning the worn leather over in my hands.
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Six years of hauling packages at midnight in a 30-foot freightliner teaches you a lot about being alone. It also teaches you when to keep your eyes on the road and when not to look too closely into the forest lining either side of you. Tonight, as usual, the trees stood packed tight, thick branches tangled overhead, forming dark tunnels that swallowed my headlights whole.
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My fingers trembled as I looped it around a chain that hung loose from the tunnel's mouth, letting the metal tags jingle softly in the faint breeze. The sound echoed softly, unnaturally loud against the oppressive silence of the mesa. We stepped back, positioned ourselves carefully, and waited. Every muscle in my body was coiled tight.
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Yazzie drew his service pistol, holding it low, alert eyes scanning the horizon. The morning stretched on painfully, minutes dragging out with excruciating slowness. Then movement. A shadow flickered against the scrub brush far down the slope, weaving silently between patches of sagebrush and juniper. My breath caught sharply.
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BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It moved toward us, cautious yet determined, hunched low, mimicking an animal's cautious gait. As the figure closed the distance, its distorted features became clear. The shape was disturbingly familiar, yet unmistakably wrong, its joints bent in impossible angles, its elongated torso rippling as it moved. Its head was turned slightly away, yellow eyes narrowed, fixed upon us without blinking.
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The creature paused abruptly at the perimeter of Yazzie's circle. It drew back slightly, hackles rising visibly, sensing something it could not cross. the elongated jaw opened revealing uneven rows of jagged teeth and emitted a shriek a distorted sound halfway between a coyote's yelp and a human's scream my chest tightened painfully ears ringing from the shrill cry
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yasi raised his pistol sharply and fired a single shot into the air the sharp crack of gunfire reverberated harshly against the cliffs and tunnel walls the creature flinched sharply twisting wildly then darted toward the mouth of the mine fleeing instinctively toward darkness and shelter Now! Yazzie shouted, his voice firm and commanding.
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I lunged forward, gripping the support pin he'd indicated earlier, and yanked it free. He triggered the detonator. The charge exploded with a deafening roar, shaking the ground violently beneath our feet.
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dust and debris surged outward as the entrance collapsed inward burying the mine's opening beneath tons of broken rock and dirt the rumbling faded gradually replaced by a choking silence my heart thudded in my chest ears ringing loudly from the blast Yazzie took a cautious step forward, studying the now sealed mine shaft.
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After a moment, he drew a small sign from his patrol truck, hammered it into the earth, and stepped back. The words read clearly in stark black letters, Hazard, do not enter. Neither of us spoke as we returned to the trucks, silence lingering heavily between us. Yazzie radioed dispatch confirming the incident was resolved.
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i held koza's collar tightly a painful reminder of what i'd lost and what we'd barely escaped in the weeks that followed my sleep gradually returned though uneasy dreams often brought me back to the mine to that moment of collision between our world and something older darker deeper
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My grandmother's words echoed frequently in my thoughts, reminding me that some things could never truly be forgotten or fully sealed away. Even now, as dusk settled once again over Monkopi Wash, I sat on my porch, watching shadows lengthen across the sand. The wind stirred softly through sagebrush and juniper, rustling quietly until it faded into silence.
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Somewhere, far off across the darkening mesa, came the faintest, distant jingle of a dog's collar. I drew a sharp breath, pulse quickening briefly, but the sound drifted no closer, fading gently into stillness. My gaze moved to the fresh cedar ash lining my threshold, reaffirming my resolve. Whatever lingered out there beyond the reach of firelight would not cross that line again.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Fog clung to the pavement, creeping upward in ghostly tendrils that made each curve feel sharper, each hill steeper. I rolled past Orwell, my headlights barely cutting through the thickening mist. Abandoned barns stood gray and sagging at the edge of fields, their roofs collapsing inward, windows long shattered.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
We set out from Moab well after sunset, the three of us, Grant, Zach, and me, bound for the dense, shadow-choked valleys of Manti La Sal National Forest. It was our usual hunting spot, and normally we were comfortable here, confident in the familiarity of this wild terrain.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
We'd been coyote hunting countless times before, enough that wandering through these thick woods after midnight felt more routine than reckless. But tonight was different. The first thing I noticed was the quiet. Too quiet. The forest felt smothered, as if every creature had vanished without a trace, leaving a silence so profound it pressed in from every side.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Usually coyotes howled in the distance, owls hooted overhead, insects droned in the underbrush. Tonight, nothing stirred. The only sounds were our breathing, heavy and uncertain, and the rustling of our boots through dry leaves. "'Anybody else notice how quiet it is?' Grant murmured, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
He shifted nervously, swinging the beam of his headlamp between darkened tree trunks. Zack chuckled softly, feigning confidence. None of us laughed." Not really. Instead, we pressed forward cautiously, the dogs patting silently at our heels. Usually eager, they were strangely subdued tonight. Duke, my retriever, moved with his head low, ears pinned flat.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
He usually pulled ahead, excited by every new scent. Tonight, he slunk like something hunted, not hunter. then without warning all three dogs stopped simultaneously planting their paws firmly in the dirt duke began to whimper the others joining in immediately they flattened themselves down tails tucked tightly eyes darting around the shadowy trees What the hell's gotten into them?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Zack asked sharply, tugging impatiently at the leash. Come on, Duke. But Duke didn't move, didn't even acknowledge the command. He just stared forward, trembling. Grant bent to stroke his dog's fur, but the animal recoiled, whining louder. He stood slowly, glancing at us with a mix of confusion and anxiety. Maybe they smell a bear or cougar nearby. I shook my head. No way.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Duke never acts like this around wildlife. He's trained for that. Zack sighed, clearly frustrated. Well, I'm not dragging them. Let's tie them here. They'll be fine. i hesitated briefly but finally agreed we tethered the dogs to a large sturdy pine leaving them huddled close together as we moved off into the darkness their frantic whines echoed behind us fading slowly as the trees thickened
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Ahead, the forest closed in tighter, branches clawing at us as we pushed deeper. Grant stopped abruptly, kneeling beside a patch of soft earth. His headlamp illuminated tracks, clear, fresh prints. But something was very wrong with them. What kind of tracks are those? I asked, a sudden chill prickling my spine.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Houses lay dark and empty, grass overgrown, driveways chained off, signs posted warning trespassers away. No porch lights offered comfort, no friendly faces, just darkness and the steady growl of my diesel engine pushing through the foggy silence.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The prints shifted strangely, one moment clearly canine, claws defined, then unmistakably human, toes splayed and distinct. It was as if something moved on four legs, then rose onto two feet, over and over again. Zack knelt beside Grant, tracing the bizarre footprints with trembling fingers. "'Coyotes don't do this,' he said, voice tight. "'No animal does.'
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Guys, Grant whispered urgently, pointing forward into the gloom. Look. Far ahead, barely visible at the edge of our flashlight beams, something moved silently between trees, a shadow slipping fluidly from trunk to trunk. My heart hammered violently in my chest, adrenaline surging. Maybe someone else is out here? Zack muttered doubtfully, but his tone betrayed deeper unease.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The fading daylight cast a murky glow over the dense forests that line the road, trees standing like dark sentinels guarding ancient secrets. Twisting around, I fixed them with my sternest mom stare. If you two don't settle down right now, there won't be any screens for a week, do you understand me?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Then, from the darkness, came a distant howl, thin, high, wavering, as if torn from the throat of something desperate. The sound was familiar, yet horribly distorted, twisted into something grotesque and unnatural. Another joined it, then another, echoing from all sides. A chorus of inhuman cries gradually melted into screams, screams that sounded chillingly human. What the hell is that?
