50 TRUE Scary Deep Woods & Cryptid Stories 🌧️ Rainy Night Horror To Fall Asleep To

50 TRUE Scary Deep Woods & Cryptid Stories 🌧️ Rainy Night Horror To Fall Asleep To

Good evening and welcome. Find your comfort 
and let the encroaching shadows consume your awareness. For tonight we journey into the 
depths of a memory that refuses to dim. The wilderness was less a location and more a second 
skin throughout my formative years. From the moment I could walk, my days were filled with the 
primal joy of discovery. As a small boy, it was the endless wonders found within the gritty earth, 
the winding creeks, and the whispering sands. As I transitioned into adolescence, the allure shifted 
to boisterous games of manhunt and capture the flag, the spirited challenges of king of the hill 
under towering trees. Now an adult, my delight in the outdoors has matured, finding contentment in 
the simple act of splitting, kindling and coaxing   a reluctant flame into life on a frigid dawn. I do 
it for others so they might know the same profound connection to nature whether during a scouting 
expedition, a church retreat, or a casual family escape. For me, these excursions were always 
a vital reprieve, a necessary migration from the suffocating clamor of city life into the 
boundless, serene embrace of the wild. And it was within this wild during both my earliest years 
and later in life that I encountered moments that truly carved themselves into my soul. One such 
encounter began when I was but six years old. My father, a devout man with a deep love for the 
outdoors, led the boys program at our church, serving as our scout master. His frequent foray 
into the woods meant I was a constant companion on every outing. I adored these trips. the promise 
of pitching tents in a newly discovered clearing, huddling them close for shared warmth and stories, 
bragging about the perfect spot we’d claimed, and igniting our own small fires before each canvas 
dwelling. My father was incredibly understanding of our youthful exuberance, allowing the cacophony 
of excited shouts and laughter to echo through the night, knowing these were the moments that 
forged enduring bonds. We were largely free to pursue our youthful whims so long as we conserved 
enough energy for the next day’s adventures. On one particularly memorable occasion, our group 
ventured deep into the California mountains,   a journey of several hours. The path to our 
chosen site was a winding ascending trail. I was just six, remember, so my judgment was that 
of a child. However, there was one cardinal rule etched into every young mind. never stray from 
the trail. It was a golden decree, seemingly foolproof. The trails in those parts were known 
for their straightforwardness, no confusing forks, no deceptive offshoots. Getting lost, we were 
assured, was an impossibility, a notion that brought a strange comfort. Yet, as fate would 
have it, on this very trip, the impossible became a tempting whisper. I wouldn’t describe myself as 
particularly rebellious, but a fascination seized me when I witnessed a small cluster of boys 
veer abruptly from the main path drawn by some unseen curiosity. Their deviation struck me as an 
incredibly bold, even daring act. Instinctively, a curiosity of my own took root, compelling me 
to follow. At that tender age, I was the proud owner of those wonderfully impractical lightup 
shoes, the kind that flashed with every step. My six-year-old mind, dazzled by their meager 
glow, was utterly convinced they were brilliant beacons, powerful enough to illuminate any 
encroaching darkness. They were, in truth, pathetically dim, barely visible against the 
fading light, but I believed in them implicitly. I remember with startling clarity, the exact boys 
I watched disappear into the undergrowth, Jeremy and his brother John, as they ventured. Jeremy 
with his 14 years seemed a titan of knowledge, pointing out geological marvels to John, a mere 
two years his junior. In my six-year-old eyes, they were infallible guides, my personal deities 
of the wild. The ascent became a relentless scramble. Every sharp stone, every tenacious 
cactus, every brittle tuft of grass was a momentary obstacle in my feverish pursuit. Scrapes 
and pricks went unnoticed. Insignificant in the face of my desperate need to keep pace. Time 
dissolved. My world narrowed to the retreating backs of the older boys. An almost primal urge to 
belong driving every panting step. Then a jolt. The figures ahead, once distinct, blurred and 
vanished. A surge of desperate energy propelled me forward. Hands clawing at sunbaked rocks. Feet 
slipping on loose scree. The earth itself seeming to resist my ascent. I pushed through fissures, 
scaled crumbling ledges until abruptly there was no more up. I stood at top a desolate ridge, 
the wind whistling a hollow tune. Below a vast, indifferent panorama of parched earth, skeletal 
plants, and endless stone. No sign of Jeremy, no sign of John, no sign of anyone. The 
crushing realization hit me. I was utterly, irrevocably lost. A cold dread seeped into my 
bones, a silent scream building in my throat, though I forced myself to draw a ragged breaths. 
A sliver of childlike logic offered a fleeting comfort. I only went up. If I go back down, I must 
hit the trail. With this fragile hope, I began my descent. But the terrain morphing beneath my feet 
was foreign. Valleys twisting into unfamiliar ravines. Cracks yawning where I remembered 
none. Panic erupted. I shrieked, my small voice swallowed by the mountains vast, echoing 
silence. I screamed until my throat was raw, but only the wind answered. A mocking whisper. A 
terrifying vision began to solidify. An old man, gaunt and wildeyed, alone in these mountains, 
forever practicing the art of flint and tinder, of snaring lizards and skinning rabbits for 
sustenance. The thought was grotesqually vivid, yet I pushed it away, refusing to surrender to 
such a fate. Not yet. Still, the encroaching dusk sent a fresh wave of urgency through me. The world 
around me darkened, but with each frantic step, the tiny, unreliable lights on my shoes seemed to 
glow with a little more conviction, faint beacons against the growing gloom. It was then, amidst 
the deepening twilight, that I glimpsed a form. It was a boy, undeniably teenage, with 
the unmistakable build of Jeremy. Yet the feeling radiating from him was profoundly 
wrong. His eyes held no warmth, his posture no familiarity. He was gaunt, his skin seemingly 
stretched taut over bone, an unsettling scent of decay clinging to him like a shroud. Little one, 
a voice rasped, unnaturally deep and slow. Have you strayed from the chosen way? Did your kin not 
warn you against wandering? My fear was absolute, yet I found my voice, explaining how I’d followed 
the older boys, lost them, and was now trying to find my way back to the main trail. He raised 
a finger to his lips, a chilling gesture for silence. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial 
whisper. “Do you know why I am here, small child?” My mind raced, conjuring all the gruesome campfire 
tales of lost children, of lurking beasts and sinister men, of being butchered and fed to pigs. 
“Are you here to hurt me?” I stammered, the words barely audible. “No,” he replied. A strange dry 
sound. “I am here to ensure you are not found by those who do wish you harm. You noticed the path 
down was different from the path up, didn’t you?” A wave of recognition washed over me. “Yes,” I 
exclaimed, completely different. He nodded slowly, his eyes glinting in the dying light. “That is 
because I guided you away. There is someone here who seeks to claim you, your family, and inflict 
horrors upon you that no child should ever know. I was taken long ago in these very mountains by that 
same hand. He ended my life here. The boy’s eyes, hollow and ancient, fixed on me. I remember 
the terror of it all, and I refused to let another soul endure such a fate. With a spectral 
gesture, he pointed into the distance, revealing a faint glimmer that could only be the parked 
vehicles of our camp. My eyes, wide as saucers, filled with a sudden, overwhelming surge of 
relief and exhilaration. I was no longer lost. My gaze followed the direction of his hand, 
and there threading through the sparse brush   was the familiar beaten path we had ascended. 
Now, he rasped, his voice dropping to a low, urgent murmur, “You must find your way back to 
the main trail. Once there, locate your truck. Get into the bed beneath the tarp and remain 
absolutely silent and hidden. Do not emerge until you hear your father’s voice calling specifically 
for you. Do you understand? I nodded, a simple affirmative motion, and then I bolted, a desperate 
surge of adrenaline propelling me towards the truck. The evening air was growing frigid, a sharp 
contrast to the desert home where I had not packed for such chill. Yet, a child’s unwavering faith 
in a parents foresight brought comfort. My dad, I was sure, had accounted for every contingency, 
a roaring fire, a cozy sleeping bag. These things were guarantees. I huddled beneath the canvas, 
a small, shivering bundle of anticipation, waiting for the familiar footsteps. And then 
they came, a flurry of hurried thuds, followed by the most welcome sound in the world, Mitchell. 
I cautiously peered from my hiding spot, and there he was, my dad, sprinting towards the truck. Our 
reunion was a raw tapestry of sorrow and relief. I braced myself for the inevitable lecture, the 
grounding, the stern words about my transgression. But to my six-year-old astonishment, there 
was no anger, no hint of a reprimand, only an emotion I hadn’t yet understood, a profound, 
almost shattering worry etched across his face. He held me tight, an embrace that spoke volumes 
more than any scolding ever could. I, a child, didn’t fully grasp the depth of his fear, but I 
recognized the stark, unfamiliar landscape of his expression, a look I had never witnessed before, 
nor would I ever forget. Clinging to his hand, I retraced our steps, this time adhering to the 
trail as if my very life depended on it. Every instinct screaming caution, we eventually reached 
a secluded al cove I’d never noticed. bathed in the comforting glow of a crackling campfire. The 
other children, their faces al light with relief, rushed to greet me, having been informed of my 
disappearance. Years melted into decades. Now, a man grown, I stood on the other side of the 
scouting tradition, leading a new generation of   wideeyed adventurers through the same wilderness. 
I was the scout master now, imparting the ancient wisdom of fire starting, basic first aid, and 
the myriad tricks of surviving in the wild. On one such expedition, sitting by a familiar fire 
with my father, now an old man, we spoke of that day. My own recollections of being lost had always 
been colored by a child’s limited perspective, a few hours of fright, the silly notion of becoming 
a mountain hermit. Any logical adult would have simply descended to the nearest road, sought help, 
found a phone. But I was a child, and such common sense was yet to be learned. My father, however, 
had a different story, one he finally shared, encapsulating the true terror of that afternoon 
from his vantage point. He explained how, as the group leader, he’d been at the front, assuming I 
was safely trailing with one of the older boys, who were ostensibly tasked with keeping an eye 
on me. A dangerous assumption, he now admitted, one never repeated. When they finally reached the 
designated campsite, and he turned to survey the group, my absence slammed into him with the force 
of a physical blow. Fear, sharp and icy, pierced him, his heart plummeting like a stone. Dusk was 
gathering, and his six-year-old son was gone, swallowed by the vast in different mountains. He 
recounted tearing back down the trail, a frantic search, until his eyes caught an anomaly, a piece 
of paper crudely pinned to a spiky bush just off the main path. The message scrolled upon it 
chilled him to the bone. I see you left your kid unattended. I guess you won’t want him that badly. 
I’ll take him off you. A primal, unbridled rage surged through him, fueling his desperate descent 
back down the trail. Driven by a frantic urgency, he continued his reckless sprint, oblivious to the 
treacherous terrain and the countless obstacles   that threatened to send him tumbling. With every 
sharp turn in the path, he half expected to see me, a small boy playfully engrossed in examining 
a bush or a curious stone. Yet with each corner, his hopeful image of me vanished, leaving only 
the stark reality of my absence, propelling him onward. He confessed he’d never felt such profound 
terror, convinced he had lost me to some insidious predator of the mountains, a direct consequence 
of his own negligence. Finally, he reached the desolate parking area where our vehicle stood, and 
a wave of crushing despair washed over him. I was truly gone, he believed. snatched away. He cried 
my name aloud, his voice raw with anguish as he ran back to the truck, preparing to barrel down 
the precarious mountain road, call the police, and demand an immediate evacuation. But then what 
he had mentally dismissed as another phantom after image materialized into the undeniable sight 
of my head, cautiously peeking out from the   bed of the truck. He later admitted that he never 
mentioned the peculiar note he’d found to anyone. He’d rationalized it as a childish prank, perhaps 
a time capsule or a staged scare orchestrated by one of the older boys. After all, I had clearly 
explained that I’d willingly ventured off the trail, found my own way back, and simply waited 
to be found, never hinting at another person’s presence. In the untamed, unforgiving landscape of 
those mountains, the notion of a malevolent figure sprinting about at impossible speeds, intent on 
snatching children, seemed utterly illogical. The strenuous ascent alone made such an act incredibly 
unlikely, if not entirely impossible. It was far more plausible, he thought, that it was a youthful 
stunt, a setup for a dramatic campfire tale. This belief remained unchallenged for decades 
until a vivid dream just the previous night shattered his long-held conviction. In that dream, 
he conversed with a young boy who claimed he too had been abducted from this very mountain range. 
Robert, the spectral boy’s voice resonated in the dream. I won’t lie to you. I thought your 
son was lost to him. I told him to stay quiet, to hide in the truck bed where he wouldn’t be 
seen. But the one who took me, he saw your boy climb in. He was about to pounce to dive into the 
back of that truck and seize him. If you hadn’t run as fast as you did, you made the right choice, 
running down that path with such speed.” My father then mentioned his emphasis on boys traveling 
in groups.” The boy in his dream replied that this was precisely why the other children were 
spared. They presented a less vulnerable target. He wished his own leaders had taught 
him the importance of staying together,   for he had been alone when he was taken. My dad 
recounted thanking the boy profusely in the dream, expressing his gratitude for protecting me from 
that sinister figure for as long as he had. The spectral boy replied, “Yes, this is the first time 
I’ve actually been able to save someone. I tried to help the others, but I couldn’t. Please just 
take care of your son for me, okay?” That night, after my father recounted his dream, and again, 
when I finally finished telling him the full   terrifying saga, we sat wideeyed, the air thick 
with unspoken wonder. My own convictions were solidified. I now firmly believe in the existence 
of bodyless entities who actively strive for good. They are not the malevolent, shadowy figures 
sensationalized in films. Rather, some are valiant souls, forever vigilant, battling unseen 
evils wherever they find them. And to you, whoever you were, my silent protector, I offer my profound 
thanks. Though these words may never physically reach you, perhaps the essence of my gratitude 
will resonate across the veil, a whisper in   the timeless currents. In a completely different 
chapter of my life, a long-held aspiration finally took root. The nomadic allure of car life. I’d 
spent countless hours immersed in YouTube videos, watching intrepid souls traverse the nation from 
the confines of their vehicles, and a yearning   for that freedom always simmered within me. For 
5 years, I’d felt tethered to Fort Lauderdale, convinced my destiny was fixed within its limits. 
Then came the pandemic. A surprising glance at my bank statement revealed a windfall. Thousands 
of dollars returned to me. Before I could truly process it, I was packing my essentials, my 
landlord graciously permitting me to abandon my furniture. Now I find myself cruising north on I 
95. A genuine laugh bubbling up from my chest. The sheer unreality of actually leaving washing over 
me. I’ve since mastered the intricacies of life on the road, becoming adept at stealth parking, 
finding discrete spots to rest without detection. While I haven’t ventured into full off-the-grid 
living just yet, the journey has just begun,   and it’s a profound sense of liberation. My 
journey into the world of vehicle-based living often brought me to places both breathtaking and 
unsettling. Having found my footing on the road, I eventually made my way to Lake Tahoe. 
Seeking a discrete spot for the night, I consulted a local, a man with a loyal canine 
companion, who directed me toward Hope Valley, a pristine expanse tucked even higher into 
the mountains. Reaching the remote local, I discovered a small, deserted parking area 
marking the entrance to a wildlife preserve, its gates clearly closed. “Perfect, I thought, 
and settled in.” As the sun dipped below the jagged peaks, plunging the valley into a profound 
darkness. The temperature plummeted. Soon I was enveloped in an impenetrable blackness. Visibility 
reduced to zero. Then the primeval chorus began. The long mournful howls of wolves echoing through 
the vast cold silence. This, I mused, was the authentic wilderness experience I craved. a 
thrilling, if slightly eerie, immersion in nature, far from the digital escapism of my former life. 
My gaze wandered to the overflowing garbage bins, a good 50 ft from my vehicle at the preserves 
edge, their presence now feeling less innocuous in the encroaching wild. Sleep eventually claimed 
me, but it was a fitful slumber. A sudden, jarring sound around 3:00 in the morning yanked me back to 
consciousness. The darkness outside was absolute, a suffocating blanket. Then, heavy, deliberate 
footsteps crunched right beside my car door. A primal dread seized me. Moments later, something 
scraped against the vehicle’s exterior. A sound that sent a jolt of pure terror through 
my core. Paralyzed with fear, I waited, every nerve screaming. Finally, I made a break for 
it, flung open the door, scrambled around the car, and dove into the driver’s seat. I didn’t stop 
until I descended the winding mountain road, finding solace and a semblance of safety 
in the prosaic glow of a motel parking lot,   where I slept soundly for the first time that 
night. My inaugural attempt at truly off-grid car camping had ended in a hasty retreat, a 
memory etched deeply into my experience. Later in that same nomadic chapter, another brief, 
chilling incident occurred near Mount Shasta. I decided to explore a trail, venturing perhaps 
70 yards into the dense woods before a deep, resonant growl stopped me cold. I’ve never run so 
fast in my life. A pure instinctual flight back to the perceived safety of my car. Despite these two 
unsettling encounters, the remainder of that trip, particularly the hiking in Montana, remains 
among the most rewarding outdoor experiences   of my life. Months later, my girlfriend invited me 
on a camping trip to Indian Boundary Campground in Tennessee’s Cherokee National Forest, a family 
affair. The initial days were idyllic hikes, esmores, and ghost stories around the crackling 
fire. But little did I know, I was about to step into a story of my own. Halfway through our stay, 
we decided to visit the local fish hatchery only to find the gates closed with signs announcing its 
closure due to CO. On the same weathered bulletin board, amidst the official notices was a strangely 
out ofplace and deeply unsettling image of fish, its face grotesqually bisected, exposing its 
skeletal structure. Below it, the single word look was emlazed in a strange, almost creepy 
pasta-like font. I dismissed it as a bizarre, perhaps childish attempt to unnerve tourists. With 
the hatchery closed, we pivoted to a new plan, heading to a beloved swimming hole my girlfriend’s 
grandmother frequented as a child. We arrived to a picturesque scene. A clear creek, a rope swing 
hanging from a sturdy tree on the bank. An old woman sat by the tree calmly smoking a cigarette, 
a large flat rock resting in her lap. As we approached, we greeted her and she returned our 
pleasantries with an almost unsettling amiability. It was then I noticed she was meticulously 
etching something onto the larger rock using   a smaller stone. After a while, she departed, 
retreating to her camper some 50 ft across the creek where she joined her husband. Both then sat 
in lawn chairs, their gazes fixed intently on the creek and on us. It felt as though they had been 
silently observing us from afar for a considerable time. I tried to brush it off. They were just 
harmless old people after all, if a little strange. Then my eyes drifted back to the rock. 
Etched into the surface of the large flat stone, a chilling mirror of the message at the hatchery, 
was the stark, undeniable word, look. The sight sent a visceral jolt through me, a primal alarm 
bell ringing deep within. Yet the rest of that trip unfolded without further incident, leaving 
that single unsettling discovery to fester in my memory. To this day, the entire experience remains 
an enigma, defying any rational explanation, a singular oddity in a life often spent outdoors. 
Sometime later, seeking the profound solitude the wilderness promised, I embarked on a backpacking 
trip into the Montana back country with two close friends. We deliberately chose a spot far from 
the beaten path, a good 5 mi from any paved road, and a challenging two-mile trek from the end 
of the dirt track. It was a place where human presence was a rarity, its wild beauty 
undisturbed by crowds. Our ideal haven for a night under the stars. We built a crackling 
fire, shared stories, and eventually retreated to the sanctuary of our tent, surrounded by the deep 
enveloping silence of the mountains. Not a soul, nor any recent trace of one, had we encountered 
since leaving civilization behind. Sleep, however, proved elusive for me. For what felt like a 
restless half hour, I lay awake, listening to the rhythmic breathing of my two friends. Then a 
faint sound like a hushed, garbled murmur, reached me from just outside the tent. It wasn’t distinct 
words, but more a slurred, drunken gibberish, as if someone were mumbling incoherently. My 
first thought was one of my buddies talking in their sleep, but a careful listen confirmed it was 
definitely coming from beyond our canvas shelter. I gently nudged the friend nearest to me awake. 
He stirred, grumbling softly, and in that instant, the strange muttering ceased. I shushed him, 
leaning in to whisper what I’d heard. He waited, his senses now heightened, and then it began 
again, closer this time, undeniably audible to both of us. The unnerving part was the absolute 
lack of any accompanying movement. No rustle of leaves, no snapping twig, just the disembodied 
sound. The decade that has passed since that night hasn’t dulled the eerie clarity of that voice in 
my mind. my friend. His face a mask of confusion and a hint of terror gave me a questioning look 
before gesturing towards the tent flap, indicating he intended to unzip it and investigate. As his 
hand reached for the zipper, a sudden colossal sound erupted from the opposite side of the tent 
where the murmuring had originally come from. It was a deafening gasp followed by a splash 
precisely like someone taking a massive breath before diving into a deep pool. We both froze, 
suspended in terror. Then my friend shoved his flashlight out through the opening and yelled, 
“Who’s out there?” The beam cut through the   inky blackness, revealing nothing but trees and 
shadows. We heard no further sound, no retreat, no rustle, nothing. By then, our other friend 
was awake, equally bewildered and terrified. We hastily explained the bizarre sequence of 
events, and all three of us shown our lights into the surrounding woods, searching every shadow, but 
found absolutely no trace of anything a miss. We remained on edge for a long while after, though 
our third friend eventually succumbed to sleep   again. The night yielded no more strange sounds, 
and come morning, there was not a single sign that anyone or anything had been near our campsite. 