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Grant's voice cracked with raw fear. That's no coyote, I whispered, instinctively backing closer to my friends, clutching my rifle tighter. We need to go back. But when I turned around, the path we'd come along seemed different somehow, unfamiliar. Panic tightened in my chest as I realized I couldn't recognize the landmarks we'd passed just moments ago.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The howling intensified, louder now, shriller, closing in around us. Grant's breathing turned ragged, eyes wide with terror. Zack frantically swept his flashlight across the trees, but nothing appeared clearly, only shadows dancing just out of reach. Then the forest fell utterly silent again, deafening silence.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
We stood frozen in place, barely daring to breathe, listening intently to the oppressive void surrounding us. My pulse throbbed in my ears. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, a soft rustling began from the shadows ahead. Footsteps, creeping closer, heavy, yet deliberate. Something was stalking us, something that had brought silence to the forest and fear into our dogs.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
as i passed into mesopotamia township the woods pressed in closer here route three hundred and twenty two wound uphill through a narrow gorge of towering pines and skeletal oaks whose black branches clawed at the night sky In six years of this route, I'd never shaken the sensation that something watched from behind the tree trunks, something silent and patient.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Something not entirely human, nor fully animal. And it was getting closer. My pulse hammered in my ears, drowning out rational thought as we stood frozen, straining our senses toward the darkness. The silence stretched agonizingly long, broken only by shallow breaths and the pounding of my own heartbeat.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Grant shifted nervously beside me, his rifle barrel trembling in the pale beam of his headlamp. We gotta get back to the dogs, I whispered finally, fighting to keep my voice steady. Grant nodded quickly. Zach remained rigid, staring off into the black void between the trees. I tugged his sleeve gently, pulling him from his trance. "'Zack, move!' I urged.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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He snapped back into himself, stumbling backward, eyes wide with panic. "'Something's out there,' he muttered hoarsely. "'Something's been following us since we got here.' None of us contradicted him. We knew he was right." Carefully, keeping tight together, we began retracing our steps. Or at least, we tried to. But nothing looked right.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The trail we'd taken moments ago had become twisted and unfamiliar, the landscape subtly rearranged by shadows. Every tree looked the same, every rock indistinct, every turn a mirrored reflection of confusion. It's like the forest shifted, Grant said, his voice thin with desperation. Then came the sound again, those hideous screams, circling now, closer, pressing tighter.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Voices cried out in torment, mimicking fear, agony, pleading. Each scream echoed eerily between the trees. seeming to come from every direction simultaneously, but the worst was that they mimicked our own voices perfectly, repeating our names in terrified, pleading tones. ETHAN My own voice called, frantic, desperate, trailing off into chilling laughter. I flinched, nausea rising sharply.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Zack raised his rifle, squeezing the trigger wildly into the dark. The flash illuminated grotesque shapes briefly, twisted limbs moving fluidly just out of clear view, gone as quickly as they appeared. His shots cracked uselessly into the trees, swallowed instantly by shadows. Zach, stop! You're wasting ammo! Grant yelled.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The forest answered him in Grant's exact voice, mocking and cruel, repeating his warning back in distorted echoes. We bolted then, no longer thinking, only reacting in blind panic. Branches clawed at my face.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
tearing my skin raw as we barreled through brush and stumbled over unseen roots behind us laughter rose dark and malicious punctuated by rustling movements and the quick snap of branches underfoot i felt it something just behind me matching my stride breathing heavily in my ear i swung around wildly my flashlight beam slicing across empty air nothing was there only darkness and dancing shadows
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Grant suddenly shouted ahead. This way! There's a clearing! We burst from the tangled brush into a small opening, moonlight barely piercing the thick cloud cover above. Grant stopped abruptly, panting hard, and Zach bent double, vomiting into the weeds. I scanned the clearing trying desperately to orient myself when something at the edge caught my eye.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Grant stood motionless just ahead, his back to me staring silently into the woods. Grant? I called cautiously, confusion tightening my throat. What are you doing? What do you mean? Grant asked softly, but his voice came from beside me, not ahead. I turned slowly, ice flooding my veins. Grant stood at my shoulder, pale and shaken, staring at the figure before us.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
We watched in mute horror as the figure slowly turned toward us, its movements jerky, unnatural, limbs slightly elongated. The outline subtly off, wrong. Its eyes glinted faintly in the dim moonlight, empty of humanity, mouth twisting into a chilling, mocking grin. It wasn't Grant. It had never been Grant. Run, I whispered hoarsely, fear stealing my voice.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Deer sometimes burst from the shadows, their eyes glowing green as they leaped through the headlights. Tonight there were none, not even birds fluttered up from the roadside. I shifted gears, the truck rumbling steadily.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The creature lunged forward as we scattered, vanishing into the shadows like frightened animals. Each of us plunging blindly into the waiting darkness, hopelessly separated, helplessly alone. Branches lashed at my face as I hurtled through the darkness, my chest heaving and lungs burning. I'd lost all sense of direction, guided only by raw instinct and desperation.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Every shadow was alive, every rustle of leaves another torment. Voices called my name from the shadows, sometimes Zack's, sometimes Grant's. Always twisted, always wrong. Ethan, stop running! It's gone! Zack's voice cried, breaking through the trees, strained and desperate. But I knew it wasn't Zack. Not anymore. Whatever lurked here had learned us, mimicking our fear perfectly.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I stumbled onward, blind panic guiding my feet until suddenly a familiar sound pierced the darkness ahead, whimpering, anxious cries. The dogs. "'Duke?' I called softly, voice ragged and desperate. Ahead, three trembling shapes appeared, eyes glowing faintly in the dim moonlight, tails tucked tightly beneath their shaking bodies."
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Relief flooded through me as I reached out, quickly untying their tethers. They huddled close to my legs, refusing to move even an inch further into the woods. We're getting out of here, boys, I whispered, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. Find the truck. Go.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
duke pressed his head briefly against my leg then surged forward the other dogs close behind trusting their instincts above my own i raced to follow the dogs guiding me along a faint path barely visible in the gloom Every step brought fresh dread, but I forced myself onward, praying silently that Zack and Grant had somehow survived, that we'd find each other before it was too late.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
"'Ethan, over here!' Grant's voice shouted suddenly from the dark, raw with urgency. I skidded to a halt, heart hammering wildly in my chest, uncertain whether to trust it. Then another voice broke through, unmistakable, choked with emotion. Zack's. "'Ethan, we're here! Hurry!'
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
fog began pressing thicker against the windshield forcing me to squint and slow down a chill settled into my bones as i reached a winding stretch near welshfield there the road dipped sharply before climbing again for some reason to-night felt colder quieter emptier I leaned forward, gripping the wheel, eyes straining against the pale glow of the high beams.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Shoving aside doubt, I sprinted toward the voices, nearly sobbing with relief as Grant and Zach stumbled into view, pale and hollow-eyed, their faces etched with exhaustion and terror. Thank God, Grant gasped, reaching out to grip my shoulder tightly. We thought, we thought you'd- Zack cut him off, his voice shaking. We have to move. It's still out there. It's circling back.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The dogs growled softly, hackles rising, heads swiveling towards something behind us, an impenetrable curtain of blackness between the trees. My flashlight flickered weakly as shadows stirred at the edge of the beam. We turned as one, breaking into a frantic sprint. Ahead, through the trees, the faint glint of headlights offered our only hope. The truck wasn't far now.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Then the forest erupted around us. A massive shape burst from the shadows, impossibly fast, shifting in a grotesque blur from human to animal, and back again, fur and skin rippling obscenely under moonlight.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
twisted limbs ended in clawed hands and its face god its face was a shifting nightmare half human and half bestial mouth twisted into a snarl of rage and hunger instinctively zack and grant raised their rifles firing desperately Muzzle flashes illuminated chaos in brief, nightmarish bursts, rounds finally striking true.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The creature reeled, shrieking in agony, limbs flailing grotesquely, its shape dissolving and reforming wildly, contorting into unrecognizable forms before collapsing to the ground. The shriek faded, replaced by an eerie stillness. Slowly, cautiously, we approached the fallen creature,
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But there was nothing left but ash and bone fragments, dissolving even as we watched, carried away by the wind as though it had never existed. Wordlessly we turned and stumbled toward the truck, shaken beyond speech. Dawn broke gently over Monte La Salle as we drove away, the mountains fading behind us in the rearview mirror. None of us spoke. None of us needed to.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
We had seen enough to know we would never return, to know that we'd narrowly escaped something ancient and cruel, something far beyond our understanding, hidden deep in Utah's shadowed forests, waiting patiently for its next prey. It was late November, one of those cold, gray afternoons in the Allegheny National Forest when the woods go quiet.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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My best friend Reed and I were in the final hour of the season, trying to fill our last tag before darkness forced us back home empty-handed. We'd hunted these hills since we were teenagers, a tradition passed down from our fathers. Everything felt familiar.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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The crunch of fallen leaves beneath our boots, the bitter chill seeping through layers of wool and camouflage, and the scent of damp earth that always reminded me of simpler times. "'Tom, over there,' Reed whispered sharply, nodding toward a thick cluster of hemlocks on the opposite ridge." I saw the movement too, a buck stepping carefully, its antlers barely visible through the gathering dusk.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Slowly, I raised my rifle and took aim, steadying my breath. The buck paused just long enough, its silhouette clear against the fading orange light of the sky. My finger tightened on the trigger, and the gunshot shattered the silence. The buck collapsed instantly, a clean kill. Reed clapped me on the shoulder, grinning. Nice shot, he said relieved. Let's get him out before it gets too dark.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
We made our way down into the gully, boots sliding on slick patches of moss and mud. As we approached the buck, the last glow of daylight drained away, leaving the forest washed in deepening shadows. Reed knelt beside the animal, flashlight beams sweeping across its body. I came up behind him and something immediately felt off. "'Where's the blood?' Reed muttered, confusion in his voice.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Then, at the edge of my vision, something dark flickered across the windshield. Not a bird, I told myself. Too big. Too fast. I shook my head, convincing myself it was fatigue. But my chest tightened, adrenaline trickling slowly into my veins. I focused on breathing and pushed on, fingers gripping the wheel harder. The road leveled briefly, and ahead, moonlight spilled across the asphalt.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
He was right. I'd hunted long enough to know a kill shot always left a trail, crimson splashes soaking fur and earth alike. But there was nothing here, not a single drop. My chest tightened, unease prickling the back of my neck.' "'Flip it over,' I told him, my voice quieter than I intended. We grabbed its legs and rolled it carefully onto its side.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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A chill raced down my spine at what we saw, or rather what we didn't. The buck's eyes were gone, its sockets hollowed out cleanly, as if someone had carefully removed them. The empty sockets stared up at us, darker than the night around them. "'What the hell?' Reed murmured, rising quickly to his feet."
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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i tried to rationalize could be scavengers maybe birds got to it before we got here reed shook his head slowly unconvinced no scavenger does something this precise we stood there the forest growing darker by the second the silence around us suddenly oppressive and unnatural
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
i'd spent my life in these woods but never had i felt so profoundly unwelcome reed glanced around nervously and without another word we grabbed the buck by the antlers and began hauling it toward his truck the carcass felt heavier than it should have the antlers digging painfully into my palms It almost seemed like the buck was resisting us, somehow anchoring itself to the forest floor.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
After a short struggle, we heaved it into the truck bed, both of us panting more from nerves than exertion. Reed slammed the tailgate shut and stepped back. "'We'll figure it out back at your cabin,' he said, trying and failing to sound calm." As we climbed into the truck, I glanced back at the buck in the bed.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Even in the shadows, those empty eye sockets stood out, black pits aimed directly at me. I shook myself and turned away. The drive out of the woods should have been familiar, comforting even, but tonight it felt different. Every tree in turn more sinister, the darkness pressing closer.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Reed fiddled anxiously with the radio, catching only bursts of static and garbled voices that came and went like ghostly whispers. Reception's crap tonight, he mumbled. I nodded absently, my eyes repeatedly flicking to the passenger side mirror, unable to shake the feeling we were being watched. Then I heard it, the first howl. At first it was distant, barely audible beneath the hum of the engine.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
But as Reed slowed slightly, it grew clearer. A guttural, mournful cry echoing through the trees. It sounded like a wounded deer, but deeper, almost human. My blood turned to ice. Probably coyotes, Reed said unconvincingly, gripping the wheel tighter. But I knew the sound of coyotes, and this wasn't it.
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As the wailing continued, louder now, each note drawn out with eerie clarity, I felt my pulse quicken. Glancing back at the truck bed, I froze. "'Stop the truck,' I said suddenly." Reed looked at me, bewildered. "'What? Why? Just stop!' My voice cracked, betraying my panic. He slammed on the brakes, gravel scattering beneath the tires as we lurched to a halt.
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Without a word, I leapt from the cab, flashlight in hand, heart hammering. Reed joined me a second later, breath clouding in the crisp night air as he rounded the back. The bed was empty. The deer was gone, vanished without a trace. There was no blood, no drag marks, nothing but wet, muddy hoof prints, leading inexplicably toward the back edge of the tailgate and disappearing into the road.
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Reed shone his light down the road and into the trees, his face pale, eyes wide. What's happening, Tom? He whispered shakily. I couldn't answer. My mouth had gone dry, fear gripping my chest tightly. From the darkness of the forest around us, that dreadful howling rose again, closer now, accompanied by something worse. A deep, wheezing breath just beyond our line of sight.
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I could see more clearly now. The fog had temporarily lifted in this open stretch. Then it appeared again. A huge shadow flashed downward, blotting out the moonlight and suddenly hurtled straight at me. I saw it clearly this time. Massive wings outstretched, limbs extended like a diver plunging toward my cab.
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We need to leave, I said urgently. Neither of us spoke as we scrambled back into the cab, slamming the door shut. Reed punched the accelerator, and the truck jolted forward, racing down the narrow road, branches scratching at the sides, darkness closing in like it wanted to swallow us whole. But as we sped away, my mind replayed the impossible scene again and again.
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Those wet hoofprints, that empty truck bed, and the unexplainable absence of any blood. Worst of all, the lingering question gnawed at me relentlessly. If the buck wasn't dead, what exactly had we brought into our truck, and where had it gone? Reed floored the accelerator, sending the truck barreling down the narrow forestry road, gravel and dirt flying behind us. Neither of us spoke at first.
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The silence between us filled with a thousand questions neither dared to ask aloud. My eyes kept flicking to the side mirror, my pulse quickening every time I caught the blur of shadow or branch. Behind us, the forest had become a black void, swallowing the red glow of our taillights as quickly as they appeared. "'What the hell happened back there, Tom?'
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Reed finally muttered, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I don't know, I admitted, struggling to steady my voice. Maybe it fell out. He shot me a look that told me he knew that was impossible. A buck that size wouldn't have simply slid out of the truck without a sound, especially not without leaving a trail or marks. No matter how we tried to rationalize it, nothing made sense.
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Then we heard it again, the howl, louder now, closer, tearing through the night with that strange mixture of animal pain and almost human agony. It came from behind, following us down the road, growing louder despite our speed. "'That ain't no coyote,' Reed whispered through clenched teeth."
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The truck's headlights cut narrow beams through the pitch black ahead, illuminating little more than fifty feet at a time. The rest was darkness, impenetrable, endless, and increasingly hostile. Reed's hands were trembling slightly as he fought to keep us straight on the narrow track, eyes locked forward.
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Suddenly, the truck sputtered, radio flaring briefly to life with static that crackled and snapped in short, broken fragments. The garbled, distorted voices rose and fell, an eerie chorus punctuated by bursts of what sounded disturbingly like laughter. Then the engine faltered, coughing sharply. "'No!' Reed growled, panic rising in his voice. "'Not now!'
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He slammed the dashboard with a palm, as if sheer force could keep the truck running. It didn't. With one last choked gasp, the engine died completely, leaving us coasting forward into the dark silence." Reed steered the vehicle slowly off the side of the narrow road, the tires crunching to a final halt on gravel.
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For a long moment, we sat frozen, staring at each other, listening to the crackling static of the dying radio as it too faded into silence. Outside, nothing moved, nothing breathed. The forest around us felt impossibly still, as though the entire world was waiting, holding its breath. "'Grab your rifle,' I said quietly, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.
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I instinctively ducked beneath the dash, shielding my face just as something heavy crashed violently against the aluminum roof above. The truck shuddered and swayed under the impact, metal echoing with a hollow boom that rattled through the cab and down into my bones. Slamming the brakes, tires screaming across wet pavement, I skidded to a stop in the middle of Route 322.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Reed reached behind his seat, pulling out his gun with trembling fingers, as I did the same. Slowly, cautiously, we stepped out of the truck, boots crunching into gravel that seemed too loud in the oppressive silence."
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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flashlights trembling we swept our beams across the empty bed the wet hoof prints were still there glistening oddly beneath our lights but otherwise the bed was empty tom reed whispered pointing his flashlight at something on the ground i followed his gaze my stomach twisted There, leading from the truck toward the edge of the forest, were more hoof prints. But something was wrong with them.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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They faced backward, as if whatever made them had walked toward the truck, not away from it. A chill crawled up my spine, colder than anything the November air could produce. "'Let's get the truck started,' Reed said, his voice tight, urgency sharpening his tone. "'I'll check under the hood. Watch my back.'
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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i nodded heart thudding in my ears as reed popped the hood and leaned in flashlight tucked under his chin i stood behind him sweeping the beam of my flashlight around us paranoia now tightening every muscle in my body the trees were motionless the silence absolute it felt as though the forest itself were watching waiting for something
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Then, from somewhere deep in the woods to our left, the howling returned, this time louder, clearer, closer. It was followed by a rasping, wet breathing sound, like lungs choking on fluid. I swung my flashlight toward the sound. Branches swayed slightly, though there was no wind. Reed, hurry, I hissed. "'Almost there,' he muttered, voice barely audible beneath the hood. "'Loose wire.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Just give me—' His voice cut off suddenly. I spun around just in time to see his head snap upward, eyes wide, locked on something behind me. "'Tom—' His voice trembled. Slowly, dread settling in my chest like ice, I turned. Just beyond the edge of our headlights, standing utterly still, was the buck we'd shot."
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Only now it was upright, balanced precariously on two hind legs, head hanging grotesquely to one side, antlers silhouetted starkly against the blackness. The empty eye socket stared directly at us, two deep holes of pure darkness. What in God's name? Reed whispered, fumbling backward into the truck.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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without warning the deer opened its mouth impossibly wide unleashing another ghastly howl this time distorted into an eerie mimicry of human speech stretched painfully through an animal's throat it wailed a single word garbled and chillingly clear at once go my blood ran cold reed slammed the hood shut and jumped into the driver's seat desperately twisting the key again
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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After a heart-stopping moment, the engine roared back to life. I hurled myself into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut just as Reed punched the accelerator, gravel flying wildly beneath us as we tore away. In the side mirror I watched in horror as the buck dropped back onto all fours, its grotesque form dissolving into shadows, melting away into the darkness behind us.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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We raced down the forestry road in silence, our breaths ragged, pulses pounding in time with the frantic hum of the engine. Neither of us spoke until the first dim lights of Cain appeared through the trees, faintly reassuring yet unable to erase the fresh terror we'd just experienced. But even as the forest fell away behind us, I knew the night wasn't over.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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My pulse hammered in my ears. For several seconds I didn't move, just stared blankly at the dashboard, my breathing ragged and shallow. Silence returned around me, heavy, pressing, thick. Slowly, carefully, I straightened, heart still pounding as I peered through the windshield into the foggy darkness ahead. Nothing stirred.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Whatever that thing had been, whatever it had become, wasn't done with us yet. The buck, the creature, had told us to go, but deep down I felt certain that it wasn't letting us escape. It was just giving us a head start. By the time we reached my cabin on the outskirts of Kane, neither of us had said a word for at least ten miles.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Reed's hands trembled visibly as he parked the truck, knuckles white around the wheel. When he finally spoke, his voice barely rose above a whisper. I need to get home, Tom. I... I can't do this right now. I nodded slowly, understanding. But a small voice inside urged me to keep him close. It felt safer, somehow. You sure you don't want to stay here tonight? It's late.