The unexplained encounter cut our planned trip short. We packed up and headed back to a proper 
campground the following day. To this day, we remain utterly clueless as to what was outside 
our tent. While one might suggest an owl, a bat, or another nocturnal creature, I’ve spent 
countless nights in similar habitats and know   their sounds intimately. This was profoundly 
different. An unnatural symphony that defies any animal explanation I can conceive of, and 
the memory still sends shivers down my spine. Another childhood memory. This one from when I 
was about 10 concerns a day my friend and I were walking along a road near a river. We spotted a 
canoe overturned and half submerged. Having often waited in that fairly shallow river, we thought 
nothing of stepping in to write it. But as I braced myself to push, the riverbed beneath me 
simply gave way. I wasn’t falling into soft mud. It was as if a hidden pit had opened, sucking me 
down into a churning vortex. I tumbled helplessly, a ragd doll caught in an unseen current, only 
to be forcefully ejected some 20 ft downstream, gasping for air before being yanked back under 
again. This terrifying cycle repeated itself, a relentless, watery assault, as my friend 
desperately scrambled along the bank, shouting, trying to reach me. Luckily, the current 
would briefly release me to the surface   just long enough for a quick, desperate breath 
before dragging me back into its unseen depths. Finally, my friend managed to extend a long 
branch, and I clung to it with all my might, pulling myself, gasping and shivering, onto the 
safety of the bank. We didn’t dare approach the canoe again. I kept the incident to myself, 
fearing the inevitable lecture and grounding for being so reckless. A few days later, however, 
a chilling piece of news reached us. An elderly couple had tragically drowned while camping 
nearby. The river, that very stretch where I’d so carelessly attempted to write the submerged canoe, 
held a dark secret. Not long after my terrifying ordeal, news rippled through the community, an 
elderly couple camping just upstream, had met a tragic end. Their canoe had capsized, and the 
river’s merciless undertoe, the same unseen force that had relentlessly dragged me down, had claimed 
their lives. The chilling realization that I had narrowly escaped death while trying to retrieve 
the very vessel that had just killed two others   sent a cold shiver down my spine. This stark 
memory segways into a tale my own father often recounted from his youth. An equally unsettling 
experience he shared with my grandparents during   a camping trip near Lake Tahoe. From the moment 
they set up camp, an almost palpable sense of being watched clung to them. My grandpa, a man 
not easily swayed by irrational fears, described it as a profound unease, an inherent wrongness 
in the air. As dusk deepened into an inky night, they built a towering bonfire, its flames battling 
back the encroaching shadows. Once settled into their tents, a symphony of strange sounds began to 
drift through the wilderness, howls that resonated with an unnerving depth, far more guttural and 
primal than any wolf’s cry they’d ever heard. Grandpa, ever the protector, deemed it vital to 
keep the fire ablaze all night, staying awake, his senses on high alert, guarding his family from the 
unseen. It was in the pre-dawn stillness around 3:45 a.m. that he cautiously parted the tent flap. 
The sight that greeted him, he would later swear, was the most terrifying of his life. A colossal 
ebony silhouette, undeniably humanoid in form, was slowly circling their defiant fire. It was utterly 
featureless, save for a pair of immense glowing yellow eyes that seemed to bore into the very 
essence of the night. A putrid ancient stench, like something long dead and rotting for decades, 
hung heavy in the frigid air. The last thing Grandpa saw before retreating, part hammering, 
into the tense, fragile sanctuary, was the looming figure melting back into the treeine. And 
there, standing in silent vigil, were three more identical forms waiting. Grandpa reached for 
his loaded gun, a desperate measure against an unquantifiable threat. Nothing else stirred that 
night, but the following morning they packed their camp with frantic haste, abandoning their trip. 
To this day, the vivid imagery of that night still haunts my sleep. Years later, the wilderness 
continued its enigmatic dance around me. Two close friends, a married couple, and I were 
exploring my family’s expansive 170 acre property. It’s a heavily wooded landscape, a dense 
tapestry of pines and hardwoods crisscrossed by countless trails. Despite the encroaching 
darkness, my friends were eager for a night walk. Two of our neighbors dogs, a boisterous 
[ __ ] hound and a stately great Pyrenees, had appointed themselves our escorts. We headed 
south, then east towards a familiar camping spot. As we were settling in, the dogs, who had been 
trailing behind us on the path we’ just taken, suddenly shifted. They emerged from the woods to 
our left and stood rigid on the trail, their eyes fixed intently backward to the west. The great 
Pyrenees began a low, guttural growl, its body language unmistakably defensive. Even the usually 
jovial coonhound was visibly disturbed, his tail drooping, a palpable tension in his posture. An 
immediate unsettling certainty settled over me. It was an ominous sensation, a primal alarm bell that 
I’ve learned to heed without question, whether confronting a strange animal or a disquing human. 
“We need to get back to the house now,” I stated, the urgency in my voice, leaving no room for 
argument. As we retraced our steps westward along the trail, the dogs, sensing the unspoken command, 
had already vanished from our immediate vicinity, melting into the shadows. While walking, I 
glanced back and saw the wife friend, her gaze drawn inexplicably to the woods off the trail. 
She stumbled a few steps backward, her face a mask of shock. Her husband, sensing her distress, 
asked what was wrong. “I’ll tell you when we’re safely back,” she whispered. her voice strained. I 
don’t want to scare Derek. He gets spooked easily. This was the exact spot where the dogs had been 
growling earlier. Once we were safely inside, I pressed her for details. She explained that an 
inexplicable compulsion had made her look into the trees. Half hidden behind a thick trunk, something 
was watching her. She described it as pale, almost whitish, with an elongated oval-shaped 
head. It seemed to be crouching, its limbs unnaturally long and strikingly thin. She kept 
emphasizing its emaciated appearance, particularly its skeletal limbs. The creature’s expression, she 
recalled, was one of pure surprise, as if it had been caught off guard by our presence. While our 
family and friends frequently used these trails, nighttime walks were rare. What struck her most 
was its bizarre movement. It bobbed back and forth in a deeply unsettling manner, its head darting 
from behind the tree, then swaying its head and shoulders rhythmically as it continued to observe 
her. She insisted it didn’t seem aggressive. Rather, it appeared just as startled as she was. 
Later, I pulled up the infamous trail cam photo of the rake, a well-known image of a crypted, 
and her eyes widened in recognition. She nodded, confirming the similarity, though she was quick 
to point out that it wasn’t an exact match. The very next night, sitting on my back porch, a 
different kind of terror crept into the quiet   night. A profoundly eerie, exceptionally faint. 
Just as I was contemplating the elusive nature of such entities, a different kind of terror echoed 
from the depths of the forest one night. An   incredibly faint yet piercingly shrill scream. I 
can’t confirm if it was connected to the creature. my friend witnessed. But having resided in this 
county in North Alabama for the majority of my   life, I can attest I have never encountered 
anything remotely similar. While our region has been the backdrop for several perplexing 
incidents, this particular event remains singular   in its suggestion of an unknown vocal creature. 
A year or so ago, my life took a delightful turn with the arrival of an Alaskan malamute puppy. My 
heart swelled with anticipation for the adventures we’d share. endless hikes, starry nights camping, 
and cross-country journeys. As autumn deepened into Iowa’s biting cold, traditional camping 
seemed less appealing. My solution: researching cozy cabin rentals, I stumbled upon an absolute 
gem in Wisconsin via Airbnb, a fully appointed, secluded haven nestled deep within the woods. 
It boasted every comfort, a hot tub, internet, a pool table, and a welle equipped kitchen. The 
cabin was stunning and surprisingly affordable. My inaugural visit, a quick one night escape 
with just my dog, was pure bliss. We hiked, I cooked a delicious meal, and I slept soundly. 
Returning home refreshed, I regailed my friend Martha with tales of this idyllic retreat. Her 
enthusiasm was immediate. She was eager to join me on a future trip. We decided on a preh 
Halloween getaway. just Martha, my dog, and me. That evening was a whirlwind of fun. We shared 
drinks, cooked dinner, soaked in the hot tub, and capped it off with some spooky movies given the 
season. A few drinks in, standing in the kitchen, I distinctly recalled seeing Martha dash down the 
basement stairs, which opened directly off the kitchen. But then I glanced into the living room, 
and there she was, comfortably seated on the sofa, engrossed in the film. The discrepancy freaked me 
out for a moment, but my inebriated state allowed me to brush it off as a trick of the mind. We 
both eventually crashed, thoroughly exhausted, and the night passed without further incident. 
It was the morning that followed, however, that irrevocably transformed me into a staunch believer 
in the paranormal. Until then, I considered myself a skeptical observer of the supernatural. 
I’d had a few peculiar experiences certainly, but always managed to rationalize them away, 
leaving a lingering seed of doubt. This morning, however, offered no such easy explanations. Both 
Martha and I woke up with the classic postpart haze. After a light breakfast, we decided the 
hot tub was the perfect cure. I secured my dog in his crate and we headed outside. The scene 
was magical. It was Halloween and fat snowflakes were drifting down. We’d been relaxing in the 
tub for about 15 minutes when a sudden loud bang erupted from inside the cabin, instantly 
followed by my dog’s frantic barking. Jolted, we scrambled out of the hot tub and dashed inside, 
propelled by the biting cold and a growing sense of alarm. The moment we stepped into the kitchen, 
we froze. The entire kitchen was in disarray. Every cabinet door hung open. The refrigerator and 
top freezer doors swung wide and the bar stools lay half hap halfap half-hazardly overturned. 
Drawers were pulled out and pans had been flung from their shelves. Martha’s phone, which had 
been charging on the counter, now lay unplugged on the floor. I had no explanation that wasn’t 
paranormal. My dog, still safely in his crate, looked utterly terrified, but there was simply 
no way he, a mere puppy, could have caused such a mess. Besides, he was created when we went out. 
While the kitchen had been somewhat untidy from our festivities the previous night, it was nothing 
like the scene of absolute chaos we now witnessed. I knew Martha hadn’t done it. We had left the 
cabin together, and the idea of an intruder was absurd. We were in the remote wilderness in a 
snowstorm. We would have heard a vehicle approach the long driveway, which ran right alongside the 
hot tub, or detected footsteps in the fresh snow. There was simply no logical way to account for 
what had happened. Martha and I, now shaken but unified in our newfound belief, packed up 
and left shortly after. My dog, I’m convinced, witnessed something truly unsettling. Despite 
this jarring experience, I’ve actually returned to that same cabin multiple times since, 
and nothing untored has ever recurred. Perhaps the spirits of the place were merely 
stirred by the unique energies of Halloween, eager   to make their presence felt, if only for a night. 
My recent jarring encounter in that Wisconsin cabin had fully ignited my belief, transforming 
a lifelong skeptic into a convert. Curiously, despite its unsettling reputation, the cabin is a 
remarkably popular retreat, it’s completely booked until late September. I even noticed an open slot 
for Halloween night, which given everything feels almost like an invitation. Perhaps a return visit 
is in order. Not long before that transformative night, my journey had taken me to a series of 
random campsites across the country where I’d simply sleep in my car. One evening, I pulled into 
a spot near a dramatic gorge, the perfect vantage point for a sunrise hike. I drifted off quickly, 
only to be sharply roused by a suffocating wave of dread. My eyes snapped open, and there, pressed 
against my window, was a face. It was a man, undeniably Aboriginal Australian, adorned with 
traditional war paint, his gaze piercing mine. An electrifying jolt of anger, potent and directed, 
radiated from him. I instantly understood I was an intruder, profoundly unwelcome. The certainty 
of it was absolute, a visceral knowledge that transcended logic. Even now, his face is burned 
into my memory, vivid as the day itself. I heeded the silent warning, abandoning that campsite for 
another. The next morning, under the benign light of day, I returned to the gorge and found a 
historical marker. It chronicled a horrific massacre where white settlers had brutally 
trapped and slaughtered Aboriginal people within   the very chasm I had tried to sleep beside. The 
anger I’d felt, the profound sense of trespass, it all made chilling, tragic sense. That story 
reminds me of one my grandfather told about a hunting trip in the 1970s with a friend in the 
Pacific Northwest. This friend was a genuine recluse, living deep in the Cascade Mountains 
in a cabin miles from any road or electricity. The cabin itself was unique. Built on stilts on 
a steep incline, featuring a 10-ft high balcony with no ladder or stairs. My grandpa, a man 
I’ve always known to be grounded and truthful, swore his friend was incapable of dishonesty. One 
evening, after a day’s hunt, they were relaxing when his buddy suddenly grew serious. Sasquatches 
in the area, he warned, “Be careful venturing out after dark.” My grandpa chuckled, dismissing it as 
a tall tale, but the friend’s expression remained grim. He then fetched a bowl, filled it with 
fruit, bread, and jerky, and silently placed it on the edge of the high balcony. “It’ll be empty 
by morning,” he stated before heading to bed. “My grandpa,” sleeping on a cot by the balcony window 
in the single room cabin, awoke in the dead of night to a soft rustling outside. He peered out to 
find the bull gone, and then a fleeting image that remained with him forever. Four thick fingers, 
impossibly large, slowly releasing their grip from the balcony’s edge before retreating into the 
oppressive darkness. He never hunted in that area again. My own childhood unfolded within the walls 
of an old mountain cabin from the age of 6 until just before my 15th birthday. My mom, stepdad, and 
I shared the space, almost always accompanied by our Rottweiler, Kayla, who played a significant 
role in the events that followed. The cabin was built into the side of an incline with a clever 
bridge extending from the back of the top floor,   providing direct access to the outdoors. This 
bridge led directly to my first bedroom through a small balcony and a sliding glass door that 
unsettlingly lacked a curtain. At night, it was merely a vast expanse of impenetrable darkness 
beyond that glass, enough to unnerve any child. After a few years, my mom moved me to the warmer 
downstairs bedroom, closer to the hearth, a much appreciated birthday gift. This new room became my 
sanctuary for the remainder of my time there. And it was in this room that we welcomed Kayla into 
our family. My parents occasionally left me alone, sometimes until 8 or 9 in the evening while 
they ran errands or went shopping. Initially, I didn’t mind the solitude, but as time wore on, 
a chilling shift occurred. When I was by myself, an unsettling symphony began. Disembodied male 
and female voices would call or whisper my name. Phantom knocks would echo through the walls, 
and the unmistakable sounds of rustling and   footsteps would creep into the quiet, leaving 
me increasingly terrified to be alone. Kayla, our loyal Rottweiler, was another silent witness 
to the strange happenings. She’d often snap awake, her hackles raised, letting out low 
growls or sharp barks at thin air.   It’s important to remember we lived in a tiny 
mountain hamlet, so there was no traffic, no late night strollers to explain her agitation. 
I started keeping her by my side, convinced her presence offered some protection. Eventually, 
my mother decided to move me back to an upstairs room, this time at the front of the house, which 
also featured a small private balcony. It was around this period when I was on the cusp of 12 
or 13, that the unseen activity truly escalated. I recall a particular evening, absorbed in a book 
of spectral tales, a book I still possess as the sun dipped below the horizon. Suddenly, a man’s 
voice, clear and undeniably loud, called my name. Startled, I hurried downstairs, asking my parents 
if they’d summoned me. They hadn’t. My mother, though perplexed, had no explanation for the 
disembodied shout. During the summer months, I’d often pitch a tent near our cabin for solo 
camping expeditions. On one such night, I was engrossed in a game on my DS until the late hours, 
my lantern casting a soft glow. Drifting off with my sleeping bag, only half pulled up, I distinctly 
felt a wave of warmth pass through the tent just before sleep claimed me. The next morning, I woke 
to find myself fully cocooned in my sleeping bag, as if someone had meticulously tucked me in. 
My mother, who almost certainly would have been asleep herself, vehemently denied checking on me. 
And my lantern, which I was certain I’d left on, was off. Yet, to my surprise, it flickered 
back to life perfectly when I tried it again. My new upstairs room offered a direct line of 
sight down the hallway to the sliding glass door   I’d previously mentioned, the one leading to the 
back of the property. Usually, nothing specific caught my eye out there, but an almost oppressive 
sense of unease always emanated from that area. One evening, as twilight gathered, my parents 
called me for dinner. Descending the stairs, I caught a fleeting, terrifying glimpse. A woman 
in an immense black dress, her hand pressed against the glass. The chilling detail wasn’t 
her presence, but her face, or lack thereof. It was a skull, stark and terrifying. That night 
left an indelible mark on me, prompting me to insist Kayla’s sleep in my room. From then on, I’d 
regularly hear whispers and the distinct sound of footsteps pacing and muttering in the living room 
directly beneath me. My mother, residing in her downstairs bedroom off the very hallway that led 
to that living room, confirmed she heard them,   too. Not long before I eventually moved out of 
the cabin, for reasons unrelated to the haunting, I must clarify, I had left the curtain on my 
balcony door open, hoping to gaze at the moon and stars. I awoke to Kayla’s low growl. My eyes 
shot open, and there, on the balcony, just beyond the glass, floated a transparent hooded form. 
It bore a striking, almost uncanny resemblance to the famous brown lady photograph, yet it was 
distinctly hooded. I recognized it instantly, the same entity I’d glimpsed through the back door 
before. This was my final significant encounter before my departure, but the eerie whispers 
and the phantom footsteps from the downstairs   living room continued to plague the house for 
the remainder of my time there. To this day, my mother and I are in complete agreement. The 
house was unequivocally haunted. My stepfather, however, remains a steadfast skeptic, dismissing 
our claims. It’s worth adding another chilling memory from my earliest days in that cabin. I was 
just six when I first moved in. I remember opening the closet door in what would become my first 
upstairs bedroom and seeing something that seared   itself into my memory, a naked, shuddering female 
form curled into a fetal position. The terror was immediate and overwhelming. I slammed the closet 
shut and for the entirety of my time living there, never dared to open it again. The summer of 
2013 found me at 21, fresh off my junior year of college. It was the second week of August and 
a group of seven of us, four guys and three girls, embarked on an 8-day camping adventure in the 
White Mountains of New Hampshire. We chose a sprawling campground, yet it felt wonderfully 
isolated, as very few other campers were present. While a handful of sites near the entrance 
were occupied, we had specifically requested   and secured a spot in the furthest, most secluded 
back corner, ensuring our complete solitude. Our itinerary included a thrilling whitewater rafting 
excursion and towards the tail end of our trip, an ascent of Mount Washington. Our 8-day adventure 
in the White Mountains of New Hampshire was off to a magnificent start. Seven of us, four guys, three 
girls had claimed the most secluded corner of a vast campground, ensuring our own private slice 
of wilderness. Our agenda was ambitious. Conquer some challenging hikes, perhaps two or three, 
intersperse them with leisurely days by the lake, and of course, enjoy plenty of spirited evenings 
gathered around the campfire. The initial days were nothing short of perfect. Whitewater rafting 
had been an absolute thrill and every moment felt charged with the joy of shared experience. It 
was the third evening of our trip. A robust fire crackled, its warmth a welcome companion as 
we relaxed, drinks in hand, sharing laughter and stories. Around 9:30 p.m., a figure ambled past 
our sight. He was a disheveled man, perhaps in his mid-4s with wild, unckempt hair and clothes 
that looked perpetually on the verge of tearing. We gave him little thought, just another camper, 
we figured, taking a late night stroll. But then, roughly an hour and a half later, the same man 
reappeared, moving in the identical direction, though this time his gate was slower, almost a 
shuffle. We were a few drinks deeper by then, and I recall one of us shouting out a friendly 
greeting, but he simply ignored us, continuing   his strange, lumbering walk. It was odd, yes, but 
still we rationalized it as nothing more than an eccentric hiker enjoying the night air. By 1:30 or 
2:00 a.m., the fire was dimming, and we retreated to our tents. I usually find deep peace in falling 
asleep while camping, a quiet slumber unparalleled by any other. But this night, sleep eluded me. 
After tossing and turning for what felt like an eternity, I decided to step out for a moment. As 
I ventured into the woods, a faint glow caught my eye, maybe 50 to 70 yard ahead. It was like a weak 
flashlight beam flickering almost imperceptibly. A surge of curiosity compelled me to investigate. 
I slipped back into the tent and nudged one of my friends, still awake, whispering about the 
mysterious light. We cautiously emerged, but by then the light had vanished. Feeling a prickle of 
unease, I swept my own powerful flashlight through the trees, but saw nothing but shadows. Perhaps 
my eyes were playing tricks on me, I concluded, and headed back to bed, though the feeling 
of being watched lingered. Sometime later, a blood curdling scream tore through the 
night, shattering the stillness. It was Sarah, one of the girls in our group. I scrambled out of 
my tent, almost colliding with her as she stumbled back into our campsite, still screaming, utterly 
hysterical. She choked out that there had been a man standing perfectly still, like a statue, in 
the middle of the woods, barely 15 ft from her. Now, our entire group was awake. a chorus of 
panicked questions and exclamations erupting. “I tried desperately to calm Sarah, to piece 
together her fragmented account. “She’d gone to relieve herself,” she explained, and there he was, 
the same disheveled man from earlier, motionless, staring. “Panic, raw and unadulterated, seized us 
all.” The yelling and commotion were deafening, but even as my own heart pounded against my ribs, 
I knew we had to act. There was no discussion. We were getting out. We tore down our tents with 
frenzied haste, ripping poles from fabric, stuffing everything halfaphazardly into our 
cars. By 4:00 a.m., we were speeding away from the campground in two separate vehicles, desperate 
to put distance between us and whatever horror had lurked in those woods. We drove aimlessly for 
over an hour, the adrenaline slowly receding, replaced by a chilling uncertainty. Around 5:30 
a.m. we spotted a small open diner, a beacon of normaly in the pre-dawn gloom. Inside, over 
steaming coffee and greasy breakfast, we aired our theories. Some suggested he was merely a homeless 
man, surprised by Sarah’s presence. Others, particularly the girls, whispered of purposeful 
stalking. Regardless, one thing was clear. None of us were comfortable returning to that campground. 
The next morning, two of the guys and I headed to the campground’s front desk. We recounted 
our terrifying experience. To our surprise, the staff seemed to genuinely believe us, 
confirming there were no other registered   campers fitting the man’s description. They 
were incredibly sympathetic, even offering a full refund for the remainder of our stay, 
an unexpected gesture that spoke volumes. Despite the unsettling encounter, we weren’t about 
to let one bizarre incident ruin our entire trip. We found another campground a good distance away. 
Eager to continue our adventure. 2 days later, feeling refreshed and ready, we were up at dawn, 
arriving at Mount Washington by 7:30 a.m. to begin our ascent. We were a little over halfway up. 
Our arduous ascent up the mountain reached its unsettling peak when halfway to the summit, we 
encountered the very same man now descending. The transformation was startling. His wild hair was 
neatly combed, his clothes clean and appropriate for hiking. He no longer resembled the disheveled 
figure from the campground. We froze, a collective gasp escaping some of us as he simply ambled past, 
a broad, unnerving grin plastered across his face. The presence of other hikers nearby was a small 
comfort, making any direct confrontation unlikely. Given his opposite direction of travel, we decided 
to push on, hoping this bizarre encounter would be our last. We completed our hike, and thankfully, 
he was nowhere to be seen again. Still, the unnerving repetition cut our trip short by 
several days. Looking back, we all agree we were almost certainly being stalked. Why would a man 
who appeared homeless near our camp days earlier suddenly materialize on Mount Washington, looking 
so impeccably put together? It remains a truly bizarre and deeply unsettling memory. That summer 
at 27, I found myself working as a camp staffer for the Boy Scouts deep within the remote forested 
reaches of Northern California. Black bears were a common sight in this wilderness, typically shy 
and easily deterred. However, with hundreds of Boy Scouts arriving weekly, spread across numerous 
campsites, it was inevitable that some would disregard the rules, stashing forbidden snacks 
like candy bars in their pockets, essentially turning themselves into tempting prepackaged meals 
for a hungry bear. A little secret I learned, black bears have an insatiable love for Reese’s 
Peanut Butter Cups. As part of my duties, I was often assigned bear watch. This involved 
patrolling the entire camp, rifle in hand, making my presence known to keep any curious 
earth signs at bay. One particular night, however, was different. An unusual stillness had 
settled over the forest, a quiet that felt less serene and more ominous. I remember finding it 
profoundly unsettling. My patrol had just taken me to the most remote campsite, a good mile 
and a half from the main base. While walking along the trail that skirted the lake, I paused, 
relieved myself, and lit a joint I’d saved for such solitary moments. Humans possess an innate 
primal intuition for survival, a gut feeling we ought to always trust. That night, every fiber of 
my being screamed that something was a miss. The silence wasn’t just unusual, it was suffocating. 
An undeniable sensation of being watched, of not being alone, prickled at my skin. My hand trembled 
as I took a few nervous drags from my joint before extinguishing it. My senses now hyper alert to the 
disquing atmosphere. I’d faced down bears, been tracked by a mountain lion, and even inadvertently 
slept too close to a coyote den, but this was an entirely different kind of dread. The overwhelming 
odor that now assailed me was not that of any animal I recognized. It was sour yet musky, a 
truly indescribable and unforgettable stench. As I reached for my flashlight, considering 
whether to ready my rifle, a colossal boom   reverberated through the ground. Something 
immense had crashed from the trees above, the sheer force of its impact nearly sending me 
sprawling. My flashlight clattered to the earth as I heard a massive, heavy form thundering away into 
the treeline, ascending the hill with incredible speed. My first thought, a desperate attempt 
at rationalization, was that it must have been the largest bear I had ever encountered. Black 
bears, after all, can be easily spooked. For a fleeting moment, I almost felt lucky. But as I lay 
there, hyperventilating, shaking uncontrollably, a more terrifying thought began to take hold. The 
sound of its retreat wasn’t the lumbering gate of a fleeing bear. It sounded bipedal. It sounded 
almost human. Bracing myself, I struggled to my feet, rifle now clutched tightly. I disengaged 
the safety and fired a shot into the air, aiming towards the lake. The crack of the rifle 
shattered the night, rousing numerous campers and scout masters from their sleep. I stood there 
utterly alone in the chilling silence that followed for a long 10 minutes before the camp 
leader and other staff members finally arrived. As the camp leader and other staff finally converged, 
their flashlights piercing the inky blackness, I directed their beams to the sight of the impact. 
What we found was astounding. A 20-ft high branch had been brutally ripped from its perch, its 
jagged end pointing to the crushed earth below. Several smaller trees in the immediate vicinity, 
those reaching 13 ft, were not merely bent, but utterly flattened, almost parallel to the 
ground. It was a scene of unbridled power, a testament to a force none of us could reconcile 
with any known animal. Bears, even the largest, don’t descend from such heights with that kind 
of destructive force, nor do they leave such a   trail of twisted timber in their wake. The other 
campers, roused by my frantic shot, shuffled in, seeking comfort in numbers. Most, perhaps out of 
a desperate need to rationalize the inexplicable, insisted it must have been a bear, albeit an 
unusually large one. But I knew better. No bear, even on its hind legs, stands 13 ft tall. And 
no bear, by any stretch of the imagination, can sprint 12 yds uphill on two legs with such speed 
and grace. The thought, unspoken but palpable, hung in the frigid air. It had to be a Sasquatch. 
There was no other explanation for the bipeedal retreat, the sheer scale of the damage, and 
the profound musky stench. Whatever it was, beast or man, it was a colossal entity, and I 
was profoundly grateful it had chosen flight over confrontation. Had it advanced, I wouldn’t 
have stood a chance. A couple of years later, a different kind of mystery unfolded during a late 
December evening. My boyfriend and I were enjoying a quad ride through our winterized campground. A 
place usually bustling with summer activity, but now hushed and still under a blanket of snow. The 
woods, a significant distance from the main camp, felt even more isolated, the crisp air carrying 
sound in an unnervingly clear way. I’d always felt a prickle of unease in these nocturnal woods, 
a feeling my boyfriend playfully dismissed as   paranoia, attributing it to my childhood diet of 
creepy pasta. But armed with our quad, I usually felt a fleeting sense of security. We could always 
make a quick escape if needed. We were drifting along, enjoying the cold, exhilarating ride, when 
my boyfriend abruptly brought the quad to a halt. The sudden silence, broken only by the hum of the 
cooling engine, amplified the eerie feeling that had already begun to creep over me. I asked him 
why we’d stopped, and he mumbled something about a dropped glove, bending over to retrieve it. 
My gaze instinctively swept the surroundings, a habit born of my inherent caution. To my 
left, I noticed a slender brown tree. Then my eyes shifted to the right, and there it was, 
something much taller, its form pale against the deepening twilight. It wasn’t a tree. My blood ran 
cold. I immediately tore my eyes away, overwhelmed by a sudden, intense fear. Summoning what little 
courage I had, I forced myself to glance back. It seemed closer now. Without my glasses, I tried 
to rationalize it, mentally willing it to be just another odd-shaped tree. But before I could 
voice my faltering reassurances to my boyfriend, he was done, and we shot off into the night. 
I buried my face into the back of his jacket, too terrified to risk another look, the unsettling 
sensation of being watched clinging to me like frost. I asked if we could head back to camp, 
figning coldness, and he readily agreed. I decided against telling him what I’d seen. He would either 
insist on returning to investigate or worse, dismiss my fears as pure paranoia. Neither 
option appealed to me. The next morning, armed with the harsh light of day, I convinced 
him to return to that spot. I fully expected to discover a previously unnoticed peculiar tree. 
But when we arrived, there was nothing. No tall, pale shape next to the brown tree, nothing but 
empty forest. My stomach dropped. That’s when I finally confessed what I had witnessed the night 
before. He gently chided me for not speaking up sooner, and he was right. I should have, but 
fear had truly silenced me. We still visit the area occasionally, though our work schedules keep 
us from it more often now. I’ve never experienced anything similar since, nor have I ever again seen 
that strange, pale form. Before I was a month shy of my 12th birthday, I lived in Pennsylvania. I 
remember that precise time frame because hunting, a passion I eagerly anticipated, was permitted 
only from age 12. Our move to Florida eventually meant I could pursue that same pastime down here, 
which was a consolation. Childhood was spent not in suburban culde-sacs, but on sprawling 
acres, a stones throw from a dusty road   bearing a nonsensical number. Our kingdom was 
rugged terrain centered around a decrepit cabin perched at top a winding path beyond a field of 
charred remnants. It was bare bones, an outhouse, no electricity. But to us, it was a fortress, the 
prime arena for epic Nerf skirmishes and twilight games of manhunt. One particular evening, a mly 
crew of friends and cousins, initially numbering a baker’s dozen, converged on our rustic stronghold. 
As dusk bled into night, our ranks thinned to 10, setting the stage for a tense game of five on 
five manhunt played under the cloak of deepening   shadows. Around 11 p.m., deep into a game, 
two other swooted friends, Francis and Lewis, remained with me. We were the last hope for our 
team, outnumbered and outmaneuvered. Francis was soon captured, leaving Lewis and me isolated 100 
yards from the opposing team who now held three of our players. As they closed in, taunting us 
about cheating, Lewis and I exchanged bewildered glances. Our hunting grounds were defined by two 
heavily wooded sections. While chasing one of their players, I glimpsed Lewis ahead, and beyond 
him, a figure. Assuming it was an opponent waiting to ambush us, I veered sharply behind Lewis, 
hoping to outflank them. But as I emerged from behind him, expecting to pounce, the space where 
the figure should have been was empty. Utterly, inexplicably empty. No person, no tree, no phantom 
scarecrow. It vanished. I rationalized it then as a clever trick, a hidden player messing 
with us. The game eventually fizzled out, leaving Louiswis and me as the lone survivors 
against their four. Back at the cabin, hot dogs and marshmallows sizzled over the crackling fire. 
We were a group of roughly 10 to 13year-olds, save for one older cousin who might have been 
50. Soda flowed freely. Had we been older and the beverage stronger, I might have dismissed 
the subsequent events as a hazy, alcohol-fueled illusion. As we huddled around the fire, 10 pairs 
of eyes fixed on the flickering flames, a sudden movement caught our collective attention. From the 
distant gloom, ascending the winding path, a lone figure became faintly discernible. At least four 
of us saw it. We assumed it was a late arrival, or perhaps one of the earlier departures 
returning. Half an hour later, with no one having emerged from the darkness, a chill began to 
replace our casual curiosity. We ventured out to investigate, but the path was deserted. Being the 
intrepid, if not entirely sensible youths we were, we decided to press further. It was past midnight, 
and a strange game of hideand seek had begun with an unseen player. We walked to the path leading 
down the hill. My friend’s house, a distant beacon of light. No one was between us and them. Then, in 
an unexpected burst, someone or something darted from the woods directly in front of us, startling 
everyone. After a moment of panicked regrouping, we returned to the cabin only to spot another 
figure. This one at the very edge of the expansive clearing. Three of us wielding flashlights 
attempted to pin the elusive form in our beams, but the distance was too great. As soon as the 
light touched it, the silhouette melted seamlessly back into the oppressive embrace of the forest. 
The escalating terror was undeniable. six of our number, overwhelmed by a wave of palpable fear, 
swiftly decided to abandon the wilderness for the perceived safety of my friend’s house. Reasoning 
that an ax murderer from hell would be less likely to pursue a larger group, they took the bulk of 
our flashlights, leaving just four of us, Lewis, Francis, his cousin Charlie, and myself, committed 
to staying and uncovering the identity of our shadowy observer. We had a strong suspicion. 
Lewis’s uncle Josh, barely 10 years his senior, was notorious for his mischievous pranks. 
We knew his cabin was less than a mile away, as our extended family owned a significant portion 
of the surrounding land. With me wielding the sole remaining flashlight, the four of us ventured 
across the expansive clearing. We had covered about 40 ft when, from the deep shadows at 
the edge of the woods, we heard it, a subtle stirring in the undergrowth. Not heavy footsteps, 
but a careful, deliberate movement, as if someone was trying to navigate the fallen sticks and 
leaves with minimal noise. It solidified our conviction. It had to be Uncle Josh. We split up, 
Francis and Charlie remaining in the clearing, their eyes straining to pierce the darkness. 
Lewis and I, meanwhile, slipped into the woods, intending to flush out our supposed prankster. 
We pushed deeper, navigating the dense foliage, eventually finding ourselves perhaps 50 ft in, 
much further than we had anticipated. It was then, amidst the rustling leaves and creaking branches, 
that a low, guttural from reached our ears. This was one of those moments that instantly stripped 
away any semblance of bravado. Lewis and I exchanged wide-eyed glances, silently, confirming 
that the unsettling rumble had not originated from either of us. We froze, rooted to the spot. I 
swung my flashlight in the direction of the sound, away from the distant fire and the clearing, but 
the beam revealed nothing but empty space. To this day, it remains one of the most eerie, unnatural 
noises I’ve ever encountered, like a distorted sound effect from a horror movie, but undeniably 
real. We lingered in the woods for another half hour, never daring to venture further, searching 
the general area, but found no trace of anything. It was now past 2:00 a.m. Then a new sound, a 
faint rustle, reached us from the very edge of the clearing. We both instinctively spun around. 
I expected to see Francis and Charlie, impatient and curious about our prolonged absence. Instead, 
I saw a solitary figure partially concealed behind a tree, its silhouette eerily distinct against 
the faint light from the distant campfire. Never before had I felt such a profound visceral 
reluctance to shine my flashlight on something. In the past, if darkness shrouded an unknown, 
my instinct was to illuminate it, to identify the source of my fear. But this time, something 
primal urged me to keep it shrouded. Beyond the shadowy form, I could faintly discern Francis 
and Charlie still milling around the fire, their presence confirming the unsettling truth. This 
was not Uncle Josh. A horrifying certainty settled over me. I didn’t want to see what it was, and I 
desperately wanted to get away. A primal chill, a shiver of pure dread ran down my spine, raising 
the hairs on my neck. Lewis must have felt it, too, for he slowly, cautiously, began to back 
further into the woods. We moved in a wide, arcing path, meticulously circling the shadowy figure 
until we finally emerged back into the clearing. We quickly rounded up Francis and Charlie and 
without another word began our hurried trek back to Louiswis’s place. We were barely a h 100red 
yard from the cabin when the resounding slam of its front door echoed through the night. That 
was all the confirmation we needed. We bolted, sprinting down the hill. When we finally reached 
Louiswis’s house at the bottom of the incline, breathless and trembling, we huddled together, 
debating our next steps. Should we call 911? Was it a trespasser or merely a family member still 
playing an elaborate prank? We decided to inform Louiswis’s parents, anticipating their less than 
thrilled reaction to being woken at 3:00 a.m. by a disheveled, panicked gaggle of pre-teens. It was 
then that we learned the sobering truth. Lewis’s grandfather had suffered a heart attack around 10 
p.m. This was 1,998. None of us had cell phones, and the only person who had been notified 
was Lewis’s 19-year-old step- cousin,   a distant relative whose exact familial link I 
never quite understood. He, having been left in charge of the younger kids, had proceeded to 
drink himself to near blackout. The next day, he received a stern reprimand from virtually 
every adult present, confirming that Uncle Josh, and indeed every other potential family prankster, 
had been nowhere near our cabin that night. The unsettling figure, the strange noises, the slammed 
door, it all remained an inexplicable, terrifying mystery. The immediate relief of confirming it 
wasn’t Uncle Josh quickly gave way to a fresh wave of dread. Was it a trespasser? Or worse, had 
the unsettling presence from the woods followed us back? The thought of calling Lewis’s parents was 
fleeting, quickly dismissed when we considered the unlikelihood of finding them at home, knowing they 
were almost certainly at the hospital with the   family patriarch, who had suffered a mild coronary 
around 4:00 a.m. Sleep was a laughable prospect. Instead, we huddled together, eyes glued to the 
base of the hill, anticipating the reappearance of the shadowy figure. Less than 10 minutes 
later, a faint scuffling sound reached my ears, seemingly from upstairs. My blood ran cold. 
Lewis’s house had no upstairs. Whatever or whoever it was, was on the roof. Lewis, with a 
desperate flick of bravado, grabbed a plet gun, a comically feudal gesture against an unknown 
menace, and we, in our youthful recklessness, ventured outside. We aimed every flashlight 
upward, piercing the inky blackness. A stark, pitch black silhouette, unmistakably humanoid, 
stood perched precariously on the highest point of Louiswis’s vaulted roof. With a sudden, explosive 
motion, it launched itself from the far side of the house, disappearing into the darkness. 
The jump was audacious, easily a 25- ft drop. We watched, transfixed as it sprinted from the 
hill, a blur of speed, heading towards the creek, a 10-ft wide ribbon of water perhaps 2 ft deep. 
We gave chase, fueled by a mixture of terror and morbid curiosity. It was immediately clear that we 
were outmatched. The creature’s speed was inhuman. As it reached the creek’s edge, it paused, turning 
its featureless head to gaze back at us. That low guttural rumbling sound, a noise that vibrated 
in our chests, returned. Then, with an effortless bound, it cleared the creek and vanished into the 
deeper woods. The next day, shaken, we recounted the night’s events to Louiswis’s parents. Their 
faces pald as they delivered another chilling piece of news. The cabin we’d stayed in the 
previous night was being torn down. Earlier that very morning, presumably after we’d left, a cow 
had been found inside, dismembered. While panthers were not unheard of in that part of the property, 
and cows often roamed freely, they typically avoided human habitation. Bears, too, were a 
possibility, but the sheer brutality and precision of the attack, coupled with our encounter, painted 
a far more sinister picture. We never ventured up that hill at night again, and we never saw 
that thing. It might sound like a trifle, a youthful exaggeration, but for 11-year-old me, it 
solidified a new, terrifying face for fear. Years later, my life took me far from those Pennsylvania 
woods. My then husband and I embarked on a road trip to Arizona for our honeymoon with plans to 
stop in Roswell, New Mexico on our return journey. We decided to camp at a state park about half an 
hour outside the famed town. It was around 1:00 a.m. when we finally pulled into the campsite, 
exhausted. As my husband began filling out the camp registration, another car materialized out of 
the darkness. From the passenger seat, I watched intrigued as my husband greeted two men who 
emerged from the vehicle. They chatted briefly, and when he returned to our car, he assured me 
they seemed friendly enough, adding that they   had a dog with them. We then spent a frustrating 
period navigating the dark campsite, searching for a suitable spot to pitch our tent. Many spaces 
were already occupied, and the dense shadows made it difficult to discern where we were allowed to 
settle. Eventually, we found a relatively secluded area with only one other tent visible nearby. The 
two men from the other car drove off, seemingly choosing a more crowded section of the campground, 
and soon vanished from our sight. Groggily, we managed to erect our tent and crawl inside, 
eager for sleep. But just as we were drifting off, a peculiar, repetitive croaking sound began. We 
lay awake, whispering nervously to each other about the noise, its unsettling rhythm accompanied 
by what sounded like faint movement. We couldn’t quite identify its source or nature. Then the 
croaking stopped, replaced by a distinct snarling. I exchanged a quick wide-eyed glance with my 
husband, and we fell silent, straining to listen. It sounded like a vicious animal fight echoing 
from somewhere else in the campsite. Snarls, growls, and then a piercing yelp. Then, the 
human element entered the terrifying symphony. A sound like a desperate nightmare level whale tore 
through the night, followed by men yelling at each other, their voices barely audible, but undeniably 
hostile. More crying and wailing commenced. My husband and I looked at each other, a shared, 
chilling thought forming in our minds. Someone   was being attacked by an animal. My husband, 
who possessed a carry permit, had his gun with him. I gripped his arm, my voice urgent. We need 
to make sure those people are okay. Adrenaline courarssing through us, we scrambled into the car 
and drove towards the source of the commotion,   guided by the flickering lights we now saw. 
We soon identified a camper and a car. The car belonged to the two men we’d met earlier. As 
we pulled closer, one man sat in their car with his dog while the other was frantically tearing 
down their tent. Then, a figure walked directly across the path of our headlights, carrying a 
lifeless canine. The muffled sobs of a woman reached my ears from somewhere out of sight. My 
husband approached the driver, whose entire frame trembled, and inquired if they were all right. 
The man could only manage incoherent mumbles, too shaken to properly respond. My gaze drifted 
back to the figure carrying the deceased dog, who now seemed to be turning his attention toward us. 
A sharp elbow to my husband’s ribs communicated my urgent message. We needed to leave immediately. We 
sped back to our designated spot, exiting the car just in time to witness a vehicle tearing out of 
the campground at a reckless pace. It was the two men, their remaining dog, presumably with them, 
making a hasty retreat. Barely 3 minutes later, another truck roared past in the same direction, 
the distraught owner of the dead dog. My husband and I exchanged a silent understanding. We wanted 
no part in whatever violent drama was unfolding. We shoved our tent, sleeping bag still inside, 
into the car and drove straight to a Walmart in Roswell. Night in Roswell, New Mexico, carries 
its own unique, eerie atmosphere. But suffice it to say, sleep was a luxury we couldn’t 
afford that night. Our best guess was a brutal dog fight had claimed the smaller dog’s life, 
leaving its owner consumed by a vengeful rage. The bizarre croaking sound remained a mystery, 
though we vaguely speculated it might have been   a bird. Still, a chill lingered. Years earlier, 
at the age of 14, my friend and I devoted our summers to fishing. Nearly every day, we trek 
an hour or more through dense woods and across marshy bogs to a series of intertwined rivers 
we affectionately called the Steadfast. These waterways eventually emptied into a vast lake. 
On what would become our final excursion there, we were following one of the narrow rivers, 
perhaps 5 ft wide, a simple jump for a couple of teenagers. We stumbled upon a considerable 
heap of animal bones, a disquing sight that briefly gave us pause. We tried to rationalize it. 
Perhaps a hunter had field-dressed their kill. As we approached the riverbank, a shocking discovery 
greeted us. Right in the center of the riverbed, clear as day, was an enormous footprint. It was 
undeniably a left foot with clearly defined toes, but only one. Magnified by the water, its sheer 
size was startling. I called out to my friend, telling him to look. But as his name left my 
lips, a deep rumble echoed, and the trees on the opposite bank began to violently shake. I turned 
to my friend, but all I saw was the cloud of dust he was kicking up as he bolted. I didn’t hesitate. 
I followed, a primal fear spurring me on. We never returned to those rivers, and though we recounted 
our story, no one ever believed us. A few winters ago, during a road trip through West Virginia with 
some friends, we decided to camp at top Hawksville Mountain. This was despite clear warnings that the 
small stone shelter at the summit was strictly off limits for overnight stays. The park even went so 
far as to cement the fireplace to deter campers. The evening started pleasantly enough. The 
crisp night air and clear skies, perfect for   long exposure photography of the stars. But as 
the wind picked up and the temperature plummeted, we retreated to the shelter, preparing for bed. 
I can’t recall if we were already awake or if the sound jolted us from sleep. But what followed 
was unlike anything I had ever heard. Decades have passed, making it difficult to describe precisely, 
but the closest comparison I can conjure is a fusion of indigenous throat singing or a digery 
do interwoven with the rhythmic thrming of large drum-like beats. It was deeply rhythmic, intensely 
primal, and utterly terrifying. For those familiar with Hawkville, you’ll know there’s a substantial 
cliff directly facing the shelter, while dense trees encompass the rear. The sound emanated from 
over that cliff, seemingly from the valley below, a place where no hiker would possibly be, 
especially past midnight in absolute darkness. It’s challenging to convey the sheer terror this 
noise evoked. It was haunting, a sound that seemed to vibrate directly through bone. Half our group, 
gripped by panic, wanted to abandon everything and sprint the mileong trail back to the car. The 
other half was too paralyzed by fear to move. The unearly concert continued for what felt like 
endless hours. I eventually drifted into a fitful sleep after 2 or 3. Nothing outwardly strange 
occurred the next morning, but the experience left us all profoundly haunted. While I typically 
maintain a skeptical stance on the supernatural, that night undeniably shifted my perspective. 
It’s easy in hindsight to downplay the incident, but I and every one of us present remember being 
truly terrified by whatever was creating that dreadful sound. It couldn’t have been the 
wind, for once it ceased. Once it ceased, the oppressive silence that followed felt 
far more chilling than the noise itself.   Decades have passed making it challenging 
to articulate the precise nature of that sound. But the closest comparison I can draw is 
a fusion of primal indigenous throat singing or a digery do interwoven with the rhythmic thrming of 
immense drumlike beats. It was a deeply rhythmic, intensely primal and utterly terrifying symphony. 