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Reed shook his head, refusing to meet my eyes. i just need to clear my head we'll talk in the morning he backed the truck down my driveway headlights slicing through the darkness and vanished into the night for a long minute i stood alone listening to the distant hum of his engine fading away until silence enveloped me again
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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a bitter wind whispered through the woods carrying a scent of rot and damp earth the woods around me had never felt so ominous so aware i moved slowly toward the cabin my boots crunching on frost-covered gravel the porch creaked beneath my weight the old wood groaning as i unlocked the door and stepped inside The familiar warmth of home did nothing to soothe the unease twisting through my chest.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Sleep refused to find me. I lay in bed, staring blankly at the darkened ceiling, replaying every impossible moment of the night. Each howl, each twisted hoofprint, each image of the eyeless buck haunted my thoughts. I tossed and turned, sweat soaking my sheets despite the chill in the air. Then something outside scraped against the cabin wall, a faint, deliberate scratching.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I sat up sharply, pulse hammering in my ears. Grabbing my flashlight and rifle from beside the bed, I crept through the dark cabin to the front door. I hesitated, heart thudding, before stepping out onto the porch.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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my flashlight beam darted around the yard probing the shadows nothing just silence but as i moved toward the shed where i'd usually store any game we brought back my stomach twisted the shed door was open swinging lightly in the cold breeze the lock dangling uselessly Approaching cautiously, I shined the flashlight into the darkness. My breath caught sharply.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Wet, muddy hoof prints were scattered across the wooden floorboards, leading inside. They stopped abruptly at the far wall, as though whatever had made them had simply vanished. The walls were untouched, the windows intact, yet somehow the thing had gotten inside without breaking anything. I stumbled backward, my pulse racing as I scanned the trees beyond the yard.
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There was nothing but empty darkness, yet the sensation of being watched was overwhelming. Back inside the cabin, I fumbled to lock the doors, checking every window twice. I placed my loaded rifle next to my bed, hands trembling, and eventually drifted into an uneasy half-sleep, plagued by dreams filled with hollow-eyed creatures and endless forests.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I awoke sometime later to a sound I knew instantly. The howling. Only now it wasn't distant. It was right outside my bedroom window, so close I could hear the rattling breath beneath the shrieking cry. Swallowing the terror rising in my throat, I slowly got up, gripping the rifle tightly, creeping toward the window. With a shaking hand, I moved the curtain aside just enough to peer outside.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Every rational part of me wanted to stay inside the truck, lock the doors, keep driving. But curiosity and fear gnawed at my resolve. If it was an animal, it might be injured. I had to see what had hit my truck. I grabbed the heavy black flashlight from the glove box and stepped down onto the cold asphalt, feet crunching gravel as I circled cautiously around to the back of the truck.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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There, at the edge of the treeline illuminated by moonlight, stood the buck. My heart nearly stopped. It stood upright again, its unnatural posture grotesque and contorted. Its antlers, now impossibly large, branched upward like claws grasping at the night sky. The empty black sockets where eyes should have been stared directly at me.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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then with terrifying deliberateness the creature turned its head slightly and smiled a hideous toothy grin no deer could ever produce my breath seized in my lungs as panic set in without hesitation i stepped outside adrenaline overpowering fear
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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leave me alone i shouted voice cracking as i raised my rifle aiming straight between those empty haunting sockets it didn't move didn't flinch it just stood grinning horribly mocking me with its presence Fingers trembling, I squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked loudly, echoing through the trees. My shot was perfect, directly into its chest. But the buck didn't even twitch.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Instead, with sickening slowness, it dissolved, its body unraveling into a dark mist, pulled into itself until nothing remained but empty air. The night fell silent once more, leaving me shaking and alone. I ran back inside, locking the doors again, and spent the rest of the night awake, waiting for dawn. Morning brought no relief. Instead, it brought dread.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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My phone buzzed, jolting me from exhausted stupor. Reed's wife, panic in her voice, was asking if he'd stayed with me. My gut twisted painfully as she explained that Reed hadn't come home. Hours later they found his truck abandoned on Route 66, doors wide open, keys still in the ignition.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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There was no blood, no sign of struggle, nothing, except the now familiar muddy, backward hoof prints trailing off into the forest. I sold the cabin within weeks. I left Kane, left the woods, and moved somewhere far away, somewhere bright and crowded. I told myself I could outrun it, bury the memories in the noise of city life.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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But the truth still haunted me, whispered in quiet moments when I lay awake at night. You can't outrun something like that. Once it sees you, once you see it, you're marked. There's one last thing I kept hidden, a secret locked away in my dresser drawer. On my last night in the cabin, I checked the game camera outside the shed. It showed nothing for hours, just empty darkness.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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They fell into sullen silence, and I closed my eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of my nose to ease the building headache. That was when I noticed it, a soft, distant hum of an approaching engine. My eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, catching headlights weaving slowly through the dusk, drawing nearer at an oddly cautious pace.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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But at exactly 2.47am, the image glitched, distorted into lines and static, before briefly clearing to reveal one final, impossible image, the buck. Standing in my driveway, antlers silhouetted sharply against moonlight, head tilted, empty eye sockets staring directly into the lens, and it was still smiling.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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I parked my truck at the end of the gravel access road, ten miles south of the trailhead near the Gros Ventre wilderness boundary. The forest lay quiet under a blanket of fresh snow that had fallen overnight, broken only by the occasional creak of branches under the snow's weight. After my divorce, I'd come to appreciate trips like this more, quiet, lonely, simple.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Nothing cleared my head like being alone in the Wyoming backcountry with only a bow and camera for company. I strapped my gear tight, shouldered my pack, and moved through knee-high drifts toward the ridge locals called The Shelf. It took me almost four hours to reach the spot, my legs burning from the climb, but it was worth the effort.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Fog swirled in my flashlight's weak beam, drifting lazily, obscuring everything beyond a few yards. My eyes strained through the haze, heart hammering louder with every step. At first I saw nothing, just empty pavement, shadowy underbrush, and trees standing like silent sentinels along the roadside.
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From that vantage, the entire valley spread below me, tucked between slopes dense with lodgepole pines and patches of open meadow. I set up my small tent near an abandoned Forest Service fire ring just as dusk tinted the sky pale orange. While gathering kindling for my fire, a sound echoed across the valley.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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An elk bugle, drawn out and rough-edged, different from what I'd ever heard in my years hunting. i paused trying to pinpoint its origin but found nothing silence soon returned leaving me unsure if i'd really heard anything at all that night sleep came slowly as i lay in my sleeping bag my ears strained to pick up the smallest noise outside Just as my eyes began to feel heavy, the sound returned.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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It drifted closer this time, louder, sharper, almost painful to hear. There was a thick, ragged quality to it, like an animal struggling to breathe. I sat up, heart racing, gripping the handle of my knife out of instinct more than reason. It stopped as abruptly as it started, leaving only my own shaky breaths filling the tent. Morning arrived gray and bitterly cold.
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I rubbed feeling back into my numb fingers, gathered my gear, and crept to the edge of the ridge. A movement near a downed pine caught my attention. A bull elk stood partially obscured by a tangle of fallen branches. My pulse quickened. The bull was huge, a trophy animal easily ten years old by the looks of its antlers. But as I raised my binoculars, something about the elk seemed off.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
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Its body stood rigid, muscles twitching oddly beneath its hide. Through the binoculars, I saw its chest heaving violently, breath steaming in frantic puffs. Every few seconds its head jerked sideways, as though reacting to unseen irritations. Ignoring the growing unease in my gut, I knocked an arrow and lifted my bow. My breath steadied as I aimed carefully behind its front leg.
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My finger tightened around the bowstring, muscles tensed, eyes fixed. Then the elk jerked its head upward and let out a piercing, terrified scream. A scream exactly like a man begging desperately for help. Somebody help me. The voice reverberated down into the valley, echoing painfully in my ears. My arrow sailed harmlessly past the elk into the underbrush.
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I staggered back in shock, the bow slipping from my fingers. The elk remained still a moment longer, its wild, panicked eyes locked directly on mine. Then it turned abruptly and bolted into the trees, vanishing without a sound. My knees buckled, and I crouched low in the snow, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
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I waited a long time for my breathing to slow, trying to rationalize what I'd heard, telling myself it had been a trick of acoustics or nerves. But every explanation fell flat. Cautiously, I approached where the elk had stood.
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My eyes scanned the ground for any sign of the animal's flight, any tracks or blood, but found nothing except a pair of shallow hoof prints that vanished abruptly mid-stride leaving no clear trail away. Back at camp, I packed hastily. I didn't care that I'd planned to stay longer, didn't care about the wasted trip. All I wanted was to leave the valley and whatever had happened behind.
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But as darkness fell faster than expected, Clouds blocking the remaining daylight, I was forced to reconsider. With no choice but to wait until morning, I stoked the fire high and sat rigid, listening, watching shadows dance against the surrounding trees. It was late, perhaps midnight, when the noises began again. Soft at first, growing louder.
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Then the flashlight caught something large and dark crumpled on the edge of the pavement about 50 yards away. The beam illuminated leathery, tattered wings sprawled across the asphalt, limbs twisted awkwardly. No feathers, only dark skin reflecting wetly under the moonlight. I paused, breathing shallow, legs trembling slightly as I moved forward again, slowly approaching the motionless form.
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Hooves crunching snow, circling slowly around my camp. A familiar strained elk call echoed through the darkness, followed by a wet, choking cough. I reached quietly for my rifle, fingers trembling on the cold metal. The sound stopped abruptly, leaving nothing but a silence heavier than before. My eyes scanned the darkness, waiting.
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Just as I thought it was over, a voice, low, hoarse, and horribly human spoke from somewhere behind the trees. Somebody help me. At the first hint of dawn, I abandoned my camp and moved north through thick brush toward the logging trail I'd seen on the way in. My legs ached from the cold, sleepless night. I kept glancing behind, checking my trail, searching the trees.
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The forest felt heavy, watchful, every sound louder than it should have been, but I reminded myself, focus ahead, keep moving. After an hour, exhaustion slowed me to a steady walk. Each step crunched through the thin layer of snow. Gradually I realized that my footsteps were echoing strangely, each step seemingly mirrored by another.
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When I stopped abruptly, the sounds continued for one more step, then halted. A sudden chill crawled up my spine. "'Hello?' I called out, voice barely steady. "'Anyone out there?' My words faded unanswered into the trees. I moved forward, more cautiously now, gripping my rifle tight enough to make my knuckles ache.
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I listened intently between my breaths, but heard nothing unusual, only the normal sounds of wind moving branches." Then from somewhere in the trees to my right, a voice drifted toward me. Bailey! It sounded exactly like my voice, but younger, sharper, like a recording from years past. Bailey had been my retriever, dead nearly four years now.
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A wave of nausea hit my stomach, making me stumble and brace against a tree. I held still, breath locked in my throat. The voice called again. Bailey, come here, boy! This time clearer, closer. "'Who's there?' I shouted, spinning toward the sound, eyes straining through dense brush. "'This isn't funny!' Silence returned. I listened desperately for movement, a snapped twig, anything.
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But the wood stayed quiet, mocking me with the emptiness. shaken i kept moving forward faster now anxiety pulling at every nerve half an hour later i emerged into a clearing and stopped dead in my tracks something hung from the branches directly ahead a ragged shape strung up swaying gently in the breeze moving closer I saw it clearly.
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A torn elk hide stretched wide and nailed crudely to the bark with sharpened twigs. Dark fluid dripped slowly from the edges onto the snow below, staining it black. The smell hit me a second later. Thick, rotten, sickening. What the hell? My words were barely a whisper. I backed away, nearly losing my footing. As I turned, the woods erupted around me with my own voice, urgent and terrified. Clay!
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Clay! Help me, Clay! Panic surged through me, my heart hammering painfully in my chest. I scrambled away, breaking into a blind run through the trees. Branches tore at my jacket, slapped my face, and snagged at my boots, but I didn't slow down. Behind me, my voice kept screaming, becoming distorted, frantic, as though mocking my own fear. Eventually, exhaustion forced me to slow down.
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Gasping for breath, I scanned the unfamiliar terrain. I had run far from my intended route. My map was back in the tent I'd left behind, and I had only a rough idea of where I stood. Despair began creeping into my thoughts, but I pushed it aside. Survival first, panic later. With daylight fading, I found a cluster of rocks and built a crude shelter beneath a shallow outcrop.
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From this distance, the shape resembled a massive bird, perhaps a giant hawk or eagle, but it seemed off, somehow wrong. There were no feathers, no beak, just strange proportions beneath the dark skin stretched taut across thin limbs. My mind raced, trying to comprehend what lay before me. When I was about 15 feet away, the figure suddenly jerked upright, limbs unfolding sharply beneath its body.
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The wind picked up sharply, pushing bitter cold into every crevice, but I had no choice. I wrapped myself tight in my coat, rifle clutched to my chest. I didn't dare build a fire, too afraid of what it might attract. Darkness filled the forest, bringing an unnatural quiet. For hours I lay awake, nerves raw, listening.
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Just when I believed I might escape the night undisturbed, a slow, rasping breath moved through the air outside my shelter. The breathing drew closer, louder, heavy and wet, like someone drowning. My muscles froze, my heartbeat echoing painfully loud in my ears. Then a voice whispered softly into the dark, right next to my hiding place. Help me, please Clay, help me.
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It was my voice, low and broken, repeating endlessly in an awful monotone, drifting just inches away. I couldn't move, could barely breathe. Seconds passed like hours, each whisper stabbing deep into my mind. Finally, I gathered enough courage to move. My hand trembling, I reached for the flare gun on my belt and pulled myself upright.
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With a final burst of desperation, I lunged from beneath the outcrop and aimed the flare into the darkness. The flare exploded upward, bathing everything in sharp crimson light. For an instant, it illuminated a figure hunched low behind a fallen tree. Thin, elongated limbs twisted unnaturally beneath antlers too large and jagged to belong to any elk I had ever seen.
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It stared back at me, eyes reflecting red in the dying flare, its long fingers curled into the snow. Then the flare burned out, plunging me back into darkness. I stayed standing, breath locked painfully in my lungs, waiting helplessly for whatever came next. At dawn, I abandoned anything non-essential. My pack felt like dead weight.
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My rifle was my only comfort, gripped tightly as I stumbled downhill toward the Snake River Range, hoping for a cell signal or a break in the endless forest. My throat was dry, my legs numb. Every sound caused me to spin around, rifle raised, eyes wide. By late morning, I started noticing deep claw marks carved into the trunks around me, fresh grooves scraped through bark into raw wood beneath.
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Each set rose well above my head, a cold dread settled heavily in my gut. An hour later, the forest gave way to an old fire road. Relief flooded through me. If I followed it far enough, I knew it would lead back toward civilization, or at least to a ranger station. But as I started down the road, I spotted someone standing at the far end, partially obscured by shadows.
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The figure was dressed like a hunter, wearing gear similar to mine. Dark jacket, boots, and cap pulled low. My pulse quickened. After days alone, seeing another person felt unreal. I raised a hand cautiously, trying not to appear as terrified as I felt. "'Hey!' I called out, voice raw and weak. "'You lost?' The figure waved back stiffly, its posture bent forward oddly.
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I felt a sudden tightness in my chest. Then it spoke. My stomach churned at the sound of my own voice coming from its direction, flat, emotionless." Hey, it called back, repeating my earlier greeting exactly. You lost? A wave of nausea surged upward. My hands shook uncontrollably, rifle barrel wavering in the air. Slowly, I backed up, careful not to turn away from whatever stood in front of me.
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"'Stay right there!' I shouted. My voice cracked under pressure. "'Don't move!' But instead, the figure stepped forward. Its steps were wrong, awkward, unnatural strides that twisted its legs at strange angles. Then it dropped suddenly to all fours, charging forward, limbs flailing wildly, its antlers scraping branches as it moved."
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A high, piercing scream filled the air again, the same anguished human wail from the elk. Fear exploded inside me. I raised my rifle, aimed wildly, and fired three times in rapid succession. The gunshots echoed through the trees, leaving a painful ringing in my ears. The figure tumbled sideways, rolling violently down the slope into thick brush. For a moment, everything fell silent.
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My heart froze in my chest. It stood upright, perfectly still, its shape silhouetted against the pale glow of moonlight. It was tall, close to my own height, and thin, its limbs too long, too angular, too human. Red eyes glinted dully in the flashlight beam, fixed directly upon me. A mouth opened slightly, revealing teeth that gleamed wetly.
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I stood frozen, heart pounding. Slowly, I approached the spot where it had vanished. On the ground lay strands of coarse elk hair scattered across the snow, mingled with dark streaks of blood. Beside them was a single white object, a human tooth, perfectly intact. My stomach clenched. I turned away, fighting off panic, forcing my trembling legs to move again.
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Each step felt heavier than the last, but I forced myself forward, stumbling along the winding road. Shadows lengthened, trees crowding closer as dusk approached. Just before twilight fully enveloped the forest, I finally spotted the dim lights of a small ranger outpost. Weak with relief, I staggered toward it, knocking hard enough to splinter my knuckles on the weathered wood door.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Two rangers answered quickly, guiding me inside. They stared silently as I babbled about antlers, screams, and my own voice chasing me through the woods. They exchanged careful glances. The younger one handed me water. While the older ranger, gray-haired and walking with a limp, sat quietly nearby, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Eventually, the younger ranger stepped outside to radio for assistance.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
When he was gone, the older man leaned toward me, his voice low and firm. You saw the one that hunts with voices, didn't you? He asked quietly, eyes locked on mine. I nodded slowly, afraid to speak aloud. He sighed, shaking his head as though recalling some distant memory. "'Don't tell anyone else,' he continued softly. "'Not for their sake. For yours.'