To this day, I can’t definitively explain what happened on Hawkville, though I returned once 
overnight with nothing further occurring. I often wonder if other campers who have braved that 
summit have encountered a similar unearly event. A completely different kind of wilderness challenge 
presented itself when I planned a trip to a remote   cabin owned by my friend’s cousin. This wasn’t a 
place you could simply drive to. It was nestled deep within the wilderness, requiring a solid 
3 to 4 day hike from the nearest parking area. Due to work commitments, I couldn’t join my 
friends for the initial trek, meaning I’d have   to make my way up alone a day later. The thought 
of a night of solo camping held an intriguing appeal. I’d never done it before and was eager for 
the experience, despite the fact that the latter portion of the trail was notoriously dangerous 
to navigate after dark, especially for someone   unfamiliar with its treacherous twists. The sun 
was already dipping below the horizon when I found myself deep within the woods, far from any 
signs of civilization. I quickly set up my small oneperson tent in a secluded clearing, perhaps 40 
ft across, and coaxed a campfire into life. The evening settled into a comfortable routine of solo 
camping, cooking hot dogs on a stick, savoring esmores, and simply enjoying the quiet. It was 
mid-autumn, so the days were short and darkness fell swiftly. I probably stayed up for a good 2 or 
3 hours after twilight, and throughout that time, a persistent feeling nodded at me. I kept sensing 
movement at the very edge of the clearing, just beyond the reach of my fire light. At 
first, I dismissed it as the usual nocturnal activities of forest animals. But as the hours 
wore on, I realized the sounds were distinct, almost deliberate. Whatever it was, it wasn’t 
randomly foraging. It was circling my camp over and over again. Once I tuned into it, I 
estimated it made four or five complete laps before I decided I couldn’t ignore it anymore. 
I stood up, intending to investigate, and just as I did, the subtle sounds of movement abruptly 
ceased. I strained my ears and thought I heard a faint rustling receding deeper into the woods. I 
shrugged it off, rationalizing it as a curious fox or another small creature that had been startled 
by my sudden rise. Deciding it was time to turn in, I doused the campfire, slipped into my tent, 
and began to drift into that peculiar half-sleep, half awake state. In this liinal space, I often 
hear odd things, so when a faint voice reached me from just outside the tent, I initially didn’t 
give it much thought. But then something shifted. The voice intensified just above a whisper and 
jolted me fully awake. It was real, undeniably real, and it was right outside my tent. I couldn’t 
tell if it was speaking another language or if the English words were so distorted, so unnatural 
that I simply couldn’t comprehend them. I lay there for what felt like an eternity, 
listening, waiting, paralyzed by a creeping dread. There was just enough moonlight filtering through 
the trees to faintly illuminate the walls of my   tent. And in that dim light, I saw it. A hand, 
its fingers pressed firmly against the canvas right near my foot. A primal scream caught in my 
throat, and I shot upright. Whatever was out there immediately tore away, a frantic crashing sound 
echoing through the woods as it sprinted into the darkness. I scrambled out of my tent, flashlight 
beam cutting frantically through the night, but saw nothing. I half expected to find a bloody 
handprint on the canvas, but there was nothing. No trace at all. I didn’t sleep another wink that 
night, and the moment the first sliver of dawn appeared, I packed up camp in a blur of motion 
and practically ran the rest of the way to the   cabin. To this day, the only person I’ve ever 
told about that solo camping experience was my boyfriend at the time. This is the very first 
time I’m sharing it publicly. That experience, unsettling as it was, pald in comparison to what 
awaited me at Skull Valley Primitive Campground in Utah. It absolutely terrified me and to this day 
has effectively ruined camping for me, perhaps for good. I’d love to hear if anyone out there has 
experienced similar events or has any insights. The summer before last, I embarked on a grand road 
trip, traveling from my home in Colorado all the way to the West Coast and up into Canada, with 
my ultimate destination being British Columbia,   where I have family. To stick to my budget, 
I meticulously mapped out a series of free campgrounds rather than opting for hotels, 
eager to embrace the open road and the outdoors. My boyfriend at the time was also on his own 
journey and we planned to meet up in San Francisco before continuing north to Seattle together. I 
was tackling the first leg of the trip with just my loyal dog and my initial planned campsite was 
a place called Skull Valley Primitive in Utah, managed by the Bureau of Land Management. I 
found the site without any difficulty. The camping spots were nestled up a dirt hill. My 
vehicle, illquipped for rugged terrain, settled into the first accessible spot I could find. It 
was scorching hot, and after setting up my tent, my poor dog Teddy needed a cool towel draped over 
him to find any relief from the oppressive heat. Although the campground boasted numerous sights, 
only a handful were occupied. I’d passed two RVs parked far in the distance, confirming I was the 
sole tent dweller. Deciding to stretch my legs before twilight, I changed into my hiking boots. 
Adjacent to the campground, imposing mountains rose abruptly from the flat ground, their faces 
scarred with what appeared to be ancient cave   dwellings. Intrigued, Teddy and I set off towards 
them. Our path was soon blocked by a barbed wire fence, but I ducked under it without a second 
thought, convinced it wouldn’t be an issue. Barely a few yards past the barrier, I stopped 
dead, a shiver running down my spine. From the direction of those enigmatic caves, an utterly 
eerie sound drifted on the still air. It was a peculiar cacophony, best described as dozens of 
human voices attempting to mimic the mournful, drawn out howls of a wolf pack emanating 
unmistakably from deep within the mountainside. Teddy, as unnerved as I was, bolted back towards 
our campsite. I turned to follow the unsettling chorus continuing its haunting melody until I was 
well within the camp’s perceived safety. The sun was a sliver above the horizon when I decided 
to let Teddy out for one last bathroom break, unwilling to wander in the deepening gloom. Teddy, 
a creature of unwavering loyalty, never required a leash, remaining always within a few feet of me. 
I zipped up the tent, walked a short distance from our sight, and then in an instant, he was gone. 
No rustle, no bark, no visual cue, just an abrupt, terrifying absence. The last vestage of daylight 
vanished as I finally gave up screaming his name, my voice raw and desperate. Returning to my 
tent, I found it had not been left undisturbed. The zipper was torn, mangled, and my belongings 
were scattered haphazardly within, though nothing seemed to be missing. In this unsettling quiet, 
I noted an absence that amplified my dread. No crickets chirped. Nocturnal creatures stirred. 
The wilderness was utterly, unnaturally silent. A chilling, all-consuming terror seized me. A primal 
fear unlike anything I had ever known. Even now, recounting it conjures that same profound horror. 
Determined not to give up, I grabbed my taser and ventured out again, calling and whistling for 
Teddy. When it became clear he wasn’t returning, I retreated to my tent, using safety pins to 
secure the broken zipper. And that’s when the stranges truly escalated. As I lay there wrestling 
with mounting panic, something began to violently assault my tent from multiple directions. I felt 
ethereal forceful slashes and brushes against my feet through the canvas. A relentless physical 
shaking that defied explanation. Hours later, in the dead of night, I heard a familiar 
sound just outside the tent. Peeking out, I saw Teddy. I fumbled with the pins, unsecuring 
the door, and he scrambled inside. His demeanor was distinctly altered, and he reacted to the 
continuous, jarring movements of the tent with   even greater alarm than I did. Neither of us 
slept a wink that night. The moment dawn broke, we packed up with frantic haste and fled. During 
the drive out, I called my now ex-boyfriend and relayed the entire terrifying ordeal. He, 
being the resourceful type, immediately Googled the area. His research revealed that 
the specific location I had unwittingly ventured into was adjacent to a very small, historically 
disenfranchised Native American reservation. His hypothesis was chilling. They had observed me 
and once darkness fell, decided to orchestrate a terrifying prank. While I found a sliver 
of plausibility in his theory, I remained skeptical. Regardless, that harrowing night marked 
both my first and last attempt at solo camping on that trip. And sadly, I haven’t mustered the 
courage to embark on another solitary wilderness adventure since. It’s a story I’ve recounted 
before, but one that always bears repeating, especially for someone who, like me, calls the 
central California valley home. My exartner and I, both avid amateur archaeologists, often sought out 
the secluded corners of California’s wilderness. One particular expedition led us to the Sesby 
Wilderness, a breathtaking expanse of hills and mountain ranges roughly 2 hours from home 
southwest of Bakersfield. This rugged territory renowned for its remote beauty and absolute 
lack of cell service, was our chosen ground for uncovering ancient Chumash pictographs. Our route, 
a five-mile trek through rolling, scrub-filled terrain and scattered trees, would take us past 
a distinctive landmark known as Pedras Blankis. Following a well-maintained trail that ran 
parallel to the meandering Sesby Creek, we were eager to explore, knowing that human presence 
would be a rarity in this untamed landscape. After a good 3 or 4 miles, the trail opened into a 
clearing, revealing an old circular campground. Fatigue was setting in, so I decided to pause 
and rest. Several campsites were visible, circling a central area, and to the east, a broad 
flat rock formation provided a natural overlook to the creek below. I gravitated towards it, seeking 
the warmth of the sunbaked stone and the soothing murmur of the water. My partner, ever the more 
tenacious explorer, opted to press on, convinced the pictographs lay just a little further 
along the path. Time blurred as I lay there, lost in the rhythmic flow of the creek. Then an 
utterly bizarre sound ripped through the tranquil afternoon. A howl or perhaps a scream unlike 
anything I had ever heard. It was impossibly long, sustaining itself far beyond human capacity, 
shifting unnervingly from a deep, guttural rumble to a piercing, feminine shriek. I shot upright, 
my heart hammering, scanning the empty landscape. Nothing. The sound didn’t repeat, and I tried 
to rationalize it as some peculiar animal call. But then my exartner burst back into the clearing, 
crashing through the brush at full speed, his face etched with terror. He had heard a scream, too, 
but his description was distinctly different from mine, a sound he believed was my own voice, 
distorted and desperate. While our individual recollections of the sound differed, the raw, 
unexplainable strangeness of it was a shared, undeniable truth. We exchanged uneasy glances, 
surveying the innocuous camp, finding nothing outwardly alarming. Yet an unspoken agreement 
settled between us. It was time to go. The afternoon light was softening into that beautiful, 
deceptive golden hour, still bright but hinting at the encroaching dusk. As we began our return 
journey along the trail that hugged the creek, new unsettling phenomenon began. We heard it first 
as a colossal plunk, the sound of an incredibly heavy object hitting the water. Anyone who’s 
ever skipped stones or tossed pebbles knows that familiar splash, but this was on a different scale 
entirely. We heard it again and again, the heavy impacts echoing from the creek itself, accompanied 
by distinct crashing sounds in the dense brush on the opposite bank. Whatever was orchestrating 
this display was undeniably following us, moving parallel to our path, throwing stones with 
a deliberate, menacing rhythm. It was a clear, terrifying message. We were being watched, 
and our presence was unequivocally unwelcome. My mind grappled with the impossibility of it. 
What creature could wield such massive stones? If this was a human prank, it was executed with 
terrifying precision, achieving its goal of pure terror. We broke into a frantic run, propelled 
by an unseen presence. In my haste, I stumbled, a sharp pain in my arm, confirming a deep splinter 
that would plague me for months. We didn’t stop until the fading light of dusk found us collapsing 
into the perceived safety of the parking lot. To this day, the Sespie Creek remains shrouded 
in an unsettling aura for me. I’ve only ever found one other obscure online account of bizarre 
occurrences there. The origin of those sounds, the source of those hurled stones, remains an 
unnerving enigma. On a different occasion, while visiting friends in Seattle, we made plans for a 
late night bonfire by the water. Our arrival was met with an unexpected scene. A flurry of police 
cars and fire trucks, lights flashing against the dark. Apparently, a violent altercation had 
broken out among the transient community in the area. We wisely decided to wait it out, grabbing 
some food until the commotion subsided. It was well past 3:00 in the morning by the time the 
area cleared, and we finally managed to get our   fire going near the water’s edge. The solitude was 
perfect, not another soul in sight. But our peace was short-lived. From the fringe of the woods 
that bordered the waterfront, a small group of transient individuals emerged, drawn by the light 
and warmth of our fire. They asked to join us. Their voices loud, slurred with drink, and their 
mannerisms erratic, clearly under the influence of something. A strong, unpleasant odor clung to 
them. As they launched into rambling, nonsensical chatter, we tried to be friendly, reasoning it 
was a cold night, and they seemed harmless. But as they continued their disjointed babble, small, 
unsettling details began to emerge. I particularly noticed one young woman whose arms were covered 
in fresh, jagged cuts, and one of the men. One of the men, his long neck bearing distinct signs of 
bruising and the faint beginnings of contusions around his face. I won’t delve into the specifics, 
but suffice it to say, this young woman and her frail-l lookinging boyfriend began to boast, their 
voices slurring about a skirmish they’d been in, concluding with a chilling account of how they had 
kicked some girls head in. An unspoken current of alarm passed through our group. We exchanged swift 
fertive glances, our expressions relaying a shared urgency, and a silent consensus quickly formed. 
Our plan was simple. fain interest and continued friendliness, amplifying the roaring blaze 
of our campfire. “Stay warm,” we urged them, our voices remarkably steady despite the racing 
thoughts. “We’ve got to get going now.” The moment we were out of earshot, we pulled out our phones. 
A quick call to the police, a concise report, two individuals, visibly intoxicated and perhaps 
under the influence of something more sinister, were warming themselves by our campfire. As 
we drove away from the parking lot, three patrol cars, lights flashing, sped past us in the 
opposite direction. In retrospect, it was a deeply unsettling thought. We had just shared a bonfire 
with potential murderers. A completely different kind of cold descended during my years as a scout 
leader. Each new year, our troop would brave the frigid Canadian winter, where temperatures often 
plunge to a brutal minus 20 or even 30° C. Camping in traditional tents was out of the question. 
We instead bunkked anked in insulated lodges. Our particular lodge, however, lacked basic 
facilities, requiring us to venture out to another building a minute’s walk away for the washrooms. 
One year, I was saddled with two particularly immature scouts who doggled endlessly, slowing 
down our nightly routine. Exasperated, I sent the main group ahead, promising to follow with 
the two stragglers once they finally got their   act together. A few minutes later, the three of 
us made our way to the washroom lodge. By then, most of the scouts had already finished brushing 
their teeth and using the facilities, congregating   instead around the vending machine in the hallway. 
I led my two companions into the toilet room, methodically checking each stall. “Anyone in 
here?” I called out from one of the cubicles. A faint yeah responded a voice I recognized as 
Jay’s one of my scouts. I dismissed it assuming he was simply taking his time and began to brush my 
teeth. A few minutes passed and I called out again everything good. This time yeah came a second 
distinct voice I identified as Walters. Still, I thought nothing of it, rationalizing it as a 
trick of the acoustics. Or perhaps I’d simply misheard Jay. More minutes ticked by, and even 
the two notoriously slow boys I was supervising had finished their preparations. I repeated my 
question. Everything good. Silence. A prickle of unease ran through me. I instructed the two 
boys to start opening the stall doors one by one to ensure Walter hadn’t fallen ill or encountered 
some issue. All eight stalls were utterly empty. My two young charges, who had clearly heard the 
disembodied voices themselves, started to visibly freak out. They’d been at the sink right by the 
door and insisted no one could have possibly slipped past them unnoticed. Expanding our 
search, I sent them to check the shower stalls. again. Nothing. The boys were now genuinely 
agitated, so I decided it was time to regroup in the hallway and head back. As we stepped out, 
there they were, Jay and Walter, casually chatting by the vending machine. Both vehemently denied 
ever having entered the washroom after I arrived. To this day, the story of the poop monster remains 
a chilling anecdote whispered among my former scout troop. On another occasion, while camping 
overnight with my scout troop, most of us around 15 or 16 at the time, we arrived at our designated 
campsite only to find a single man tent already pitched in a prime spot. It was late and the tent 
was sufficiently out of the way, so we decided to leave the apparent occupant undisturbed until 
morning. Several hours later, a creeping sense of unease settled over my friends and me regarding 
the tent. We could discern the man’s outline through the thin fabric, a small tent barely 
containing him, so we began by gently nudging his feet, hoping to rouse him. When this produced no 
reaction, we escalated, shouting and making noise, but the man remained utterly motionless. The 
chilling reality of the situation began to dawn on us. We immediately fetched my father, who, 
as a fellow leader, knew another adult present, a doctor. They carefully unzipped the tent 
flap and the doctor, after a quick examination, delivered the grim news. The mystery man was dead. 
3 hours later, the police arrived. In the interim, we were tasked with the solemn duty of guarding 
the tent, keeping the younger scouts away,   shielding them from a truth that would undoubtedly 
have terrified them. The stark memory of that discovery still prickles my skin. Under the vast 
indifferent gaze of a full moon, I found myself beside a lifeless form in the empty desert. Though 
the authorities quickly labeled it a suicide by overdose, citing a hastily penned note, I harbored 
a profound skepticism. The remote location, a good 20 mi down an isolated track, the distinct lack of 
other vehicles, and the man’s outofstate origins all pointed to a darker truth. My conviction was 
that he and his companions had indulged too freely the previous night. Come morning, faced with the 
tragic aftermath, they’d concocted a fabricated suicide note and strategically relocated the 
tent, hoping to conceal their grim secret from   any prying eyes on the distant road. My husband 
and I have since made our home in Willow Creek, California, a town that proudly wears its identity 
as a Bigfoot haven. Everything here, from tourist trinkets to local lore, is steeped in Sasquatch 
legend. We even joke about having a designated cage just in case. Our property spans 40 acres, an 
expanse nestled deep within forest service land, ensuring our absolute seclusion. We have no 
immediate neighbors, yet a persistent, almost tangible sensation of being watched permeates our 
days. Despite the dense woodland surrounding us, the usual symphony of wildlife is eerily muted. We 
rarely catch sight of local creatures, a strange silence for a place so wild. We’ve experienced 
the occasional unsettling tap on our bedroom wall or window at night, unnerving enough to give 
us pause, but easily rationalized away over time. until tonight. My husband needed to venture 
up to the generator shed, perched on the hill above our house to top off our solar panels water 
supply. The night was pitch black. The moment he turned the quad around and killed the engine, the 
oppressive silence was torn by a furious, guttural scream. He described it with absolute certainty 
as originating from a large male humanoid. He wasted no time completing his task and 
retreating with frantic haste. He remains utterly convinced that whatever assailed him 
was not human. The sheer improbability of   another person lurking in these woods displaying 
such behavior defied all logic. We often attempt to attribute these strange occurrences to local 
wildlife, but the explanations are wearing thin. Does this resonate as typical Sasquatch activity? 
To fully grasp the context of another memory, it’s essential to understand Scotland’s unique 
trespassing laws. Provided you’re respectful   and cause no damage, you’re free to roam across 
any hills and in my case, camp on any beach you choose, so long as you leave no trace behind. As 
a child, I absolutely adored camping. Our family made these trips several times a year, accompanied 
by a lively contingent of my parents’ friends and their children, typically around 10 of us. It 
was always a bit of a logistical challenge given our favorite spot, a truly remote beach along the 
coast. Yet, we were never entirely alone. Yachts often bobbed gently offshore, and other families 
pitched their tents along the sweeping expanse   of sand. It was an informal, much-loved family 
holiday haven, far from any wild party scene. Surprisingly, despite its isolated nature, the 
local council had even installed a small building equipped with toilets and showers nearby. 
Perhaps they’d simply grown tired of campers   seeking privacy behind every bush. Our particular 
adventure unfolded in the spring of 2011. Though my memory for exact dates often fails me, I recall 
this specific year because I had acquired my dog in the winter of 2010. I had chosen her that 
November from a shelter, a birthday gift from me to me after paying her adoption fee. I named her 
Parmesan, and she came to me as a six-month-old puppy, a survivor of a dog fighting ring. We’re 
still unsure of her exact breed, but my best guess is she’s a large staffy mix. She possesses a 
wonderfully calm temperament with people and most other dogs, but she is fiercely protective. You 
absolutely do not threaten her. So, by the time this camping trip rolled around, I’d had Parmesan 
for a few months. She’d never joined us camping before, but in my family’s eyes, dogs were part 
of the camping experience, so she piled into the car with the rest of us. Unusually, none of our 
extended family friends could make it this time, leaving just my sister, my mom, my dad, and me. 
I didn’t mind. I wasn’t particularly close to the other kids anyway, and preferred playing with 
Parmesan. Plus, I still had my sister for company. The drive consumed the better part of 6 hours, 
and due to a somewhat late departure, though I can’t recall the specific reason, we arrived 
just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, hardly the ideal time to begin pitching a tent. 
The journey had taken its toll, and as twilight bled into night, we found ourselves on the 
deserted beach, a vast, echoing expanse of sand under a rapidly darkening sky. We’d anticipated 
the comforting sight of other campfires, the hum of fellow adventurers, but tonight an unsettling 
silence prevailed. My parents, undeterred, began the arduous task of wrestling with the tent 
poles, their flashlights carving hesitant paths in the gathering gloom. They called for us to 
retrieve lighter gear from the car, their voices tinged with a weary determination. I rolled down 
Parmesan’s window. The evening was surprisingly warm for that time of year, and I wanted her to 
have fresh air. Always looking out for my furry companion, I thought. But as we fumbled in the 
growing darkness, the remoteness of our location began to feel less charming and more acutely 
unsettling. This particular beach, I remember, was encircled by a single winding road that looped 
around like a giant O crossing a small bridge over the water. A few times a vehicle had seemed 
to trace this ciruitous path. After perhaps 15 minutes of my dad grappling with recalcitrant tent 
pegs, I in classic kid fashion whed about being tired. My mom, however, broke her silence with a 
question directed at my dad. Did you notice that car driving around? It’s gone past a few times 
now. Dad, ever the pragmatist, shrugged it off. He probably mumbled something dismissive, but before 
long, another car pulled up on the road. A mere 15 or 20 ft from where we stood. In the meager 
light of our headlamps and the faint distant glow, a figure emerged. We certainly hadn’t expected 
company, and my mom, perhaps trying to calm her own nerves, suggested it might be a security 
guard. An odd thought for such an isolated spot, but I suppose she meant someone from the Wildlife 
Trust who occasionally patrolled the area. The man’s movements were erratic, a distinct 
wobble to his step that suggested he was deeply   intoxicated, perhaps on something stronger than 
drink. Sober, he clearly was not. As he stumbled into the periphery of our flashlight beams, a 
glint of metal caught my eye. He was carrying a formidable knife, a blade that seemed impossibly 
long to my young eyes, maybe 15 in, though my perception of size might have been distorted by 
fear and youth. My dad, to his immense credit, instantly registered the threat. He immediately 
grabbed the camping mallet, a sturdy, heavy tool, and instinctively positioned us behind him, 
forming a protective barrier. The man began to bellow incoherently, his voice slurred and 
aggressive, warning us that we couldn’t camp   there. Dad, attempting to deescalate, told him we 
understood and would pack up, but it was no use. The man continued to advance, his demeanor 
growing more menacing. Dad’s tone hardened, and he began to shout, ordering the man to get 
back. My sister and I were now openly weeping, our small bodies trembling with unadulterated terror. 