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Hours later, safely away in the back of an ambulance, I deleted every video file on my camera without even looking at them. I wanted nothing left of whatever I'd experienced out there.' Nothing to remind me of the thing in the woods that stole voices and wore antlers. A year passed before I found the courage to return to that spot on the ridge, compelled by guilt and curiosity. I wanted closure.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I carried a small wooden cross with me, hoping to leave it behind at the tree where I first encountered the elk. But when I arrived, the tree was gone entirely, replaced by a circle of elk skulls arranged neatly around a bare patch of earth. They pointed inward toward emptiness. I turned around and never went back.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I pulled my truck off the narrow dirt access road into a little clearing about a mile east of Sylvan Lake. I'd hunted here every November for the past eight years. It was still dark just after five in the morning, the kind of chill that settles deep into your bones no matter how many layers you wear. I switched off the headlights, instantly plunging the forest into blackness.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The quiet hum of the engine faded, replaced by the hushed stillness of the trees around me. Grabbing my rifle and backpack from the passenger seat, I stepped into the crisp air, my breath forming tiny clouds illuminated by the weak glow of my flashlight. The frosty ground crackled beneath my boots as I carefully made my way toward my usual spot.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My tree stand was set back deep in a cluster of pines, positioned perfectly for the deer that liked to cross the hollow just after dawn. My heart rate slowed as I climbed the cold metal ladder, each rung stinging my fingers even through gloves. Settling into position twenty feet above the ground, I scanned my surroundings.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Visibility was poor in the pre-dawn darkness, but the first faint blush of dawn had started to seep into the sky. I sat perfectly still, rifle across my lap, waiting patiently as I'd done countless times before. Minutes passed slowly, daylight gradually erasing the darkness around me. It wasn't until the forest had fully emerged from shadows that I began to feel something was off.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
No bird, no eagle or hawk, something else entirely, something that should not exist. Before I could react, it bent its knees slightly, wings spreading wide, and shot upward into the night without a sound. I stumbled backward, flashlight clattering to the ground. The dark figure vanished instantly into the fog shrouded trees, leaving only empty night and deafening silence behind.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
usually by this hour squirrels were already scampering through fallen leaves and chickadees would be softly calling from branch to branch but this morning nothing stirred no birds no movement only a total oppressive silence that seemed to wrap itself around my chest I shifted uncomfortably, scanning the trees again through my binoculars, searching for signs of movement.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My fingers tightened involuntarily around my rifle, unease prickling the back of my neck. Something deep in my gut told me this wasn't normal. Then, just beyond the thick stand of pines, a shadow moved. I froze, binoculars locked on that spot. Heart suddenly hammering. At first I thought it might be a mountain lion, a rare enough sight here but not impossible.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
It moved cautiously, staying low to the ground, slowly creeping out into clearer view. As I watched more closely, a wave of cold dread washed over me. It wasn't right. Its shape was twisted somehow. Limbs stretched longer than any cougar I'd ever seen, moving with jerky, unnatural strides.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The fur was ragged and patchy, like badly-sewn hide draped loosely over bones that were too thin, too angular. My breathing grew shallow as it crept further into the clearing. The creature stopped abruptly, head cocking sideways. Through my binoculars, I saw its eyes clearly for the first time. They were pale, almost white, reflecting faintly in the weak morning sunlight.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
And they were fixed directly on me. An overwhelming panic rose in my chest, my pulse throbbing painfully at my temples. My vision blurred at the edges, dizziness flooding my head as if I'd stood too fast. I fought to steady myself, gripping the railing of the tree stand, but it felt as if all strength had drained from my limbs.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The pale-eyed creature below remained perfectly still, watching, waiting. Then darkness surged up, swallowing my vision completely. My last coherent thought was a simple, desperate plea. Please let me wake up. I woke with dirt pressed cold against my cheek, my body heavy and numb. My mouth tasted metallic, gritty like earth.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself upright, blinking away the blur in my eyes. The midday sun filtered through the trees, too bright, sharp against my pounding skull. My stomach churned, nauseous from dizziness and confusion.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
for a few moments nothing made sense i squinted taking in my surroundings i was sprawled beside my truck parked haphazardly along the narrow access road near sylvan lake my rifle lay beside me its polished wooden stock now scarred by deep jagged gouges as if something had clawed at it fiercely my chest tightened cold dread washing over me as fragmented memories surfaced
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
those unnaturally pale eyes locked on mine through binoculars, that twisted thing moving silently through the pines. I scrambled backward, heart thundering, and struggled to my feet. My legs shook beneath me, but I forced myself to stand, to assess. My fingers brushed gingerly over my neck, my arms, my torso, nothing broken or bleeding, just dirt-caked clothes and fresh bruises.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I breathed heavily, trying to steady my nerves, rationalize away the panic rising in my throat. But the marks on the rifle were too real to dismiss. Something had attacked, had followed me back here. My pulse raced as I circled the truck, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. That's when I noticed the tracks in the soft dirt.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
They were larger than any mountain lion print I'd ever seen, elongated and misshapen. too narrow yet frighteningly deep they circled my truck in uneven loops pacing repeatedly i felt sick how long had it lingered here watching while i lay unconscious the silence around me returned no rustling leaves no distant bird-song just suffocating stillness
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Heart thundering, hands shaking uncontrollably, I staggered back to the truck, clambered inside and locked the doors. My breath fogged the windshield, pulse echoing in my ears. Without looking back, I slammed the truck into gear and accelerated, racing away from the stretch of road and whatever impossible thing I had just witnessed. But the image was burned into my memory.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I climbed into the driver's seat, locking the door and gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles whitened. I turned the key, engine roaring to life, shattering the oppressive quiet. I drove out of the forest faster than I ever had, dirt and gravel spraying behind me. The trees seemed to press closer now, an endless maze of shadows.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
My eyes darted frantically to the mirrors, terrified I'd see something pale-eyed and distorted running alongside me. It took every ounce of self-control not to lose my nerve entirely. Half an hour later, I pulled shakily into the parking lot of a small diner in Hill City. The reassuring presence of civilization calmed me slightly as I stumbled inside.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
People glanced briefly, returning to their conversations and meals, unaware of the terror still gripping my chest. I slid into a booth, hands trembling, and ordered black coffee, hoping to settle my nerves. Across from me, a man about my age nodded sympathetically. He introduced himself as Jim Redford, a local hunter. His eyes narrowed when he saw the condition of my rifle.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
rough morning jim asked cautiously i hesitated then quietly told him what happened at first he nodded slowly skeptical but as i described the creature the stretched limbs pale eyes its impossible movements jim's face went grim he glanced around the diner before leaning closer there's a name for it around here he whispered some call it the hill walker but Older folks, mostly.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
They won't talk openly about it, but hunters have whispered about it for years. It stalks, it waits, and it's nothing you'd ever want to see twice." A chill ran down my spine as he spoke. The fear I'd been desperately trying to bury surged back, colder and sharper than before. I knew then I couldn't go back into those woods alone, and deep down, I wasn't sure I could ever set foot there again.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Twilight crept over the hills as Jim and I drove back toward the spot where I'd seen that thing earlier. My pulse quickened as the familiar outlines of trees grew darker against the fading sky. Jim had insisted we needed to investigate, to see if what I'd encountered matched the legends whispered through generations around these hills.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
I wasn't sure why I agreed, except that fear needed answers, and hiding wouldn't make this go away. The headlights sliced thinly through the darkness as we parked close to where I'd left my truck hours before. We stepped out cautiously, flashlights flicking nervously through the shadows as we moved deeper into the forest.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Soon we reached my original hunting spot, and the same unnatural silence descended again, heavy enough to press the breath from my lungs. Jim paused, shining his beam upward. My tree stand still hung silently twenty feet above us, untouched, but beneath it the earth had been disturbed, churned as if something had paced there obsessively.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The flashlight beams traced the tracks, elongated prints, deep and unsettlingly sharp-edged, overlapping again and again. My throat tightened as I whispered, it waited here. Jim nodded grimly, eyes tense, scanning the darkness around us. We shouldn't stay long. Whatever this is, it isn't something we can handle easily. A branch snapped nearby, startlingly loud in the oppressive quiet.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Both flashlights swung sharply toward the sound. My pulse thumped painfully as shadows flickered, something moving rapidly just beyond the reach of our lights. A second crack of twigs, closer now. I caught a glimpse of distorted shapes darting between trees, quick and erratic. Then it emerged, stepping into our lights with slow, deliberate motions. My breath froze in my chest.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The leathery skin, those silent wings, red eyes glowing dimly. Not human, not animal, something unknown and terrifying, lurking along Route 322 in the darkness east of Cleveland. My hands shook so badly I had trouble keeping the truck steady. The cab was suddenly suffocating, every sound amplified, every vibration magnified.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
The creature was taller than I'd realized earlier, grotesquely elongated. Patchwork fur hung from limbs that twisted strangely beneath its weight. Its arms reached almost to the ground, fingers ending in dark claws. The face was more unsettling, a distorted blend of human and animal. Sharp teeth visible behind a fixed, terrible grin.
Just Creepy: Scary Stories
BEST Scary Stories of May 2025 | Deep Woods, Hunting, Camping, Skinwalker, Park Ranger, Wendigo
Those pale eyes caught our lights, reflecting a ghostly sheen as they locked onto us. Jim. My voice came out barely a whisper. He raised his rifle, face pale, eyes wide with horror. Back away slowly. Keep your gun steady." The creature made a harsh, rasping noise, low at first but rising sharply to a chilling, guttural shriek. It lunged forward, limbs unfolding grotesquely.
My Friend Daisy
Episode 2 - Jane Doe
My husband cheated on me with two women! He wants to stay together because he has cancer. Should I stay?
My Friend Daisy
Episode 2 - Jane Doe
Well, John, that's because it's Dump It Week, and this user writes, My partner told me when we first got together that he has cancer. He's currently living with his mom while he is in recovery, so that it takes the pressure off me caring for both him and her baby until he's well enough to move into our new home with us. He's good, so? Well, last week we had attempted break-in.
My Friend Daisy
Episode 2 - Jane Doe
I asked my husband who was supposed to be at his mom's to come over and change locks, but he wouldn't. Then his mom told me he wasn't with her. I went to Facebook and it took me less than an hour to find the first two women he was cheating on me with.
My Friend Daisy
Episode 2 - Jane Doe
Well, one thing my paranoia just wouldn't let up was about the cancer and his treatments. I asked his mom about it who told me he doesn't have cancer. She also informed me he was in rehab, not the hospital. He suffered from addiction and was trying to recover for me and our baby. Did she leave him?
My Friend Daisy
Episode 2 - Jane Doe
Well, to find out how the story ends, listen and follow the OK Storytime podcast on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
My Friend Daisy
Episode 2 - Jane Doe
my husband cheated on me with two women he wants to stay together because he has cancer should i stay sam that has to be the craziest story in ok story time podcast history well john that's because it's dumping week and this user writes my partner told me when we first got together that he has cancer he's currently living with his mom while he is in recovery so that it takes the pressure off me caring for both him and her baby until he's well enough to move into our new home with us so far well last week
My Friend Daisy
Episode 2 - Jane Doe
We had attempted break-in. I asked my husband who was supposed to be at his mom's to come over and change locks, but he wouldn't. Then his mom told me he wasn't with her. I went to Facebook and it took me less than an hour to find the first two women he was cheating on me with.
My Friend Daisy
Episode 2 - Jane Doe
Well, one thing my paranoia just wouldn't let up was about the cancer and his treatments. I asked his mom about it who told me he doesn't have cancer. She also informed me he was in rehab, not the hospital. He suffered from addiction and was trying to recover for me and our baby. Did she leave him?
My Friend Daisy
Episode 2 - Jane Doe
Well, to find out how the story ends, listen and follow the OK Storytime podcast on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Then he takes the cash and he leaves and he catches the next flight back to Johannesburg. And so boom, the robbery is a success and it's a thrill for Andre. So he decides to rob another bank and another bank and another bank. And soon enough, every time he gets a day off from work, he flies to Durban and robs another bank. He even starts robbing local banks in Johannesburg on his lunch break.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Like he'll rob a bank and then later on that same day he'll go back to the scene of the crime to investigate the robbery. Because he's the police. Und er entdeckt sich so gut, dass sich keine Beobachter mehr an ihn erinnern. Und er ist wirklich gut bei dieser Bankrauberei. Er weiß genau, wie die Banken-Sicherheitssysteme funktionieren, also weiß er, wie man sich nicht immer verletzt.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Und das geht für drei Jahre weiter. Andre raubt rund 30 Banken während dieser Zeit. Und das ist ein riesiger Thrill für ihn. Aber dann, eine Nacht später, schluckt er sich. Er ist also an dieser Party eine Nacht. Und er wird ein bisschen schmutzig. Und er beginnt zu sprechen und eine Konversation mit seinem Freund. Diesem Kerl, CORE.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Und Andre sagt CORE, dass er all diese Banken verkauft hat und dass er so gut damit ist. Hier ist das Wichtigste an CORE, CORE arbeitet einfach nur für das Bureau of State Security. Das ist so ähnlich wie die FBI. Und CORE fühlt sich so, weil er seinen Job macht, dass er so ein Geheimnis nicht behalten kann. Und schlussendlich sagt er seinem Superviseur.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
So, die nächste Zeit, als Andre von Durban zurückfliegt, hat er einfach ein anderes Banken verkauft. Die Polizei wartet auf ihn bei der Bewerbung. Und so, bam! Sie arrestieren ihn. Und er soll ungefähr 17 Jahre im Gefängnis verbringen, aber das wird nicht passieren, weil er sich selbst ausbrechen wird. Jetzt, während Andre im Gefängnis ist, trifft er diesen Jungen, McCall.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Und er trifft diesen anderen Jungen. Both of whom are in prison for robbery. And pretty quickly they all three become friends. And after about three years in prison, Andre and McCall and Hale, they come up with this wild plan to bust them all out. First, Andre and McCall, the two of them, they fake injuries so that the prison guards will escort them to an outside physiotherapist for treatment.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
And then once they're at the physiotherapist, bam, they overpower the guards. Sie holen die Guards Piu-Pius und stehlen das Physiotherapistens Auto. Sie verwenden es als Einflussfahrzeug. Und nachdem sie es verletzt haben, liegen sie für eine Weile. Drei Monate später gehen sie zurück, wo Hale ist. Die Waffen fliegen und sie schlagen ihn auch aus. Jetzt sind die drei zusammen.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Auf der Runde, versteckt. Und was will Andre tun? Er will die Banken wieder zerstören. Er will diese Freude zurück. Und dann, kaboom, schießen die drei auf einen Banken. Und dann, kaboom, schießen sie auf einen anderen Banken. Und dann, kaboom, schießen sie auf einen dritten Banken. Und diese Jungs gehen einfach weiter. Banken nach Banken nach Banken. Und sie tragen immer verrückte Kleidung.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Sonnenblasen, falsche Haare, falsche Haare. Sie sehen fast komisch aus. Aber trotz dessen sind sie ein gutes Team. Sie können eine volle Bankrauberei in unter fünf Minuten erledigen. Manchmal können sie vier Banken am selben Tag zerstören, ohne sich zu fassen. Wegen all' diesem Erfolg beginnt das Wort zu kommen. Und die lokalen Leute beginnen zu hören über diese Gang von Bankmordern auf der News.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Und seltsam ist es, dass viele von ihnen anrufen. Weil sie die Polizei so aussehen, als wären sie verrückt. Und es ist lustig für sie. Andre, McCall und Hale werden Folk-Heroes. Und die Leute nennen sie die Stander-Gang. Nach Andres letztem Namen. So this crime spree goes on for several months.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
The Standard Gang is hiding out at safe houses, hitting up banks when they can, collecting a lot of cash and hanging out with lots and lots of escorts in their spare time. Now, before you start cheering these guys on too, just know that during this time on the run, Andre was known to approach random young women pretending to be a professional photographer.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Er würde sie dann zurück in seinen Hotelraum bringen, als ob er professionelle Fotos von ihnen nehmen würde. Und dann würde er sie... essayen. Und zumindest zwei dieser Frauen enden, ihn an die Polizei zu informieren. Und das kommt später wieder auf. Also. Endlich nennt sich die Stander-Gang Südafrika's Most Wanted. Und ihre Fotos sind plötzlich überall. Überall in den Medien.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Jeder spricht über sie. Und die drei Jungs wissen, dass es nur eine Frage von Zeit ist, bevor sie getroffen werden. So they come up with a plan to flee the country. So first they decide they're gonna buy a small yacht and they're gonna leave the country that way. I guess it's supposed to be safer than all three of them flying commercial.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
So then Andre uses a fake passport, he flies to Fort Lauderdale, Florida and there he's gonna finish negotiations on the sale of this yacht. The next day, back in South Africa, police show up to one of the safe houses the gang had been hiding in. Apparently police had been tipped off by some of the escorts the gang used to hang out with. So police are suddenly outside of the safe house.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
And it's 5 a.m. And McCall is the only one home. And police are like, Standergang, come out with your hands up. And McCall, he's butt naked. Because I guess he sleeps naked. And he gets his pew-pew. And he gets into a crazy butt naked shootout with police. And they storm the place. And they're shooting at him. And he's running from room to room, shooting back.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
And then finally, once they have him cornered, he turns the pew-pew on himself. And he... unerwachsen ist. Mittlerweile gibt es Hale. Sobald Hale einen Tipp bekommt, dass die Polizei auf sie kommt, springt er. Er benutzt einen falschen Passwort und fliegt auf einem Flugzeug nach Griechenland. Also ist er lange weg. Während die Polizei alle Gangs Sicherheitshäuser zerstört.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Und in einem dieser Sicherheitshäuser finden sie Fotos eines der Frauen, die Andre ein paar Monate später verabschiedet hatte. Und das bestätigt nicht nur ihre Geschichte darüber, dass sie verabschiedet worden sind, sondern es bestätigt auch, dass dieses Sicherheitshaus zu ihm gehört. Und dieses Sicherheitshaus führt die Polizei zu dem Yacht, das sie gekauft haben.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Und dieses Yacht führt sie zu einem Crew-Mitglied, den sie verabschiedet haben, um es zu fahren. Und dieses Crew-Mitglied sagt ihnen, dass Andre die Yacht nach Fort Lauderdale, Florida übernehmen soll. So now police know that Andre is in Florida. So then newspapers in Florida get word of this and they start publishing Andres picture in the paper.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
So now people in Florida are on high alert looking for Andre. And so then one morning it all starts to fall apart for him. Cause Andre is at a used car dealership. um sein Auto in einer anderen Farbe zu malen, weil er es einfach verloren hat. Und dort erkennt der Verkäufer ihn, weil seine Bilder nur im lokalen Papier waren. Und der Verkäufer sagt nichts dann, aber er ruft später die Polizei.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Also später in der Nacht, kommen die Polizei zu Andres Wohnung. Und sie befinden sich dort, weil sie in den Bus fahren. Aber Andres ist tatsächlich nicht zuhause. Aber verrückt genug, hat einer der Offiziere ihn einfach auf einem Fahrrad gefahren. Und der Offizier weiß, dass es er ist, also rennt er über und konfrontiert ihn.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Und dann merkt André, was los ist, und er springt aus seinem Motorrad und macht eine Runde dafür. Und dann fährt der Offizier nach ihm und er fängt ihn an. Und André stoppt und er verurteilt sich, dass er aufgeben wird. Und dann nimmt er den Offiziersschotgun. Und dann denkt er schnell, der Offizier zieht seinen anderen Piu-Piu raus und dann, bam, schießt er André vier Mal. Und er verleuchtet ihn.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Hier ist, wie André in der realen Welt aussieht. So then that only leaves Hale. So Hale, he ultimately ends up in London. And there he tries to commit another robbery and he ultimately gets caught. And they throw him in prison for almost 20 years. Later he does his time and he gets out. And he becomes a better person and he starts public speaking.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
And he actually dedicates himself to educating people about the horrible consequences of living a life of crime.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Dieser Polizeifahrer ist so müde mit seinem Job, dass er auf seinem Frühstück einen Bankstab zerstören wird und dann nach Arbeit zurückgeht, als ob nichts passiert wäre. Der Mann heißt Andre und Andre ist ein bisschen ein Thrillsieger. Er ist Polizeikapitän in Kemptenpark in Südafrika und leider ist er nicht glücklich mit seinem Leben und er beginnt einen größeren Thrill zu suchen.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