The situation was surreal, and the chilling certainty settled in. A violent confrontation was 
imminent. I honestly didn’t like my dad’s chances. It’s a grim thought, but at that moment I was 
utterly convinced this man would overpower and kill my dad and likely us too. My mom, bless her, 
seemed too frozen to react, always prioritizing her relationship with him, I thought, even 
over our safety. But then a blur of motion, swift as a descending wolf, erupted from the 
darkness. Parmesan, a force of nature, launched herself at the man. She was the apex predator in 
that instant, her powerful canines tearing into his arm with brutal efficiency, ripping through 
his jacket and shredding the skin beneath. He screamed, dropping the knife from the injured arm. 
He thrashed, kicking and punching at her until she finally disengaged. He snatched the knife from 
the sand, scrambled back to his car, and sped off into the night. Parmesan, muzzle streaked with 
blood, did not pursue him. She stayed with us, unwavering. We, still shaking from the ordeal, 
hastily gathered our belongings and piled back into the car. I quickly checked her over. She 
seemed miraculously unharmed. But as I settled in, I noticed the car windows were far more open than 
I had left them. We later pieced it together. When the shouting began, she must have placed her paws 
on the narrow gap I’d left for air. Being an older model with roll-own windows, not the electric 
kind, she likely managed to push it down further with her paws, desperate to get out and protect 
us. The man’s retreat, though swift, did little to quell the tempest of fear raging within us. We 
were all profoundly shaken, and with Parmesan in tow, a comfortable hotel was out of the question. 
My parents, their faces etched with a desperate resolve, made the immediate decision. We were 
going home. But first, a critical detour. The fuel gauge was dangerously low, demanding a stop in 
the nearest town. As we sped towards what we hoped would be safety, I busied myself, trembling hands 
trying to wipe the blood from Parmesan’s muzzle. My affection for dogs had always been deep, but 
her raw, ferocious protection had elevated her to an almost mythic status in my eyes. What 
she had done for us was beyond comprehension. We pulled into the desolate, dimly lit town, the 
skeletal outline of a petrol station appearing ahead. It looked abandoned, its pumps dark, but 
Dad, driven by necessity, edged closer, peering out the window to make out a sign. Mom, her voice 
sharp with a fear barely contained, demanded what he was doing. Just trying to see when it opens, 
he muttered, but the words caught in his throat. My heart lurched, a cold fist clenching in my 
chest. Tucked away in the corner of the forcourt, partially obscured by a larger vehicle, sat him. 
The man, he was perched on the bonnet of his car, methodically dabbing at his injured arm with 
a piece of tissue paper. Even from a distance, the wound looked grim. Without a second glance 
at the pumps, without a word, Dad slammed the car into reverse and peeled out of that terrifying 
scene. He declared, “We try the next town.” But the words held little comfort. The next 
town we all knew was 60 mi away, and our fuel tank was an ever decreasing symbol of impending 
doom. Panic, cold and rational, set in. We were going to break down. Dad, ever the pragmatist, 
even in the face of terror, quickly reassured us about our roadside assistance, promising a tow 
home, or at least to a safer haven than that last haunted town. We driven barely 5 minutes further 
when in our rear view mirror, twin beams of light ignited the darkness. It was him. The same car, 
the same relentless pursuit. The next 30 minutes stretched into an eternity, a harrowing blur of 
terror that felt like the longest half hour of my entire life. I dissolved into a silent internal 
breakdown, and I could sense the same utter despair radiating from my sister. My parents, 
though clearly battling their own profound fear, tried valiantly to maintain a facade of calm 
for us, but their efforts were feudal. We were no longer small children easily placated. We were 
pre-teens, acutely aware of the mortal danger that clung to us like a shroud. Dad, in a desperate 
bid to conserve every last drop of fuel, switched off the radio, plunging the car into an even more 
suffocating silence. The man continued to follow, a relentless shadow for an agonizing 55 mi. Then, 
just as the fuel meter had been stubbornly glued to the red E for the past 10 mi, and we felt 
the engine spluttering on fumes, he veered off onto another road, vanishing as abruptly as 
he had appeared. I’m not a religious person, but if there’s a God, that moment felt like an 
undeniable miracle. We coasted into the next town, straight to a petrol station, and filled the 
tank to the brim before driving the rest of   the way home in stunned silence. My sister and 
I, utterly spent, curled up in the back seat and slept the rest of the journey. I didn’t stir 
again until we were safely back in our driveway, the profound relief washing over me in a wave 
of exhaustion. Nothing worse had happened. The following morning, after we’d all managed a 
fitful sleep, my mom contacted the non-emergency police line, recounting the night’s horrifying 
events. They never followed up, but the woman she spoke to mentioned that our attacker’s 
description eerily matched that of a suspect   wanted in connection with a murder. Whether it was 
actually him or some other terrifying coincidence, we never knew. So, what’s the lasting impact 
of that night? Beyond the obvious, never meet a crazy man on a deserted beach. For me, it’s my 
unwavering love for parmesan. She’s still with us, old as the hills. And as one of my mom’s friends 
likes to joke, twice as grizzled. I’ll never fully understand why she did what she did that day. 
What primal instinct drove her to protect us   so ferociously? But I can tell you this, she was 
a rescue puppy born into neglect and abuse. Yet, she forgave humanity. She just never forgot. They 
say never trust a person who doesn’t like dogs, but I’ve learned to always trust a dog who doesn’t 
like a person. Their understanding of human body language is profound, and I believe she sensed the 
grave danger we were in. If you have the means, please consider adoption. You might one 
day find yourself in a situation like mine. And I promise you, if you are willing to save 
a four-legged friend’s life, they will repay   you 10fold without a moment’s thought for their 
own safety. My unwavering devotion to Parmesan wasn’t merely out of affection. It was a profound 
sense of indebtedness, a chilling realization that my persistent childhood plea for a dog might 
have been the very thing that saved my life and   that of my family. Beyond that terrifying coastal 
encounter, my upbringing held other chilling tales of wilderness encroachment, particularly from a 
rustic hunting cabin nestled deep in the Pennian woods. This wasn’t just a seasonal retreat. It 
was a year-round haven shared by several families, though it often served as our holiday escape. 
One crisp Easter, my parents, my uncle, a few years my senior, and two childhood friends were 
the sole occupants. The adults, seeking a brief respit from youthful energy, ventured to a nearby 
tavern, leaving us, the youngest a mere seven, the oldest 14, to our own devices. The 
cabin, rudimentary and without electricity, relied on batterypowered lamps, casting pools 
of light against the encroaching dusk. Outside, two more lamps illuminated the snowy path to the 
outhouse, a 30-yard trek we dreaded in the 8 in of snow blanketing the ground. As we concluded a 
game of Uno by the crackling wood stove, a sudden, ominous crunch of snow beneath the window brought 
our playful mood to an abrupt halt. A nervous silence descended. We exchanged uneasy glances, 
telling ourselves it was just the wind or perhaps some forest creature. After much apprehension 
and a little proddding from us girls, my uncle, the eldest, finally peered through the glass. 
“Nothing,” he reported, resuming his seat. No sooner had he settled than a low grunt and a 
heavy groaning creek reverberated from the front   porch. Before leaving, my parents, anticipating 
potential wilderness challenges, had entrusted my uncle with the keys to the gun cabinet, detailing 
which firearm to use in an emergency. True to his role as our young protector, he armed himself. 
The sounds intensified, labored breathing, heavy, deliberate paws scraping the other side of the 
door. Then with terrifying force, those same heavy paws began to repeatedly slam against the cabin’s 
entrance. Panic seized us. We bolted upstairs, barricading ourselves behind the flimsy wooden 
door, a laughable defense against what we now knew was a 400-lb black bear. For 10 agonizing minutes, 
we listened, paralyzed, until the resounding crash confirmed our greatest fear. The front door had 
given way. The bear was inside. For what felt like an eternity, though in reality only half an hour, 
it rummaged through the downstairs, its movements echoing ominously below us. Mercifully, it made 
no attempt to ascend the stairs. When the heavy footsteps finally receded and silence returned, 
we were left shaken but unharmed. Our parents, relieved beyond measure, vowed never again 
to leave us alone for such extended periods. My travels to Australia offered a different flavor 
of unsettling encounters. One pre-dawn morning, I was roused from sleep by a man’s slurred, 
boisterous voice, thick with an unfamiliar accent, bellowing xenophobic demands for us to go back to 
England. My first thought was a chilling one. How could he possibly know our origins? Had he been 
observing us, listening to our conversations? But then his tirade broadened, encompassing shouts 
for people to return to Russia, Great Britain, and other distant lands. We quickly realized 
his drunken rage wasn’t aimed specifically at us. He was simply venting. Given his accent, 
I suspected he was indigenous Australian, and in that understanding, his anger, however 
misplaced in its delivery, felt profoundly justified. During one of our initial nights 
exploring the Australian outback, we pulled into a secluded campsite deep within the bush, 
far off the main routes. The landscape bore the scars of devastating bush fires from years prior, 
now mostly recovered, but the thick undergrowth still lent an air of wild unpredictability. 
Arriving late, we were met with an eerie quiet, the campsite appearing utterly deserted. My wife 
and I were on edge, our breaths held as we used our flashlights to navigate the unlit terrain, 
searching for an ideal spot to pitch our tent. I tried to reassure her and myself that any other 
late night arrivals would likely be fellow campers seeking a similar refuge. As dawn approached, we 
realized our anxieties had been largely unfounded. The intermittent lights and sounds we’d heard 
in the dark were indeed other weary travelers   mimicking our own late night ritual of scouting 
for a suitable pitch. This shared experience in its strange universality helped us ease into 
a more relaxed rhythm for the remainder of our journey. Not long after, we found ourselves at a 
larger semi-populated campground. While it hosted a mix of older established campers, a new wave 
of youthful energy soon descended. A boisterous group of lads, mostly 15 or 16 with a couple 
of older brothers and their father, arrived, injecting a lively buzz into the tranquil setting. 
Our tents and about a dozen others formed a rough semicircle around a central communal kitchen area 
with a basic tin roof. These newcomers, full of youthful exuberance, quickly staked their claim. 
The rockous laughter and slurred conversations from the nearby youth camp permeated the night, 
keeping us from restful sleep. The sound wasn’t just loud. It felt like a suffocating presence 
filling every corner of the air around our tent. Around 1:00 in the morning, I decided I couldn’t 
tolerate it any longer. I walked over trying to keep my voice even, and said something to the 
effect of, “Hey everyone, it’s pretty late. could you do us a huge favor and try to keep the volume 
down a bit? Thanks. They responded politely, “Yeah, mate. No worries.” But predictably, their 
efforts to quiet down were non-existent. Roughly 20 minutes after I had settled back into my 
sleeping bag, one of the louder boys bellowed,   “I’m going to go bottle that guy and rape his 
wife.” Now, it’s crucial to understand that I am inherently non-confrontational. I avoid 
fights at all costs. But in that moment, a raw surge of fear mixed with a potent simmering 
anger coursed through me. My wife beside me was visibly terrified. After another 2 hours of the 
relentless noise, I finally snapped. I pulled on my clothes, grabbed my hatchet, and marched 
over. I deliberately laid the hatchet on the hood of their truck, a silent, chilling statement, 
then strode into their campsite. It’s 3:00 in the morning. I roared, my voice shaking with fury. 
You’re taking the absolute piss with your noise. Shut up and go to sleep. And to the guy who said 
he’d bottle me, I’m right here, right now. I was genuinely surprised that the older brothers 
or their father, who were presumably present,   didn’t intervene. The boy merely muttered an 
apology, and that was the end of it. The next morning, navigating the awkwardness of having to 
pass their camp, I simply offered a polite good morning and exchanged pleasantries. The situation 
passed without further incident. I admit for a brief time I felt a fleeting sense of bravado like 
some kind of backcountry hero. My wife, however, quickly disabused me of that notion, scolding me 
for my reckless stupidity in confronting a large, potentially dangerous group alone. She was 
absolutely right. It was without a doubt the most terrifying experience I’d ever endured while 
camping. This particular incident brought to mind another chilling memory from my younger years 
spent in a cabin on the border of Pennsylvania   and Maryland, nestled high in the mountains. One 
winter a blizzard snowed us in, cutting us off completely. In those mountains, bears and deer 
were abundant, and we kept out salt licks, corn, and other feeds, not for hunting, but simply to 
observe and nourish the wildlife. One afternoon, I happened to glance out the back window, which 
overlooked the underground garage where we stored   our snowmobiles and ATVs. There, perhaps 50 
ft from the cabin, a large brownish shape sat quietly in the snow. I was immediately unsettled. 
I’d never actually seen a bear this close to the cabin before, though I’d heard countless tales 
of their presence. I rushed to find my mother, eager to show her. As we returned to the window, 
the creature slowly began to rise. And I don’t mean it rose like a bear on its hind legs. 
I mean it stood up tall and straight like a massive man. It turned, took a single, impossibly 
long stride, and vanished into the dense woods. We stood there rooted to the spot, utterly 
dumbfounded. “What the hell was that?” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “My uncle, 
who had joined us, simply shrugged, a strange, knowing glint in his eye. “Oh, that’s just 
Sasquatch,” he drawled as if speaking of a familiar neighbor. “He’s quite a celebrity around 
here.” Whether he was trying to lighten the mood with a jocular remark or genuinely believed 
it, I couldn’t say. But one thing was certain, I never ventured into those woods alone again. 
Flash forward to the summer, roughly a year ago, sometime in June or July. My parents and I decided 
to go camping, and they graciously allowed me to bring a friend along. We had two tents, one for 
my friend and me, and another for my parents, positioned slightly closer to the tree line. The 
campsite itself was a decent size. To our right, another family had set up their camp, while to our 
left, the forest began. A thick, impenetrable wall of trees leading directly into the wilderness. 
On our third day there, it was growing late, and after a long day of activities, we all decided 
to turn in. My friend and I exchanged only a few hushed words before attempting to sleep, mostly 
discussing how neither of us wanted to brave the   walk to the washroom at such a late hour. Both of 
us had earlier commented on the unnerving quiet of the forest that night, but hadn’t given it much 
thought. Now, about half an hour into our attempts at sleep, just as we were drifting off, we heard 
a faint brushing sound against our tent. We dismissed it almost immediately. We were pitched 
right amongst the trees, so it was likely just   a curious raccoon. Not long after, however, the 
brushing sound returned, and then again, this time from multiple directions, the sides, the walls, 
even the roof. At this point, both of us were starting to feel a significant prickle of unease. 
Fear kept us silent, unwilling to acknowledge the unseen presence with words, so we merely stared at 
each other, wideeyed in the dim tent. Fortunately, the unnerving sounds eventually faded, allowing us 
a fitful drift into sleep. The following morning, I emerged from the tent to join my parents by 
the nent fire. I recounted the strange brushing sounds against our canvas, and my mother, ever 
practical, attributed it to a curious raccoon, a theory that momentarily eased my mind. That was 
until she shared her own late night experience. She, a frequent visitor to the washroom, had 
risen in the dead of night, and to her surprise, had seen what she presumed was my 
friend standing perfectly still,   seemingly gazing at our tent. Assuming my friend 
was also making a swift trip to the facilities, my mother hurried along, but upon her return, the 
figure was gone. A flicker of unease crossed my mind, but I brushed it off, knowing my friend had 
mentioned needing the restroom earlier. However, when my friend finally awoke and I inquired if 
they had, in fact, used the facilities, they denied it. The revelation of my mother’s sighting, 
coupled with my friend’s firm denial, left us both profoundly unsettled. As a notoriously 
light sleeper, I knew for a fact that my friend couldn’t have risen and returned without my 
knowledge, as they would have had to step over me. Nothing remotely similar occurred on any other 
night, and even now, the memory sends shivers down my spine. Years prior, a group of friends and 
I embarked on a weekend escape to a remote cabin nestled deep in the mountains. We were having an 
absolute blast until around midnight on a Friday, a blood curdling scream ripped through the night, 
followed by a violent crashing sound from outside. Initially, we dismissed it as nothing, but the 
screams persisted, compelling us to investigate. What we stumbled upon defied all rational thought, 
a scene that would forever haunt our nightmares. We found ourselves staring at a grotesque entity, 
a horrifying amalgamation that could only be   described as a cross between a goblin, a demon, 
and something utterly alien. Its face was devoid of eyes, replaced by vacant, cavernous black 
sockets that gave it an unnervingly hollow gaze. A thin, viscous sheen of fresh blood glistened on 
its skin under the moonlight as it methodically dismembered what appeared to be the lower half of 
a young girl. The horrific task was already well underway. When it finally registered our presence, 
it let out a primordial bestial roar. My closest friend screamed, then fainted. Our other companion 
turned and fled, seeking refuge in the darkness, while I remained frozen, paralyzed by sheer 
terror. We never breathed a word of that night to anyone. Not our parents, not other friends, not a 
soul. Even today, years later, a creeping anxiety washes over me whenever I find myself alone in 
the woods after midnight. We escaped that place as fast as our legs could carry us, unwilling to 
linger amidst nature’s most Macob masterpiece. The unseen killer had long since vanished 
mercifully. Australia, too, offered its share of unsettling encounters. One particularly memorable 
dawn. A slurred, thick accented voice ripped through the quiet of our campsite, demanding we go 
back to England. My initial shock quickly morphed into a chilling question. How could he know our 
nationality? Had he been watching us, listening? But then his tirade broadened, encompassing shouts 
for people to return to Russia, Great Britain, and other distant lands. We quickly realized 
his drunken rage wasn’t aimed specifically at us. He was simply venting. Given his accent, I 
suspected he was indigenous Australian, and in that understanding, his anger, however misplaced 
in its delivery, felt profoundly justified. Our initial foray into the Australian outback brought 
us to a desolate, overgrown campsite far from any paved road. The land, still scarred, but largely 
recovered from a brutal bushfire years prior, felt exceptionally wild. Arriving late under a 
canopy of thick undergrowth, the profound quiet was unsettling. My wife and I, on edge, navigated 
by flashlight. I tried to reassure her and myself that any approaching lights were merely other late 
arrivals seeking a similar refuge. As dawn broke, we realized our initial anxieties were somewhat 
misplaced. The intermittent sounds and lights had indeed been other weary travelers 
mirroring our own late night scramble   to find a suitable pitch before settling in. 
This realization, in its strange universality, helped us ease into a more relaxed rhythm for the 
remainder of our journey. One night, a boisterous group of lads must have been. The scene was chaos. 
A boisterous crew of teenagers along with a couple of older siblings and their father had descended 
upon the campground. Our small enclave of tents, a dozen or so, formed a semicircle around a 
basic tin roofed communal kitchen area. But these newcomers had taken over, turning the night into 
a rockus, drunken party. Their celebratory den was more than just noise. It felt like a suffocating 
presence, making sleep impossible. Around 1:00 a.m., I finally ventured over, aiming for calm. 
“Hey guys,” I began. “It’s getting pretty late. Would you mind doing us a huge favor and keeping 
the volume down a bit?” “Cheers,” they responded with polite assurances. “Yeah, mate, no worries.” 
But as I fully expected, they made absolutely no effort to quiet down. Perhaps 20 minutes after 
I’d returned to my sleeping bag, trying in vain to find rest, one of the loudest boys bellowed a 
chilling threat. I’m going to go bottle that guy and rape his wife. Now, I’m not a confrontational 
person by nature. I’ve always avoided fights. But in that moment, a potent mix of fear and simmering 
anger surged through me, amplified by the sight of my wife, visibly terrified beside me. After two 
more agonizing hours of the relentless clamor, I snapped. I dressed, grabbed my hatchet, and 
marched over. With a deliberate, unnerving gesture, I laid the hatchet on the hood of their 
truck, then walked directly into their campsite, my voice trembling with suppressed fury. It’s 3:00 
in the morning, I roared. You’re making a hell of a racket and taking the absolute piss. Shut up and 
go to sleep. And to the guy who said he’d bottle me, I’m right here, right now. To my surprise, 
neither the father nor the older brothers intervened. The boy merely mumbled an apology, and 
that was that. The next morning was predictably awkward as I walked past their camp, but a polite 
good morning and a brief exchange of pleasantries smoothed things over. For a fleeting while, I 
felt a surge of reckless bravado, a sense of having been a backcountry hero. My wife, however, 
quickly deflated that illusion, scolding me for my utter stupidity in confronting a large group of 
men alone. She was absolutely right. Of course, it remains by a significant margin the most 
terrifying experience I’ve ever had while camping. This incident always reminds me of the unsettling 
tales my father shared from his childhood,   specifically about the old abandoned houses 
scattered throughout the heavily wooded areas near where he grew up in the Hudson Valley, 
New York. Locals knew these woods were home to crumbling structures, or at least their 
foundations. As a boy, my father and his friends would often climb a certain mountain to reach one 
such derelict house, a place they claimed held old black and white nudes, though it primarily served 
as a hangout for kids to smoke and rough house, resulting in much of it being smashed. The ascent 
to this spot involved scaling a sheer rock face, a cliff that also served as his customary descent 
route. One evening, he made the climb alone. As twilight began to deepen, he was carefully 
lowering himself down the rock face when   an inexplicable presence made itself known. He 
instinctively glanced upwards towards the ledge he’d just vacated. His gaze was fleeting, a mere 
flicker, but whatever he saw propelled him down the rest of the mountain in a terrified sprint 
all the way home. He described it as towering, lumbering above him, and entirely covered 
in hair. He was certain it wasn’t a bear, at least from the brief glimpse he managed. You 
tend to approach parental anecdotes with a healthy dose of skepticism, but his recounting of this 
particular story lent it an undeniable air of truth for me. Then again, there’s always 
the notion that you see what you want to   see. Who knows? Honestly, I’m still terrified of 
heavily wooded areas. Despite this, my two dogs, my now fianceé, and I embarked on a lengthy 
drive to our chosen campsite in the Ozarks, specifically the Barkshed Recreational Area west 
of Mountain View, Arkansas. We spent an entire Wednesday in Midmay on the road, arriving at our 
destination just as darkness began to settle. The campground was completely deserted. It was the 
middle of the week, the week before Memorial Day, and we’d opted for a primitive recreational 
area, meaning no electricity, no running water, no bathrooms, and certainly no camp 
staff. As we began to set up our site, I became subconsciously aware of a low, rhythmic 
bass-like noise. I couldn’t articulate why, but an undeniable feeling that something was wrong began 
to creep over me. Nevertheless, we continued with the task of establishing our otherwise perfect 
campsite, unperturbed, or so we tried to be. It was then I saw them, both my dogs, fixed intently 
on the opposite bank of the small mountain river, peering deep into the shadowed forest. A cold 
realization dawned. Hadn’t I been hearing that strange thrming from that very direction? And now 
they sense it, too. Isk, I urged my boyfriend to halt his clattering with tent stakes, pulling his 
attention to the unnerving sound. He listened, his brow furrowing as the dog’s alertness 
intensified. Every other sound of the wild, the chirping of crickets, the croaking of frogs, the 
calls of birds, even the rustle of our unpacking, and our low chatter, had fallen utterly silent. 
At first, we dismissed it. A logical leap. It must be some unfamiliar mountain noise. We’re not used 
to this. Living in a flatter part of the country, my boyfriend suggested it could be the very 
earth settling, the shifting of rocks. I wasn’t convinced, but investigating a bizarre sound 
at dusk in bare country before our sanctuary was even fully erected seemed unwise. As we 
completed the finishing touches, laying out rugs, stringing up solar lights for the coming nights, 
the sound swelled. It was no longer just a faint rhythmic bass. It now held a quality that bordered 
on speech almost comprehensible. It possessed a deep resonance, yes, but it wasn’t merely a hum. 
It felt articulated like a series of disjointed, nonsensical syllables punctuated by unsettling 
pauses, then resuming with more, and it was drawing closer, steadily, advancing toward the 
narrow river, separating us from the dense tree   line. I swear it was like strained garbled speech 
battling through a dense wall of static, a broken radio signal attempting to articulate something 
just beyond the threshold of understanding. Imagine whispered conversations filtered through 
thick buzzing interference, the words just out of reach, yet undeniably present. I wrestled with the 
urge to tell my boyfriend we needed to leave now. We had both heard it, and the dogs were clearly 
distressed. Just as the dread began to overwhelm me, the sound abruptly retreated, fading almost 
completely. We made the collective decision to zip ourselves into the tent, seeking refuge in 
its fragile canvas, an attempt to sleep. That first night, however, was a fractured tapestry 
of unease. I awoke repeatedly to my female dog trembling violently, a low growl rumbling in her 
chest. I’d scream silently, straining my ears, and there it would be again, that same muffled bass 
noise, now faint in the distance. Miraculously, I did manage a few hours of uneasy sleep before 
dawn broke. The following three nights were a stark contrast, blessedly normal. They were filled 
with the expected symphony of the mountains, the chirping of tree frogs, the booming calls of 
bullfrogs, the melancholic cries of whipperwolves, the relentless hum of cicatas, and the hooting 
of owls. On Friday night, a couple of neighboring campers arrived, and by Saturday, even more. 
My boyfriend, amidst a picturesque 18-mi hike, even proposed to me in the middle of a shallow 
river, and of course, I joyfully accepted. Despite that solitary, ominous sound that had 
haunted our initial evening, it was truly the   best trip I could have ever wished for. I still 
wonder if anyone out there possesses a rational explanation for what we heard. My mind often 
returns to that unexplained phenomenon, prompting me to seek answers. But it also brings to mind 
another wilderness escape. Last year, I took a muchneeded vacation to the Blue Ridge Mountains 
of Georgia. It was a beautiful trip save for a few peculiarities. To properly set the scene, 
you need to visualize the specific area where I stayed. It was a substantial cabin located near a 
place called McKayville, yet distinctly isolated, not truly part of any town. Other cabins dotted 
the landscape, but the nearest was a good 150 yard away, and another twice that distance on the 
opposite side. The intervening space was a natural barrier, a dense expanse of trees, sharp inclines, 
winding rivers, and rushing streams. Let me describe the cabin’s layout. The front door opened 
onto a welcoming deck. Moving around the exterior, to the right of this initial view was the side of 
the cabin. A detail worth noting here, two windows belonging to my bedroom were situated such that 
someone could easily stand directly outside them. While nothing actually occurred at these 
specific windows, their exposed placement   kept me on edge given all the other strange 
events that transpired. Finally, there was the back deck. As you might recall, the house was 
built on an incline, meaning that walking through the front door and down to the basement would 
bring you out into the backyard. Upon entering, the living room stretched to your left, while to 
your immediate right were my room and the entrance   to the basement, their doors separated by mere 
inches. The living room flowed directly into the kitchen and dining area, and my parents’ room was 
situated upstairs. Beyond the living room, which contained the first peculiar artwork, a similar 
picture hung upstairs, and a fragmented one was tucked away in the basement. There were also two 
doors locked in a most unconventional manner. While secure doors are common in air booms, these 
weren’t standard bedroom or bathroom locks. You could turn the knob completely, but the door 
wouldn’t budge. It offered no give, no rattle, as if firmly bolted from the inside. How they 
could be opened remained a puzzling question. Regrettably, I in my youthful oversight 
never thought to photograph these oddities, assuming they simply led to storage areas. But now 
to the heart of the matter. We arrived on the 19th and my 16th birthday was scheduled for the 23rd. 
The night of the 22nd as the clock ticked past 11:30 p.m. is when the true strangeness began. I 
was celebrating with a few close friends, keeping vigil until midnight to mark my transition into 
16, a milestone many of them had already passed earlier that summer. We were all connected online, 
sharing laughs over some absurd video when my dog, Blue, stirred from her sleep on my bed and 
began to scratch frantically at the door,   signaling an urgent need to go outside. Blue 
is a substantial dog, a 90 lb pitbull. Yet, she often possesses the playful energy of a 
much smaller pup. What was immediately striking, however, was her uncharacteristic edgginess 
upon entering the cabin earlier that day. A   stark departure from her usual jovial demeanor. 
Ordinarily, she’s simply thrilled to be wherever I am. But this time was different. It had taken 
multiple attempts to coax her inside, walking her around the cabin’s perimeter several times before 
she would finally cross the threshold. Even then, she didn’t settle. She made a beline for her 
travel crate, a sanctuary she rarely sought   unless specifically told. Her dash towards it was 
almost frantic. I excused myself from my friends, explaining Blue’s pressing need. To take her out 
for her bathroom break, I had to descend through the basement and exit into the backyard, where 
a long tether was anchored to the ground. As I paused just inside the door, flicking on the 
outdoor lights, I reached for Blue’s collar. but she wasn’t where she’d been a moment before. 
I looked over to see her rigidly staring out the window, fixed on something in the backyard. 
She’s such a comical dog, I initially assumed she’d spotted a bug. I opened the door, secured 
her collar, and tried to gently pull her outside, but she dug in her heels. She’s large enough 
that if she refuses to move, I can’t force her. After some persistent coaxing, she reluctantly 
stepped out, but her gaze remained riveted on the unseen depths of the backyard, an area swallowed 
by darkness beyond the meager 10- ft reach of the porch light, 30 ft short of the yard’s end. A 
creeping unease began to settle over me. This wasn’t her typical behavior. I clipped her to the 
tether and kept her close. About 10 seconds later, she began to relieve herself, but her eyes never 
wavered from their fixed point. Then I heard it, the most profoundly unnatural noise emanating 
from the far side of the yard. It’s crucial to understand this. At its core, it sounded asterisk 
human star. If it had sounded like an animal, my fear wouldn’t have been so absolute. But it was 
a human voice, poorly imitating the croaking of a frog, and it was loud. In the southern wilderness, 
the nocturnal symphony of insects never ceases. Yet this sound sliced through the incessant 
wailing of the bugs and the usual clamor of   wildlife. For me to have heard it with such 
clarity, it must have been screamed. And then Blue, a dog utterly devoid of aggression, who 
has never once behaved this way, began to growl, a deep, menacing rumble rising from her chest. 
She still yearned to go back inside, backing away from the unseen threat, bearing her teeth, 
and even foaming at the mouth as she continued   her aggressive snarls. As we retreated, the sound 
echoed again, this time from further to the left along the trail that snaked through the woods. I 
hauled Blue back inside, and she wasted no time bolting up the basement stairs and straight into 
my room. I slammed the door. I secured the door, ensuring the specific lock that only opened from 
my side was firmly engaged. Descending the stairs, I repeated the process with the basement door, 
its unusual mechanism offering a sliver of comfort. As the bolt clicked into place, a shared 
understanding rippled through my virtual circle of friends. The entire situation was undeniably 
bizarre. We all agreed I should investigate the strange happenings in the backyard at first light. 
Sleep, however, was a luxury I couldn’t afford. The unsettling quiet outside held me captive until 
the early hours. My alarm jolted me awake at 7, and the first thing I noticed was the wideopen 
basement door. My sisters, who had been sleeping in their downstairs bedroom, couldn’t possibly 
have opened it, as its unique lock could only   be manipulated from the main living area where 
I was. My parents weren’t even stirring yet. The door wasn’t just a jar. It was swung abnormally 
wide, pressed flat against the wall behind it. A quick check revealed that the other basement 
door, the one leading to their sleeping area,   was unlocked but remained closed. The mechanics of 
it defied explanation. These doors were designed to be secured exclusively from the opposite side. 
The entire episode was a chilling paradox. My birthday passed uneventfully that day, but the 
peculiar incident lingered. On the evening of the 23rd, as we prepared for an early departure 
on the 24th, it was already between 9 and 10 p.m. I had to retrieve Blue’s spike and tether from 
the backyard to finish packing. Stealing myself, I grabbed a flashlight and power walked outside. 
I yanked the spike from the earth and hurried back towards the house. As I reached the porch, 
it happened again. The noise. This time it was immediately to my right and incredibly loud. The 
constant deafening symphony of southern insects usually makes conversation difficult, but this 
distinct human-like croaking like a frog badly mimicked sliced through it all. It originated from 
the darkness beyond the meager light of the porch, a mere 20 ft from where I stood. For a fleeting 
moment, I considered venturing closer, finally confronting the source of my growing dread. 
But self-preservation screamed louder. I bolted inside, slamming the door and drawing the blinds 
with trembling hands. Truth be told, I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I lay awake, straining to 
hear the sound again, and only pretended to wake up the next morning. I’ve scoured the internet for 
logical explanations, but nothing fits. If anyone has any insight into what could have made that 
noise, I would be grateful for your input. This unsettling memory brings to mind a camping trip I 
took in seventh grade. It was a boy’s weekend for a close family friend’s birthday with five of us 
kids all the same age and two adults, the birthday boy’s father and his uncle. Upon arrival, we set 
up two tents, a large one for all the kids and a medium-sized one for the adults. The first day 
was perfect. We filled it with classic camping activities like wood carving and canoeing. 
And later, the dad cooked up some burgers for   everyone. As we settled into our tents, the rers’s 
earlier warning about securing all food leftovers was quickly forgotten. Around 2:00 a.m., I was 
abruptly roused from a light sleep. I distinctly felt a large form brush against my body from 
outside the tent. Initially, I dismissed it as a dream, a lingering sensation before sleep claimed 
me again. But then I began to hear rustling sounds like something rumaging through our gear around 
the campfire. The adults had strictly forbidden us from opening the tent under any circumstances, 
but a small window flap near the top offered   a peak. Assuming it was probably just a few 
raccoons, as we’d seen some on the drive-in, I cautiously pulled back the flap. My assumption, 
however, proved terribly wrong. It was something far larger than any raccoon, a black bear, 
methodically devouring our forgotten leftovers. The cooler, I realized, was being ravaged directly 
outside my tent, a mere 6 ft away. Panic, icy, and immediate, seized me. I wanted desperately 
to rouse the other boys, to share the terror, but a deeper instinct warned against it. any 
sudden noise might provoke the creature. So I lay there, eyes wide, silently fixated on the 
bear as it methodically plundered our camps   provisions for what felt like an eternity, but 
was perhaps 20 agonizing minutes. As if the scene wasn’t harrowing enough, my gaze involuntarily 
drifted into the inky blackness beyond the bear. There, nestled 15 ft deeper within the forest, a 
constellation of bright yellow eyes gleamed back, fixed intently on the feasting bear. My blood 
ran cold. This was too much. I slammed the window flap shut, burrowing into my sleeping bag, 
praying for dawn. After what felt like an age, the sounds of the bear ceased. I cautiously peered 
out. The beast was gone. The following morning, our campsite was a testament to the night’s 
chaos, overturned supplies, torn packaging, and a multitude of colossal bear prints. Among 
them, Telltale smaller tracks suggested another, more dimminionive presence had visited after 
the primary marauder departed. That day, the expedition leader, seeing the disarray, and 
perhaps sensing the lingering unease, made the call to pack up and head back to civilization. 
Roughly 16 years ago, my family embarked on an annual pilgrimage to the White Mountains 
of Arizona, a winter expedition to find our   Christmas tree. Dad was at the wheel of our trusty 
truck, grandpa beside him in the passenger seat, while mom and my sister occupied the back. My 
perch was the truck bed, sharing the open air with our German shorthaired pointer. We were cruising 
along a quiet forest road when, without warning, my dog erupted into a furious fit of barking 
and snarling. My eyes instinctively scanned the dense treeline, half expecting the silhouette 
of a bear or a mountain lion. Instead, what I saw was a tall, dark shape moving with an eerie 
fluidity paralleling our course about 60 to 70 yards distant. Dad, stop the truck. I yelled, my 
voice cracking with an unfamiliar urgency. I think I see Bigfoot. His reply was a dismissive chuckle, 
and he continued driving. I twisted my neck for another look, but the figure had already altered 
its trajectory, striding away from the road, its head vanishing behind a distant rise. To this day, 
the memory remains a vivid, unexplained snapshot. My father, however, delights in recounting the 
tale, always ending with my horrified conviction and his hearty laughter, turning my unsettling 
encounter into a family joke. A few years prior, my girlfriend and I were deep in a state park 
in northeast Pennsylvania, backpacking through   its remote trails. One late night, sleep proved 
elusive for me. The woods, even when familiar, held a certain nocturnal spookiness. Then a 
peculiar sight materialized through the thin fabric of our tent. A soft floating light. My 
girlfriend, also awake, saw it, too. It swayed gently, rising and falling, inching closer 
with each oscillation. My mind raced through possibilities. Another hiker, a lost ranger. But 
the silence outside was absolute. No footsteps, no rustle of leaves, just the eerie dancing 
luminescence. I nudged her, whispering, confirming she saw it. “Who’s out there?” I finally yelled, 
my voice a strange whisper against the encroaching dread. Still no answer. I was too petrified to 
unzip the tent. The light continued its strange ballet, circling our tent, coming as close as 3 ft 
before slowly receding into the darkness. The next day at the ranger station, my query about floating 
lights in the woods was met with blank stairs and a polite no. I struggled to categorize what we’d 
seen. It defied conventional explanation. Calling it a ghost or an alien felt too sensational 
for my pragmatic mind. Yet the reality of its presence was undeniable. Two years later, fate, or 
perhaps coincidence, led us to a different forest in northern Pennsylvania, some miles away. 
We were using the same tent, and once more, late one night, I found myself wide awake. And 
there it was again, a familiar, soft glow through the tent fabric. My heart hammered with a renewed 
sense of dread, but also a strange familiarity. My girlfriend confirmed it. The light was back, 
floating up and down, approaching just as it had before. This time, however, as it neared our tent, 
it landed directly on the canvas. In that instant, the mystery dissolved into the utterly mundane. 
A profound, almost comical realization washed over me. It was a firefly. A single persistent 
firefly. It seems some of these tiny beacons don’t always extinguish their bioluminescence, 
sometimes flying with their lights continuously,   a glow, perfectly capable of scaring the 
living daylights out of unsuspecting campers. That earlier thought about how easily strange 
light sightings in the wild might be dismissed as fireflies always takes me back to my third grade 
summer. Our family had rented a small rustic cabin deep within the ancient embrace of the redwoods. 
My younger brother shared a bed with my parents in their room, while my older sister, content 
in her sleeping bag, claimed a patch of floor. My personal domain was the pull out sofa, 
which I shared with my best friend Colin,   a privilege my parents had generously extended 
for the trip. We’d stayed up way too late, our faces illuminated by the dim glow of our game 
boys. A silent pact of youthful rebellion against bedtime. Eventually, I drifted off during Colin’s 
turn. Around 3:00 in the morning, a gentle nudge roused me. “What do you want?” I mumbled, still 
half asleep. Colin shushed me, his eyes wide, and pointed to the window above the couch. Through the 
glass, framed against the faint moonlight, stood our cabin swing set. But it wasn’t the swings that 
held his gaze. Towering over them, a formidable, shadowy mass of hair stood an undeniably bipeedal 
figure. Our cabin sat within a small clearing, offering a slight reprieve from the oppressive 
darkness of the surrounding forest, but the light   was still meager. We were frozen in place, two 
small boys utterly captivated. We’d heard the whispered legends of Bigfoot, seen the kitschy 
souvenirs sold in town, but had always dismissed them as tall tales. Yet here it was, real and 
utterly undeniable, in an area notorious for such sightings. For what felt like an eternity, perhaps 
a full minute, it stood there, its immense dark eyes reflecting the moonlight, locked onto ours. 
Then with unavaturely long strides, it turned and ambled downhill, melting silently back into the 
thick, white devouring trees. Colin and I, still breathless, exchanged bewildered glances. “You saw 
that, right?” I whispered, needing confirmation. “Yeah,” he breathed back. “I really saw it.” We 
confirmed to each other that this was no dream, no shared hallucination. It was a bizarre, profoundly 
amazing reality. Surprisingly, rather than terror, a surge of pure excitement coursed through us. 
Perhaps it was the exhaustion from a long day of hiking, coupled with our late night gaming, 
but we crawled back into bed shortly after,   the strangeness of it all momentarily overridden 
by a powerful urge to sleep. The next morning, we eagerly recounted our extraordinary encounter 
to my parents. They, of course, offered dismissive chuckles. assuring us it was a nice story, but 
clearly believing it was nothing more than a childish fantasy. For years, remember when we saw 
Bigfoot became a running joke between Colin and me, a shared magical secret that time couldn’t 
dim. A few years later, when I was around 12, my parents decided it was time for a new kind 
of adventure. Our first true wilderness hiking   and camping trip in Jasper. We were seasoned 
campers and had done our share of day hikes, but this was different. a multi-day trek to a 
remote campsite followed by explorations of the surrounding area. My parents, dedicated outdoor 
enthusiasts, were expert navigators of the wild. We embarked on a 7 km hike under a pleasant sky, 
the path occasionally tracing the banks of a winding river. It was an uneventful, enjoyable 
trek until we reached our designated campsite, probably between 3 and 5 in the afternoon. The 
site itself was wellappointed, featuring a central communal eating area and fire pit encircled 
by individual camping spots. My brother and I settled there while our parents set about pitching 
our tent. As we sat enjoying the quiet, my brother leaned over and whispered, his voice barely 
audible, “Bar.” I looked up and sure enough, emerging from the dense bushes not too far away, 
was a black bear. My father, who dedicated his time to teaching kids about outdoor safety, had 
ingrained in us the protocol for such encounters. We knew to stay utterly quiet and calm as we 
slowly backed away, making our way to our parents to relay the grim news. My mother immediately 
ushered my brother and me to a safe distance while my father, doing everything by the book, began to 
make noise, attempting to assert his presence and scare the animal away. He even deployed his bear 
spray. But nothing worked. The bear, unperturbed, continued to rumage through our freshly laidout 
camp. Eventually, it became clear the bear had no intention of leaving. My mother and brother 
had already slipped out of their hiking boots into more comfortable Crocs, but I, still wearing 
my boots, had the foresight to keep my backpack on. With the bear now firmly entrenched between 
us and the main trail, we had no choice but to bushwack, forging our own path through the dense 
undergrowth. The river thankfully served as our guiding beacon, preventing us from getting truly 
lost. We eventually stumbled back onto the main path and with weary relief tked all the way back 
to the parking lot. There we immediately called the ranger station to report the incident. The 
next day, rangers returned to our campsite. The scene was one of utter devastation. Our belongings 
were shredded, strewn everywhere, adorned with unmistakable teeth marks. The bear had bitten 
through a small propane can. My mother’s shoes were chewed beyond recognition, and my brother’s 
teddy bear was found decapitated. The tent itself was in tatters. Our wilderness adventure abruptly 
curtailed. We spent the remainder of our trip in a comfortable hotel, exploring the town of Jasper 
and its various attractions. A turn of events I secretly found far more appealing than our 
original plan. Now I live on a sprawling ranch in western Idaho, and every June, the cycle of 
cattle drives begins as we move cows from our winter pastures to the higher grazing lands. Life 
on our sprawling ranch in western Idaho revolves around the annual June cattle drive, a tradition 
of moving our herds from winter grazing lands to the richer, higher pastures. Lacking trailers 
for transport and embracing the summer season, we traverse vast stretches of BLM territory 
and private property with permission,   making it a multi-ight expedition under the open 
sky. Last summer’s drive started like any other. My stepdad, Ed, orchestrated the logistics, 
aided by a few pack horses for supplies. It was essentially a prolonged camping trip, establishing 
a new camp each night, serenated by the constant loing of cattle and spending endless hours in the 
saddle. The initial two days are always the most challenging, but a rhythm eventually takes hold. 
The truly memorable and terrifying events unfolded on the third night. It was my turn for the second 
watch, a responsibility that involved ensuring the cattle didn’t stray too far from our designated 
resting spot. About 2 hours into my shift, around 3:00 a.m., the cows nearest to me suddenly bolted, 
a collective wave of panic pushing the herd away from my position. This was a clear issue, so I 
went to investigate, as was my duty. I recall with absolute clarity that whatever lurked in the 
sage brush was profoundly, grotesqually unnatural. Its form was disturbingly humanoid, yet its arms 
were impossibly long, its eyes unnervingly vast, and its skin seemed stretched and distorted 
in ways that defied all known biology. It was without a shadow of a doubt the most terrifying 
thing I have ever witnessed. I retreated slowly, carefully, backing towards our camp, overwhelmed 
with gratitude that the entity did not pursue me, though its chilling gaze remained fixed upon me. 
I roused my stepmom and dad, who emerged with a rifle to investigate. By the time we reached 
the spot, the creature had vanished. Yet, its presence was undeniable, marked by truly 
bizarre tracks imprinted around the sage brush. The next morning, as we gathered the cattle, we 
discovered two calves were missing. More of those strange, inexplicable tracks marred the earth 
around our camp and where the horses had been   tethered. The lost calves were never found. For 
obvious reasons, I refused to take watch for the rest of that drive. To this day, the nightmares of 
that thing continue to plague my sleep. Not long after, my husband, two friends, and I embarked 
on a camping trip to a rather remote area deep in the mountains, setting up camp on the tranquil 
shore of a small lake. On our first morning there, I decided to paddle board to the other side. 