The Cop Who Was Also a Bank Robber - The Story of The Stander Gang
Und dann eines Tages, kabumm, entscheidet er sich, einen Bankstab zu zerstören. So he catches an early flight from Johannesburg to Durban and there he rents a car, drives to a bank in town, puts on a wig and fake beard and he walks into the bank and he points his pew-pew at the teller and he asks the teller, will you please fill this bag with cash.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Michael Martin ist Grahams Freund und Assistent. Aber zu einem Punkt geht Michael Martin ins Hotel, um ein paar Zaza zu holen. Und er lässt Graham dort alleine mit zwei Mädchen. Und so ist Graham da und er versucht, seine Mädchenfreunde mit Tequila mit ihm zu sprechen. Und die beiden Mädchen sagen, nein. Und so sagt Graham, cool, mehr Tequila für mich. Und er trinkt eine Menge.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Dann, als er alles verpasst hat, entscheidet er sich, es wäre eine gute Idee, ein bisschen Morphin zu machen. Also macht er eine Menge davon. Dann, wie man sich vorstellen kann, glaube ich, macht er zu viel. Und plötzlich, boom, wird Graham unverantwortlich. Und die Mädchen sind wie verrückt, wie, oh mein Gott, er hat gerade O.D. Dann ist eine der Mädchen so, ich weiß, was ich tun soll.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Und sie bekommt ein bisschen Eis, weil, du weißt, Hotels haben immer Eis. Also bekommt sie ein paar Eisböden, zieht Graham's Pants runter und schiebt die Böden direkt auf Graham's Arsch. Sie gibt ihm tatsächlich ein Eisböden-Suppository. Und überraschend ist, dass das funktioniert.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Es schlägt ihn aufwärts und er kommt auf und er geht um die Wohnung und jetzt scheint er plötzlich in Ordnung zu sein. Jedoch, kurz nachdem er aufwärts sitzt, schläft er wieder zurück. Und er stoppt schlafen. Und wieder, die Mädchen sind überrascht und wissen nicht, was zu tun, also nennen sie einen Ambulanz. Aber leider ist es zu spät und Graham hat einen Überdruck und er macht es nicht.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Und wie verrückt das ist, ist es nicht so verrückt, wie der Versuch, seinen Körper zu stehlen. Also zwei Monate bevor das, hat Graham einfach ein Feierabend. Und er ist da mit diesem Kerl, Kaufmann. Kaufmann ist Grahams Tourmanager. Und an einem Punkt während dieses Feierabends, kommt Graham zu Kaufmann und sagt, Mann, wenn ich sterbe, spreche ich einfach meine Asche aus dem Joshua-Tree.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Und Kaufmann hört das und er ist so... Alright. Fast forward two months and now Graham has died. Kaufman, I guess, he wants to be a real one and grant Graham his last wish. Scatter his ashes in Joshua Tree. Kaufman calls the local coroner's office and he asks where Graham's body is.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
They inform him that Graham's body is actually about to be flown from California all the way back to Louisiana so he can be buried there, where some of his family lives. Kaufman kann das nicht passieren. Also kommt er mit einem Plan, Grahams Körper zu stehlen und ihn zurück in Joshua Tree zu nehmen. Zuerst kontaktiert er Michael Martin und bringt ihn mit in dieses Schema.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Dann drehen die beiden sich um, als ob sie bei einem Feierabendhaushalt arbeiten. Dann entscheiden sie, dass sie ein Heirat brauchen, um das auszulösen. Und aus Verrücktheit, eine der Frauen, mit der Graham im Hotel war, als er gestorben ist, hat auch das Geheimnis, ein Heirat zu haben. Und es ist ein Scheiß, und es ist alles zerstört, und es hat keine Leistungsplätze, aber es ist ein Heirat.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Also verkaufen sie es. Dann entscheiden sie, dass sie das nicht mögen, wie sie sich in ihren ehemaligen Gebäuden aussehen. Und sie wechseln sich in neue Outfits, die sich wie Cowboys befinden, für irgendeinen Grund. Und dann werden sie wirklich trank, damit sie die Aufmerksamkeit haben, den Krieg zu verurteilen, den sie verurteilen werden.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Und so werden Kaufmann und Michael Martin trank, die sich wie Cowboys befinden. Sie fangen an, diesen Hurs in den Los Angeles-Aeroport zu fahren, um Grahams Körper aufzulösen und ihn von Louisiana anzupassen. So they get there and they're at the airport and they pull up to the loading dock, which is basically just a big airplane hangar.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
And there's a lot of cargo there, including the casket with Graham's body in it. And then Kaufman uses his manager charm to convince the dock manager that they're there to pick up Graham's casket and body and transport it over to a different airport. And I guess the dock manager's like...
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Und Kaufmann hat ein bisschen Papier gesandt und sie sind alle bereit, diesen Körper zu nehmen und ihn in ihre Hörsaal zu legen. Aber dann zieht sich ein Polizistenwagen auf und es blockiert die Tür des Hängers, was bedeutet, dass es Kaufmann und Michael Martin blockiert. Und anstatt alle Angst zu haben, ist Kaufmann so trank, dass er einfach so sagt, hey Kumpel, beweg dein Auto!
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Und der Polizist sagt, ja, sorry. Und dann sagt Kaufmann, und während du da bist, kannst du uns helfen, diesen Kaskett in den Auto zu legen? Und der Polizist sagt, ja. Und jetzt hilft der Polizist unbewusst, dass sie diesen Kram verursachen. Und so laden sie alle den Kaskett in die Rückseite des Hörs. Und sie fahren weg und Michael Martin ist immer noch wirklich trank.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Und kaboom, er fährt in die Tür des Hängers. Und von da an, tut der Polizist nichts, er lässt sie einfach wegfahren. Und die 70er-Jahre waren eine wilde Zeit. Aber anyway, dann fahren Kaufmann und Michael Martin von dem Flughafen bis zum Joshua-Tree. Now, what Graham specifically wanted was to be cremated and have his ashes scattered across the desert. But he's not exactly cremated.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
So Kaufman and Michael Martin, they unload the casket and they douche it with five gallons of gasoline and they set it on fire. And there they watch it burn for a bit. And, you know, it's not exactly scattering his ashes across the desert, but, you know, it's the best they can do. Dann fliehen sie in die Gegend und fahren zurück nach Los Angeles. Aber hier ist das Ding.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Sie sind beide noch ziemlich trank. Und auf dem Weg, plötzlich, boom, endet Michael Martin ein Auto. Und das verursacht einen Multikarren-Ansatz. Und so sieht Highway Patrol diesen Ansatz und sie ziehen auf und Michael Martin öffnet die Tür zum Hörsaal und ein paar Bierkannen fallen aus. Und so ist Highway Patrol so, ja, diese Jungs sind trank.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Und sie arrestieren sie, und sie legen sie in Handhäufe. Und so stehen Kaufmann und Michael Martin dort, in Handhäufe, während die Highway Patrol auf andere Personen, die im Unfall beteiligt waren, nachschauen. Und das ist dann, als Kaufmann und Michael Martin sagten, verdammt alles, und sie springen in den Hörsen, und sie steigen weg.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Hier ist die Sache, aber erinnere dich, der Hörsen war ein verdammter Scheiß mit keinen Leistungsplätzen. So the Highway Patrol didn't get their plates and couldn't identify them. So Kaufman and Michael Martin successfully get away. UNTIL... Fünf Tage gehen und Kaufmann und Michael Martin werden immer noch nicht gefangen. Die Polizei weiß jetzt, dass Grahams Körper vom Flughafen gestohlen wurde.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Sie untersuchen es und es ist Kaufmann und Michael Martin, die es gemacht haben. Kaufmann entscheidet für irgendeine Art und Weise, seine Wohnung zu verkaufen, damit die Leute in Filmstudios reinkommen können. und ein Studio lehnt tatsächlich seinen Platz aus und sie sind in der Mitte des Films des Films, Night Moves, da. Und es ist ein Film mit einer jungen Jean Hackman.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Und in der Mitte dieses Films, Boom! Die Polizei bricht in Kaufmanns Haus. Und Jean Hackman ist einfach da und schaut, überrascht, als Bam! Kaufmann verabschiedet wird. Hier ist ein Bild von ihm in der Realität. Dann, am nächsten Tag, verabschiedet sich Michael Martin von der Polizei und ich konnte leider keine Bilder von ihm online finden. But here's the crazy thing though.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Because it's the 1970s, I guess there are no laws in place regarding stealing a dead body. So like none of this was technically illegal. And police and prosecutors don't exactly know what to charge these guys with. So they get charged with theft of the casket. Not of the body, because a human body in this time doesn't have any like monetary value. So they get charged with the theft of the casket.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
Und Kauffman und Michael Martin wurden alle von 1.000 Dollar bezahlt. Nach all dem mussten sie nur 1.000 Dollar bezahlen und keine Jailzeit. Und sie wurden einfach frei. Die 70er waren verrückt.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
So it all starts with this guy, Graham. And Graham is a rock country musician living in California and he's not super famous, but he influenced some very famous bands. He influenced the Rolling Stones, he influenced the Eagles, but Graham has a problem. He really loves drugs, like the hard stuff. Bro is always high on something.
Ray William Johnson: True Story Podcast
They Stole His Dead Body - The Gram Parsons story
And one day in 1973, he and some friends take a little trip out to Joshua Tree. Joshua Tree ist eine Wälder in Kalifornien, wo Hippies gehen und Drogen machen. Er und einige Freunde enden in diesem Hotel um Joshua Tree. Einer seiner Freunde soll dafür sorgen, dass Graham es nicht mit all den Drogen, die er nimmt, übernimmt. Dieser Typ, Michael Martin.