A confession, I suffer from submechophobia, a deep-seated fear of submerged objects in water. 
It doesn’t usually [ __ ] me. I love being on the water, but seeing sunken boats, massive fallen 
trees, or colossal boulders lurking beneath the surface gives me a profound sense of dread, 
especially when I’m alone. I cope better when others are around, and it’s less intense in large, 
clear bodies of water. Swimming pools, rivers, or murky lakes don’t typically bother me. So, I 
set off alone. The lake was a vast oval, meaning you could theoretically see everything from the 
shoreline. However, from our specific campsite, the entire lake wasn’t visible, and I quickly 
lost sight of my husband. A faint panic began to set in, intensified by the immediate sight of 
a large, sunken tree. This was a high Sierra Lake, its waters crystal clear, but its immense 
depth meant the light quickly faded,   turning the unseen bottom to an unsettling 
black. I chided myself for being silly, reminding myself to overcome my phobia. While I 
didn’t see anything else immediately alarming, I decided to stay close to the shore, a tactic 
that usually brought me comfort. But this lake lacked a typical shoreline. It was all granite 
rock that dropped swiftly and steeply into the water. Despite still seeing little beneath the 
surface, my panic intensified, a peculiar and unsettling reaction. An overwhelming urge to 
return as fast as possible gripped me. Yet, I tried to dismiss it as irrational. I 
focused on my breathing, determined to reach a beautiful waterfall on the far side that 
I truly wanted to experience. So, I trudged on, attempting to calm myself and embrace nature, all 
the while fighting that insistent feeling to turn back. As I continued paddling, the profound 
realization of my absolute solitude began to sink in. I kept scanning the surrounding area, 
hoping to spot another hiker. But I was utterly completely alone. I fought to clear my mind of the 
creeping unease, focusing instead on the fact that I was almost at the waterfall, and the view was 
indeed magnificent. As I drew closer, I noticed a small island, essentially a substantial 
granite formation, quite near the shore. Perched in congruously on this remote island 
was a single plastic chair. It struck me as both amusing and profoundly unsettling. A truly bizarre 
sight in such a wild pristine setting. My sense of being freaked out remained steadfast. The mere 
thought of stepping onto the small granite island offered a fragile hope that I could outsmart my 
phobia, that the solid earth beneath my feet would   somehow quell the rising tide of fear. I hauled 
my paddle board ashore and took a tentative step, trying to immerse myself in the breathtaking 
vista. But the beauty was lost to me, eclipsed by an overwhelming terror. The waterfall, once 
a soothing murmur, now roared with a deafening intensity, its sound amplifying my isolation. 
A scream, I realized with chilling clarity, would be swallowed whole by this vast, indifferent 
wilderness. My husband, miles away, was my only anchor. yet utterly beyond sight or sound. The 
knowing conviction of unseen eyes watching me from the shadows was almost unbearable. I couldn’t take 
it anymore. Regardless of whether it was a genuine threat or merely my own irrational fear, I had to 
get back and fast. I forced myself onto the board, pushing off not towards the deceptive safety of 
the shoreline, but directly into the deep, dark heart of the lake, the quickest path to escape. 
Each stroke was a battle against a primal dread. The chilling certainty of being observed making me 
feel profoundly exposed in the center of that inky   abyss. I trembled uncontrollably throughout the 
entire return journey. As I neared camp, a wave of profound relief washed over me. Scrambling 
off the board, I stumbled towards my husband, who greeted me cheerfully, asking about my paddle. 
I couldn’t speak. Tears streamed down my face. I stammered out an explanation, attributing my panic 
to my stupid phobia, even though I hadn’t actually seen anything specific in the water to trigger it. 
I felt utterly foolish, immensely grateful that our friends hadn’t yet returned from their hike to 
witness my irrational outburst. We packed up and departed later that day. In the quiet aftermath, 
reflecting on the experience, new unsettling thought began to take root. Perhaps it wasn’t 
just my phobia. The absence of a tangible trigger, the persistent bone deep feeling of being watched, 
it all hinted at something more profound. I remain uncertain if it was pure fear of solitude, 
the phobia itself, or something else entirely, but the memory lingers. I often wonder if anyone 
else has faced such a chilling, unprovoked terror in the wild. My adventurous spirit, undimemed 
by previous unsettling encounters, soon led me to embrace a new challenge, solo backpacking. 
A group of friends and I had planned a trip to a secluded cabin owned by a friend’s cousin, a 
retreat accessible only via a 3/4day hike from the nearest parking spot with no proper roads leading 
in. Due to work commitments, I couldn’t join the main group for the initial trek. This meant I 
would embark on my journey later that same day, necessitating a night of solo camping along 
the trail. The latter portion of the path, particularly treacherous after dark, especially 
for a newcomer, held no fear for me. In fact, I relished the prospect, having never experienced 
true solitude in the wild. As the sun began its descent, painting the sky with the hues of 
mid-autumn, I found myself deep within the   heart of these ancient woods. I located a modest 
clearing roughly 40 ft in diameter and swiftly established my camp. A crackling campfire soon 
chased away the encroaching chill and my small oneperson tent stood as my lone sanctuary. The 
evening unfolded with the familiar comforts of the wilderness. Hot dogs roasted over an open 
flame guores and the quiet contemplation that only the forest can offer. I remained awake for a 
good 2 to 3 hours after darkness had fully claimed the sky. And throughout that time, an unsettling 
pattern began to emerge. From the periphery of the clearing, just beyond the dancing reach of 
the fire light, I repeatedly sensed movement. Initially, I dismissed it as the usual nocturnal 
stirrings of the forest’s inhabitants. But as the hours wore on, a chilling realization dawned. 
Whatever was out there wasn’t simply foraging. It was deliberately circling my encampment. Once 
I focused my attention, I could discern four or five distinct passes before I finally decided 
to investigate. The moment I rose to my feet, the subtle sounds of movement abruptly ceased. 
I strained my ears and thought I detected a faint rustling receding deeper into the woods. I 
shrugged it off, rationalizing it as a startled fox or some other curious critter. Spooked by my 
sudden presence, deciding it was time to turn in, I extinguished the campfire, retreated into 
my tent, and began to drift into that peculiar liinal state between wakefulness and sleep. In 
this half-conscious space, I often perceive odd phenomena. So, when a faint voice reached me from 
just outside the tent, I initially didn’t give it much thought. But then, a subtle shift occurred. 
The voice intensified just above a whisper, jolting me fully awake. It was real, undeniably 
real, and it was right outside my tent. I couldn’t discern if it was speaking another language, 
or if the English words were so distorted,   so unnatural that I simply couldn’t comprehend 
them. I lay there for what felt like an eternity, listening, waiting, paralyzed by a creeping dread, 
hoping to quell the profound unease, I pulled my board onto the small granite island. Surely with 
solid ground beneath me, my submechophobia would recede. Yet the sense of dread only intensified. 
The waterfalls roar now a deafening crescendo felt like a menacing reminder of my absolute 
solitude. I realized with a chilling jolt that if I screamed, no one would hear. My husband 
miles away was my only human connection, yet utterly beyond reach. The pervasive feeling 
of being watched heightened my terror. I couldn’t endure it any longer. Irrational fear 
or not, I had to get back and fast. Defying every instinct that screamed for the safety of the 
shore, I paddled directly through the lakes’s   deep, dark center, the quickest route. Each 
stroke was an act of raw will, the chilling sensation of unseen eyes making me feel profoundly 
vulnerable on that vast black expanse. I trembled uncontrollably all the way back. Upon reaching 
camp, a profound wave of relief washed over me. My husband, oblivious to my ordeal, greeted me 
cheerfully. I couldn’t speak. Tears streamed down my face. Through ragged breaths, I managed 
to explain that my silly phobia had overwhelmed me despite seeing nothing tangible in the water. I 
felt utterly foolish. Grateful our friends weren’t present to witness my irrational state. We cut 
our trip short that same day. Later, reflecting on the experience, new unsettling thought took root. 
Perhaps it wasn’t just my phobia. The absence of a tangible trigger, the persistent, visceral feeling 
of being watched. It all hinted at something more. I still can’t explain it, but I wonder if anyone 
else has faced such a chilling, unprovoked terror. My adventurous spirit, undimemed by previous 
unsettling encounters, soon led me to embrace a new challenge, solo backpacking. A group of 
friends and I had planned a trip to a secluded cabin owned by a friend’s cousin, a retreat 
accessible only via a 3/4 day hike from the nearest parking spot with no proper roads leading 
in. Due to work commitments, I couldn’t join the main group for the initial trek. This meant I 
would embark on my journey later that same day, necessitating a night of solo camping along 
the trail. The latter portion of the path, particularly treacherous after dark, especially 
for a newcomer, held no fear for me. In fact, I relished the prospect, having never experienced 
true solitude in the wild. As the sun began its descent, painting the sky with the hues of 
mid-autumn, I found myself deep within the   heart of these ancient woods. I located a modest 
clearing roughly 40 ft in diameter and swiftly established my camp. A crackling campfire soon 
chased away the encroaching chill and my small oneperson tent stood as my lone sanctuary. The 
evening unfolded with the familiar comforts of the wilderness. Hot dogs roasted over an open 
flame guas mores and the quiet contemplation that only the forest can offer. I remained awake for a 
good 2 to 3 hours after darkness had fully claimed the sky. And throughout that time, an unsettling 
pattern began to emerge. From the periphery of the clearing, just beyond the dancing reach of 
the fire light, I repeatedly sensed movement. Initially, I dismissed it as the usual nocturnal 
stirrings of the forest’s inhabitants. But as the hours wore on, a chilling realization dawned. 
Whatever was out there wasn’t simply foraging. It was deliberately circling my encampment. Once 
I focused my attention, I could discern four or five distinct passes before I finally decided 
to investigate. The moment I rose to my feet, the subtle sounds of movement abruptly ceased. 
I strained my ears and thought I detected a faint rustling receding deeper into the woods. I 
shrugged it off, rationalizing it as a startled fox or some other curious critter, spooked by my 
sudden presence. Deciding it was time to turn in, I extinguished the campfire, retreated into 
my tent, and began to drift into that peculiar liinal state between wakefulness and sleep. In 
this half-conscious space, I often perceive odd phenomena. So, when a faint voice reached me from 
just outside the tent, I initially didn’t give it much thought. But then, a subtle shift occurred. 
The voice intensified just above a whisper, jolting me fully awake. It was real, undeniably 
real, and it was right outside my tent. I couldn’t discern if it was speaking another language 
or if the English words were so distorted,   so unnatural that I simply couldn’t comprehend 
them. I lay there for what felt like an eternity, listening, waiting, paralyzed by a creeping dread. 
The shadowy presence outside retreated with a violent crashing sound, leaving me shaking in the 
dim moonlight filtering through my tent walls. A hand had been pressed against the canvas near 
my foot a terrifying physical manifestation of the unseen. I shot upright, my heart hammering, 
but whoever or whatever it was tore through the woods at a full sprint, vanishing into the 
darkness. I scrambled out, flashlight beam cutting frantically through the night, half expecting 
to find a bloody handprint on the tent fabric,   but there was nothing, no trace. I didn’t sleep 
another wink that night. As the first sliver of dawn painted the sky, I tore down camp in a blur 
of motion and practically flew the rest of the way to the cabin. That harrowing solo night, 
however, was quickly eclipsed by a memory far more gruesome, one involving my extended family. 
We were on an outofstate camping trip in Missouri, a gathering of cousins, Katon, Gabby, Eli, and 
two friends, Trinity, and her boyfriend, Kinden. A specific section of the lake was strictly off 
limits, rumored to harbor venomous snakes and   other dangerous creatures. Despite the warnings, 
an unsettling curiosity led us to venture into the forbidden zone. It was night and our group had 
splintered into pairs. My designated partner, another cousin, felt unwell and opted out, leaving 
Eli and me to explore eastward into the restricted forest armed with only a flashlight. About 20 
minutes into our trek, a profound and sickening odor assaulted us. A stench of putrifaction, 
ancient and undeniable. I asked Eli if he recognized it, but he was as bewildered as I was. 
Slowly, cautiously, we followed the foul scent, which led us to a gruesome trail of dark 
liquid. It snaked through the undergrowth, ending abruptly at our campsite. Eli and I 
pressed on, following the trail to its source. There in a small clearing lay the brutally 
murdered bodies of a woman and her baby,   both horrifically disfigured. Multiple stab 
wounds marred their necks and torsos, and the process of decay was already well underway. 
The sight ripped a primal scream from my throat, a sound I barely recognized as my own, and 
Eli joined me, our terrified cries echoing through the silent woods. We were just 15 and 
16, overwhelmed by the horror. But even as terror threatened to consume me, a disturbing 
detail pierced through the haze. The distinct   aroma of my other cousin’s cologne mingled with 
the putrid air. And there, fresh bootprints, unmistakably similar to his, marred the earth 
around the bodies. A chilling suspicion began to form. I pushed the thought away, ordering Eli to 
run back, to scream for help, while I, trembling, forced myself to search the deceased woman for any 
identification. I found her wallet, a credit card, and some work-related notes bearing her name. A 
life abruptly ended. Clutching these grim relics, I sprinted back to camp. My mind a whirlwind of 
fear and disbelief. I genuinely thought I would die that night. Eli and I stumbled back into camp, 
trying to regain composure, where Katon and Gabby were already waiting. I immediately recounted 
the unspeakable discovery to my aunt, uncles, and grandpa. My uncles and father swiftly departed 
to verify my horrific claims, while the others frantically dialed the authorities. The cousin, 
who’d claimed to be sick and had avoided the trek into the forbidden area, now stood before us, 
smelling faintly of manure, his boots suspiciously damp. The police and ambulances arrived, taking 
control of the grizzly scene and removing the bodies. The detective on site estimated the 
victims had been rotting for only 4 hours, a detail that clashed with my initial impression 
of the stench, but only amplified my growing dread and suspicion about my cousin. I confronted him 
later, feigning concern, trying to discern the truth behind his eyes, but he was a masterful 
liar. To this day, the question naws at me, was he capable of such a heinous act. The police never 
questioned him, and I remained forever changed, avoiding him at family gatherings, the chilling 
possibility hanging heavy in the air. His strange, unsettling personality, always the outlier in 
our family, now seemed a sinister premonition. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. It was 
simply unbelievable that he could be involved. We had been camping for 2 or 3 days at that point, 
and I distinctly remember the professional warning us that the bodies were very fresh, urging 
us to be vigilant and report any suspicious   activity. Just recently, I discovered that a 
friend’s mother had undergone a lie detector test. The very notion of a lie detector test, the 
same one my friend’s mother had taken, continued to nag at me. Could I should I ever confront my 
cousin with it about that horrifying incident? The thought was unsettling. My own extensive 
foray into overlanding and wilderness camping have taught me that it’s rarely the wildlife 
that unnerves me. Rather, it’s the unpredictable nature of other humans, far removed from the 
constraints of civilization, that truly chills my blood. I frequently pour over old topographical 
and surveyor maps, seeking out forgotten logging roads, paths no longer maintained, yet still 
possessing a rock-solid base hidden within the dense bush. One morning, confident I’d pinpointed 
such a route, I embarked on a search. What I found was an incredibly overgrown track, yet undeniably 
marked by recent foot traffic. It took a good 50 yards of pushing my vehicle through dense 
brush, the branches clawing at the paintwork,   but eventually I emerged onto what proved to be 
a surprisingly sturdy bush road. From there, we wound our way upward along a challenging path of 
loose rock and shale, aiming for what we hoped was a waterfall or a hidden hot spring nestled near an 
old abandoned logging base camp. I had marked its location as 11 km from the main road. That’s when 
we came upon a rusted hulking relic of a bygone era, an old highle logging crane abandoned to 
the elements. Coming from a logging family, I simply had to get out and inspect it. This 
impulsive detour inadvertently sparked a brief yet profoundly unsettling encounter with whatever 
mysteries this remote place held. As I clambored over the ancient machinery, my partner set up her 
camera to capture the scene. It was then that my gaze drifted a little further down the track, 
spotting what looked like a peculiar makeshift   wooden structure, almost like a primitive pulpit. 
It was built high, about 10 ft off the ground, with a small grass-covered clearing in front of 
it. Several crudely fashioned crosses were planted directly at the base of the ladder that led up 
to it. What truly caught my attention, however, was a small, tightly secured chainlink enclosure 
no bigger than a toolbox fastened right at the bottom. This was highly abnormal, and an immediate 
prickle of unease ran through me. I ventured a little further around the corner and found 
myself standing in the front yard of a makeshift   dwelling, clearly a squatter’s hideout. It was 
entirely self-sufficient, rigged off the grid with solar panels and meticulously hidden, obviously 
to evade any overhead surveillance. I could hear my partner’s distant calls, asking where I’d 
gone. But I simply, and with an unnatural calm, retreated quickly back to the vehicle and relayed 
my discovery. As we cautiously made our way back, intending to snap a few pictures of the bizarre 
setup, a deafening crack of a rifle shattered   the afternoon quiet originating from deeper 
in the valley below. The sound was not merely heard. It filled my ears, consuming all other 
sensations, drowning out every other sound in my hearing range. We scrambled, adrenaline fueled, 
to escape. The second shot rang out as we were clambering into the vehicle. My partner, her face, 
a mask of terror, whispered a chilling fear, that we were being targeted for something unspeakable. 
I, however, was singularly focused on one thing, getting us down that winding, treacherous 
hill. Eventually, the initial panic subsided, and I conceded that camping in such a remote 
area that night was out of the question. We would find somewhere more public. We decided to 
stop at a tourist location, still quite secluded, but popular enough to offer a sense of safety. 
My partner, captivated by the majestic forest, eagerly ventured off to literally hug a gigantic 
tree. As I idly grilled our dinner, minding my own business, a battered first generation 
Cherokee pulled up on the road nearby. It then proceeded to drive past me at an agonizingly 
slow pace, its occupants gaze unnervingly fixed. I tried to appear unperturbed, but they stuck out 
like a sore thumb. Something that beat up so far out in the wilderness was wildly out of place. 
I couldn’t say for certain if they were the ones who had shot at us, but I absolutely under no 
circumstances told my partner about that second unnerving encounter. Once we were safely back in 
civilization, I did recount the entire experience to our local law enforcement who seemed intensely 
interested in every detail I could provide. A year later, I revisited the area. Camping on a ridge 
opposite the suspected location equipped with powerful optics. I located the abandoned logging 
equipment, but found no trace of the strange hidden shack. My mother often recounts a family 
legend, a testament to my great-g grandandmother’s extraordinary speed. Apparently, they were fishing 
in a small creek about a mile behind my great-g grandandmother’s house when an overpowering rotten 
stench assaulted them, accompanied by distinct splashing sounds. As they rounded a bend in the 
creek, they saw it, a colossal humanoid creature covered in dark, matted hair, splashing around 
and seemingly engaged in a joyful, if bizarre, romp. They dropped their fishing poles instantly, 
and my great-g grandandmother, fueled by sheer terror, outran my mother by a good hundred feet, 
reaching the house first. Around that same time, several deer carcasses freshly gutted were 
discovered in the area. And considering we lived in Illinois, such a sighting strongly suggested 
something far more enigmatic than a bear, a creature whispered of in local legends, perhaps 
a Bigfoot or Sasquatch. Our group of eight had started a multi-day trek through New Mexico’s 
rugged back country, but by the fourth day,   a member succumbed to the relentless heat, forcing 
us to backtrack to the closest ranger outpost. This delay set us back by precious hours, leaving 
us significantly behind schedule. With nightfall looming and our next mapped campsite still seven 
arduous miles away across unmarked territory, a journey requiring diligent compass and 
map work, we found ourselves disoriented. As the sun began its swift descent, painting the 
sky in fiery hues, we had no choice but to admit defeat and find an immediate spot to pitch 
camp. Almost as soon as we began to unpack, a low dutal growl rippled through the trees 
nearby. Darkness had mostly claimed the landscape, making relocation impossible. Two of our most 
courageous members grabbed pots and pans, circling the perimeter of our hastily chosen clearing, 
clanging them together in a desperate attempt to   deter whatever was out there, while the rest of us 
fumbled with our bare bags. Traditionally, these bags, holding all scented items, are suspended 
high between trees a good 15 ft from the ground. However, our impromptu sight was choked with dense 
deadfall, a graveyard of rotting trees, and broken branches. Our efforts were feudal. The best we 
could manage was a meager 5 ft off the ground, leaving our provisions perilously close to any 
curious creature. Dinner was a forgotten luxury. Lost and unsure of our remaining water supply 
for the following day’s continued navigation,   we conserved every drop. As anticipated, our 
signs visitors were not so easily discouraged. It quickly became apparent that at least two bears 
were methodically circling our camp, their low growls a constant, unnerving soundtrack to our 
night. They kept just beyond the reach of our sight, invisible specters in the inky blackness. 
The night was a crucible of stress punctuated by fitful, anxious naps. I awoke multiple times 
to the undeniable presence of a bare mere yards from my tent, though the canvas offered a 
thin psychological barrier against actual sight. Morning finally arrived, revealing our flimsy 
bear bags miraculously untouched. We swiftly dismantled camp, reoriented ourselves, and 
pushed onward. Reaching our next scheduled stop, we devoured our sole packet of dehydrated biscuits 
and gravy. A small victory after a night of primal fear. A different wilderness memory takes me to 
the serene yet hauntingly isolated sunshine coast of lower mainland British Columbia. It was the 
off season, meaning our campsite, nestled in a breathtaking, almost jungle-like forested area 
right by the ocean, was virtually deserted. We reveled in the solitude. A profound piece that 
would soon be shattered. Around 5:00 a.m., just as the sky began to hint at dawn, a colossal, 
indescribable sound erupted from directly behind our tent. It was a guttural bellow, impossibly 
loud, shaking the very air. I jolted awake. my heart hammering and whispered to my husband. 
Did you hear that? He confirmed he had. His voice laced with an unfamiliar tension. When 
I pressed him for his theory, his response was immediate and chilling. Honestly, I think it was 
a Sasquatch. I dismissed it outright, a torrent of logical objections flooding my mind. No way, I 
thought. Absolutely no way. My mind raced through every known animal call of the region. As an 
experienced camper living in the countryside, I pride myself on recognizing the sounds of the 
wild. But this defied all identification. Sleep was impossible. For the next hour, I lay rigid, a 
knife clutched in my hand, desperately scrolling through my phone, searching for recordings of 
supposed Sasquatch vocalizations. I know the subject is rife with controversy and skepticism, 
but to my utter disbelief, I stumbled upon a recording that bore an uncanny resemblance to the 
primordial shriek we had heard. Though I can no longer locate that specific audio, the memory of 
its terrifying similarity is indelible. Later that day, conversing with a local in town, we casually 
mentioned the strange sound. His reaction was a calm, almost unsurprised nod. “Oh yeah,” he 
drawled. plenty of sightings around these parts. The indigenous people even have totems for 
them. His matter-of-fact tone only deepened the unsettling mystery. A few years prior, my partner 
and I embarked on a rather unconventional mission to Apple Valley, California, a journey centered 
around a remote set of hot springs where I’d   previously camped. Our objective was to retrieve a 
rental car registered in my name that a friend had managed to get hopelessly stuck on a treacherously 
steep four-wheel drive only dirt trail leading to the springs. I was already acquainted with the 
property owner, a man who resided in a rustic log cabin situated just before the main parking 
area and the trail down to the springs. He was, to put it mildly, a gruff character, a veritable 
mountain troll, I’d always thought. His perpetual sour demeanor, I’d learned, stemmed from years of 
dealing with disrespectful visitors who treated his cherished land like a public shooting range 
and left behind an appalling trail of litter,   perpetually challenging his composed disposition. 
I was convinced that a direct, honest approach was the only way to navigate the property owner’s 
infamous temperament. From our initial meeting, I instructed my partner to let me handle 
the conversation, certain that a little   charm could soften his gruff exterior and secure 
his assistance in locating our stranded vehicles the following day with his robust Wrangler. Our 
interaction surprisingly blossomed into an amiable discussion. He invited us into his rustic cabin 
where he began to share the history of his land, explaining its deep roots as Native American 
territory and its palpable, almost living energy. This resonated profoundly with me as I had felt a 
similar spiritual charge during my previous visit even before I knew its history. I revealed my 
own indigenous heritage and he too shared his discovering we were connected through the same 
tribe. This unexpected bond led me to gift him a small momento from a pow-wow I had recently 
attended. Pleased, he agreed to help us with the recovery mission first thing in the morning. He 
casually granted us permission to park anywhere on his sprawling property and settle in 
for the night. As we prepared to depart,   he offered a parting remark, a sly twinkle in 
his eye. Good luck out there. My car, a Scion TC, was a two-door hatchback with both a moon roof 
and a sunroof. By sliding the front seat forward and laying the back seat flat, it transformed 
into a surprisingly adequate sleeping space. My partner and I found a secluded dirt trail 
about a mile or two from the cabin and settled in for the night. The next morning, we woke with the 
dawn. We stretched, opened the trunk, and stepped out to take a quick bathroom break, heading in 
separate directions. Upon returning to the car, an unsettling sight greeted us. A series of peculiar 
tracks. They began abruptly near a cluster of bushes and ended precisely at the edge of my back 
windshield and rear passenger windows. Each track appeared to be a single large print, almost like 
a footprint, but uniquely singular, running side by side. Stranger still, there were no prints 
leading to or away from the car, as if the entity had materialized and vanished on the spot. 
It sent a profound shiver down both our spines. My partner and I had both grown up on farms and 
spent countless hours outdoors, familiar with the tracks of almost every creature, but these defied 
explanation. A silent shared terror passed between us. Oh my god, something was watching us. That 
same morning, I met the owner to finalize our plan. He greeted me cheerfully, glad to see you 
guys made it through the night all right. I never mentioned the bizarre tracks we discovered. To 
this day, neither my partner nor I have any idea what those prints could have been. The memory 
remains a haunting question mark in our minds. A completely different yet equally unnerving memory 
surfaced from my childhood around the age of five or six. My mother, father, grandmother, and I 
had ventured out to a quaint log cabin restaurant tucked away in a semi- remote wooded area that has 
since been redeveloped into an industrial zone. My father, a naturally gregarious man, was engrossed 
in conversation with an old high school friend he hadn’t seen in years. As it grew late and I 
became increasingly tired, my mother, grandmother, and I decided to head to the car. My grandmother, 
ever protective, scooped me into a warm bear hug. It was then that I saw it. A figure, impossibly 
tall, probably seven or 8 ft, illuminated by some unseen light. It was entirely covered in blonde 
hair, much like cousin Itt from the Adams family, but with more defined features. “It’s a monster, 
Granny.” I blurted out. She turned, her eyes widening in disbelief, and immediately saw it, 
too. We began to run frantically towards the car. My mother, catching sight of the terrifying 
spectacle, also started to scream. The creature didn’t pursue us. It simply turned its head, 
fixing us with an unnerving stare. Just as our screams drew my father from the restaurant, 
causing him to bolt towards us, the figure   vanished into the dense woods, or at least out of 
our sight. I know that the idea of seeing Bigfoot might be a tough pill to swallow, especially from 
the perspective of a young child. But what I saw that night felt profoundly real. We all saw it. My 
mother and I spoke about it for the first time in years just today as we drove past the site where 
the restaurant once stood, and her description matched my vivid childlike memory exactly. This 
next unsettling experience occurred just before Christmas in December 2018. I was 17 at the time, 
accompanied by two friends of the same age and my 50-year-old cousin. We were camping deep in the 
backwoods on a friend’s sprawling property. We were a self-sufficient unit for 5 days. Water was 
our only luxury, requiring a hike back to the main house each day, an impracticality given the dry 
climate and our lack of purification gear. As the sun dipped below the horizon, we’d settle into our 
tents, the fading light ushering in a primal sense of vulnerability. Every night brought the familiar 
rustling of boores and the unsettling crunch of unseen footsteps, a symphony that, fueled by 
paranoia, kept us on edge despite our bows, axes, and formidable knives. Then came a particular 
evening, I believe it was the final night, or the one before it. We were gathered around 
the flickering campfire, engaged in our usual after-d banter, when an anomalous sound pierced 
the quiet. It was a scream, strikingly unusual. neither human nor animal in any way I recognized, 
and I pride myself on knowing the sounds of our country’s fauna. What distinguished this shriek 
was its peculiar escalation. It didn’t burst forth at full volume, then fade, but began as a low 
murmur, slowly building in intensity to a truly piercing crescendo before abruptly cutting off. 
We estimated it was perhaps 50 m distant. Then it began again and again. The unsettling chorus 
multiplied, now emanating from multiple points in the surrounding darkness, drawing closer with each 
repetition. It wasn’t overtly menacing, but the sheer inexplicable nature of it terrified us. I 
remember desperately firing my air gun, hoping the noise would deter whatever lurked in the shadows. 
The sounds continued their relentless approach until they seemed to swirl right at the very edge 
of our campfire’s meager illumination. Earlier that day, we’d set some simple rabbit traps down a 
nearby trail. In a desperate surge of adrenaline, we grabbed our strongest flashlights and raced 
towards them. The bait was gone, but the traps remained undisturbed, a chilling confirmation 
that whatever we heard wasn’t a mere critter. Despite our powerful beams, the woods remained an 
impenetrable wall of black. And then, as abruptly as it began, everything ceased. That night remains 
one of the most viscerally terrifying experiences of my life, a story I often share when asked. 
To this day, I have no rational explanation for those communal, escalating screams. Living 
in Portugal, we have no cougars or other large predators that could account for such a sound, let 
alone multiple sources. I’ve consulted friends, family, even online communities, but the mystery 
persists. Later, my cousin and I were driving home from Montana, navigating the rugged beauty of the 
Black Hills. I had scouted a promising secluded spot for truck camping, what appeared on the 
map to be a quiet deadend road. As we turned off the main thoroughfare and journeyed a couple 
of miles back, we stumbled upon an active logging operation. I pulled over, scanning the perimeter 
with my flashlight just in case they were working on a Saturday, but saw nothing a miss. We 
began setting up our bed in the truck when my cousin suddenly heard a distinct bang, the 
sharp impact of something striking hard metal, perhaps an excavator. He looked at me, eyes 
wide. Did you hear that? Before the words fully left his lips, a second equally loud bang 
echoed through the trees. That was our cue. We packed up our things with frantic haste. As we 
drove past the area where the sounds originated, I rolled down my window and swept my powerful 
flashlight beam across the nearby hill. Two sets of eyes glinted back at us from the darkness, 
distinctly separated by perhaps 6 to 8 in. One pair hovered about 6 ft off the ground, the other 
a full 4 ft higher. They were both fixed intently on our vehicle. I slammed the truck into reverse, 
yelling, “Hey, who’s there?” There was no reply, only a profound, chilling silence as we sped away. 
My best guess is they were standing on some kind of logging equipment, but I still can’t shake the 
unsettling image of those eyes. I plan to speak with local rangers and the community tomorrow. I 
desperately need answers. In the dead of night, I woke to the unmistakable sound of shoveling. My 
partner and I were on a brief road trip exploring the rugged beauty of the Olympic Peninsula when we 
found a free designated camping area nestled near an OV public use zone. Dusk was already settling 
as we turned off the highway, navigating a short dirt track that soon opened into a roughly 
circular clearing perhaps 200 ft across. Five small campsites, each equipped with a fire ring 
and picnic table, line the back of this clearing, separated by slender strips of recently planted 
vegetation. The leftmost site was occupied by one of those 10×10 easy up tents, its walls zipped 
tight with no vehicle in sight. We opted for the second to last spot, planning an ambitious hike 
for the following morning. We quickly pitched our tent, didn’t even bother with stakes, and settled 
in for the night. Around 2:00 in the morning, a jarring sound pulled me from a fitful sleep. 
It was the unmistakable rhythm of shoveling, cutting through the gravel just outside. I 
lay there, listening intently, pinpointing the source to the first campsite. Through the thin 
canvas wall, I could discern the faint glow of a lantern and the thumping base of EDM. I gently 
roused my partner, who usually slept soundly with earplugs in. The look on my face must have 
conveyed the immediate gravity of the situation, for she sat bolt upright, and we began to whisper, 
questions forming unspoken between us. Just then, the shoveling ceased. We heard footsteps crunching 
on gravel, and the EDM volume suddenly surged to an almost deafening level. “What the hell?” we 
both mouthed, scrambling from our sleeping bags. We moved with a frantic, silent urgency, not 
wanting the sound of zippers to betray our presence. We formed a plan in hushed tones. She 
would grab the car keys, start the engine, pop the trunk, and unlock the passenger door. I would 
collapse the tent, stuffing everything inside, and then we’d bolt. As she unzipped the tent 
flap, a new wave of sounds reached us from the first sight. Heavy breathing, unsettling moans, 
guttural grunts. What is going on? I whispered, a prickle of genuine fear running down my 
spine. We burst out of the tent. She dove into the car and I heard the trunk pop open. I quickly 
unfassened the two poles at the foot of the tent, then the two at the head, collapsing the fabric 
into a messy ball, shortening the poles in the process. My gaze involuntarily flickered to sight 
number one. Instead of a dim lantern, a powerful construction utility light now bathed the area 
pointed upward. The easy upup walls were unzipped, revealing a pickup truck backed into the site. A 
shovel handle protruded from a small hole in the ground, and in front of it, a man and a woman, 
completely naked, straddled the picnic table. They looked up, visibly startled, and quickly 
turned away, a flicker of embarrassment crossing their faces. In that moment, a strange sense of 
relief washed over me. At least they possessed the presence of mine to be mortified. I didn’t stop to 
utter a single word. I crammed the tent mass into the trunk, jumped into the car, and we simply 
drove away. What on earth had we just stumbled upon? A different kind of mystery unfolded back 
when I lived on a 30acre ranch in southern Oregon, a property that bordered a river with dense woods 
on the opposite bank. One night, I arrived home from work to an empty house. As I walked from my 
truck towards the back door, a sudden rustling in the bushes caught my attention. We had a lot of 
deer traffic through the property, so I naturally assumed it was just one of them. “Hey,” I called 
out, raising my voice. No deer bolted. Nothing ran away. Instead, whatever it was moved through the 
bushes, took two enormous steps directly towards me, and then exhaled, a loud, deep, profound 
breath unlike anything I had ever encountered in all my years living out here. I froze, every hair 
on the back of my neck prickling as the chilling realization dawned. This thing was far, far 
bigger than me. I bolted inside, flicked on the spotlights, but saw nothing but the indifferent 
night. I’ve recounted this story to others, and they always suggest a bear or an elk. But I’m 
intimately familiar with the sounds of both. The only bears we have are notoriously skittish black 
bears. Whatever took those two steps towards me sounded like a man stomping with all his might, 
and the breathing was deep and gruff, almost like   a bull. It remains an unsettling enigma. Years 
later, I decided to go solo camping near Salvang, California, bringing along just my 18-lb schnut. 
It was early in the season, perhaps early March, and the campground was completely deserted. There 
were no hosts, no other campers, just us and the quiet wild. My solo camping journey led me to a 
first come, first served campground near Salvang, a place where the scattered trees on a gentle 
slope offered an open view across most of the   sites. Being alone, I chose a secluded spot at 
the upper right, embracing the quiet solitude of the remote area. The initial days were 
idyllic beach walks, exploring with my drone, and peaceful nights under a star strewn sky. 
Then one afternoon, a battered pickup truck rumbled into view, carrying three men. Their 
presence immediately shattered the tranquility. They drove slowly through the campground, pausing 
at various points to fire what sounded like smallcaliber weapons into the trees, all while 
openly smoking and drinking. Their eyes lingered on me, a solo female camper, and an unsettling 
prickle of fear began to spread. I retreated to my tent, trying to appear nonchalant, and 
eventually, to my relief, their truck sputtered away. The sense of peace was short-lived. Later 
that night, perhaps between 2 and 3:00 in the morning, I was ripped from sleep by the roar of an 
engine and blinding headlamps. Peeking through a small vent in my tent, all I could discern was 
the silhouette of their truck parked directly   in front of my sight, its high beams blazing, 
washing out everything else in a searing white glow. For what felt like an eternity, roughly 30 
seconds, the truck idled. Then a deafening blast of its horn ripped through the night. My dog, who 
had been growling moments before, now whimpered, then began to tremble uncontrollably, pressing 
himself against me. The engine roared, revving aggressively, and then, with a sickening lurch, 
the truck lurched forward, accelerating directly up the slope towards my tent. I instinctively 
ducked, clutching my terrified dog as they sped past, tires churning earth, the horn blaring, and 
shouts echoing from the open windows. They didn’t stick to the road. They tore a path through the 
various campsites, through the open grassy areas, miraculously dodging trees as they went. More 
gunshots punctuated the night, followed by another terrifying driveby before they finally 
roared away into the darkness. Recounting it now, the raw terror feels diminished. But at that 
moment, I was gripped by absolute dread, convinced I might be killed, assaulted, or simply run over. 
The first light of dawn saw me hastily packing my belongings and driving away. My family’s home 
in a tiny Hungarian village sat at the very edge of civilization, our property bordering a dense 
ancient forest. From my earliest years, alongside my friend Barnland, we treated those woods as 
our playground, though they often yielded more than just childhood adventures. Barnland, a few 
years my senior, first introduced me to the local legends of the the forest man, our version of 
Bigfoot. At just 7 years old, fueled by youthful bravado and a healthy dose of curiosity, we armed 
ourselves with a small hatchet, a pocketk knife, flashlights, and snacks, venturing deep into 
the woods. Our expeditions often took us across abandoned train tracks, under a crumbling bridge 
that spanned a meandering river, and past the skeletal remains of an old house. It was here, by 
the river, that we first stumbled upon undeniable proof. large clumps of matted fur unlike any 
animal we knew clinging to bushes. Barnland carefully collected a sample, igniting our 
fervor. Our family ranch, home to several horses, also bore witness to an unseen force. Fences 
were frequently found damaged, scratched, torn, even snapped in half, with telltale strands of the 
same strange fur embedded in the splintered wood. These discoveries only intensified our quest. 
We laid crude traps, set out bait, and even on occasion camped in the forest, maintaining nightly 
vigils from the safety of my bedroom window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive 
creature. Our first tangible encounter was   simply discovering another patch of that peculiar 
fur. The second, far more unsettling, occurred late one night as I was tending to the dogs. From 
the compost heap near our barn, a gaunt human-like figure was methodically pulling up parsnips and 
eating them. I froze, too young to fully grasp the impossibility of the sight, and instantly rushed 
to fetch my father. He returned with his rifle, and we both watched as the creature, with 
astonishing speed, melted back into the shadows. My father, a man of unwavering practicality, 
could offer no explanation, and even I, a child, knew this defied all logic. Years later, a truly 
gruesome event terrorized our small community. My friend’s rabbits were found slaughtered in their 
hutches, their bodies meticulously cut open,   almost surgically precise, with half their 
internal organs missing. Then, during a late night patrol through the woods as I paused to tie my 
shoelace, a colossal 6-ft tall entity blurred past me, hurtling towards barnland. He gasped, swinging 
his flashlight wildly, and for a terrifying instant, the beam illuminated it clearly. 
It was a being utterly alien to this world, a six-foot behemoth covered in light brown hair, 
built with the terrifying musculature of the Hulk. It literally ran over barnland, leaving him 
with a broken rib, and we never dared to set foot in those woods again. The creature’s reign of 
terror didn’t end there. The town mayor, with whom my family maintained a close relationship, later 
confided in me that he had contacted the police   due to a disturbing number of dogs vanishing 
from the area, telling me that animals would. The mayor’s admission about the local dogs vanishing 
or turning up dead only fueled my own theories. While the community remained oblivious to the 
possibility of a forest man and dismissed the   rabbit incident as unrelated, I couldn’t shake 
the feeling that something profoundly unnatural was at play here. The urge to set my own traps, to 
uncover the truth, was overwhelming. It was clear to me that this remote corner of the world held a 
strange secret. Late that summer, my buddies and I decided to dry camp on a plateau overlooking one 
of the numerous canyons in the vast Snake River   Wilderness. The first night around 1:00 a.m., 
we witnessed an astonishing display. Several lights ascended into the night sky, seemingly 
10 mi distant. Our initial thought was drones, and we gave it no further consideration. Then, 
amber lights began flashing, their glow reflecting eerily off the canyon walls. My curiosity, always 
a potent force, compelled me to investigate. We hopped into the truck, driving down the only 
available road, hoping to get a closer look. After about half an hour, the spectacle vanished 
as abruptly as it appeared, plunging us back into darkness. To this day, we have no explanation 
for what we saw. The second night brought a different kind of wilderness drama. I had just 
drifted off when I was roused by the mournful chorus of wolves. Initially, I felt no fear, only 
a strange captivation, listening to their distant calls. I fell back asleep, only to be jolted awake 
sometime later by the distinct sound of animals running. I bolted upright, just in time to glimpse 
several large creatures, almost certainly wolves, though the moonlight filtering through our tent 
screen made identification difficult. sprinting   past our truck. It was the only time I’ve ever 
seen wild wolves, and their sheer size was truly imposing. Despite the thrill, that wasn’t the 
most terrifying moment of the night. About 2 hours after the wolf encounter, my bladder offered an 
undeniable summons. I desperately wanted to stay put, but nature called. Gathering my courage, 
I grabbed my rifle, slung it over my shoulder, and stepped out. Mid-stream, a sudden rustling 
to my right sent a jolt of pure panic through me. I spun around, weapon raised, heart pounding, 
only to discover the source of the commotion, a cow merely 40 yard away, rubbing itself against 
a small pine tree. I can honestly say I’ve never been so relieved to see a boine in my entire life. 
On a 3-day river kayaking and camping expedition, we arrived at one of our planned campsites on the 
second night to find it already occupied. It was a truly peculiar family of five. They claimed their 
party boat had run ground, stranding them there for days. Their campsite was a chaotic mess of 
clothes drying on lines, buckets filled with fish guts, and an abundance of food scraps and trash 
littering the area. My group, attempting to be polite, struck up a conversation with the husband. 
The pleasantries quickly dissolved when, after the husband delivered the punchline to an unsavory 
joke, our entire group collectively cut him off, making it unequivocally clear that such behavior 
was unacceptable. What happened next defies all logic. The entire family abruptly gathered a few 
belongings, their bottomed out boat suddenly free, and without a single word took off down river 
as if magically unhindered. They left behind all their garbage, their drying clothes, the fish 
guts, and even grandma’s wheelchair. We never saw them again. To this day, my friends, and I have 
absolutely no idea what transpired that night. This next story takes us to Vancouver Island. My 
name is Cameron, and I was 17 about 2 years ago at the start of June when my friends and I headed 
up to the island for a camping trip. We set up our tents on a sandy beach with a thick line of 
woods behind us. The first night was uneventful, offering only the calming sounds of the waves. 
But on the second night, before we settled in, we were all gathered around the campfire when 
we started hearing bats. This unnerved us, so we retreated to the tent, joining the others for some 
scary stories. By then, I was feeling a prickle of paranoia, trying to soothe myself with music as I 
drifted off to sleep. Despite my efforts, I kept waking up every 2 or 3 hours for no discernable 
reason. It was probably between 3 and 4 in the morning when I awoke, removed my headphones, and 
distinctly heard someone or something walking around on the sand just outside our tent. The 
footsteps weren’t an animal moving on four paws, but rather a heavy, deliberate tread, as if 
someone immensely weighted was walking upright. Eventually, I drifted back to sleep. Rain began 
to fall later that night, washing away any chance of finding tracks in the morning. Thankfully, our 
departure was already planned for that day. Still, a chilling thought settled in my mind. What 
if it had been Bigfoot? We were far too remote for another camper to be wandering our sight. 
And everyone in our group was undeniably fast   asleep at 4 in the morning. It had to be Bigfoot, 
the very reason I’d felt such an inexplicable sense of paranoia before finally succumbing to 
sleep. Now, let me share an entirely different, more prolonged series of events that began almost 
a year ago. It’s important to note that I reside in a small town bordering a native reserve. My 
house is actually situated on the reserve side, backed by a dense line of bushes. We’re accustomed 
to hearing about bear and cougar sightings in this area, but at the time these incidents occurred, 
those familiar sounds were absent. I’ve lived in this house almost my entire life, and never before 
had I encountered anything like what was to come. One particular night, I was attempting to sleep on 
the living room couch, which sits directly beside a window. At that point, our backyard lacked a 
fence around the garden or yard, though. We did have a wooden porch we built. As I lay there, 
I distinctly heard something stir in the bush. I turned off my music, straining to listen. For 
a few seconds, the rustling continued, followed by several minutes of what sounded like heavy 
footsteps on our wooden porch. After a while, it ceased. But just a few seconds later, two distinct 
taps echoed from the window. I bolted upstairs, my heart hammering. All of this transpired around 
Christmas sometime between 1 and 2 in the morning. During the summer months, every few nights, 
I would again hear movement in the bush, like   someone or something large navigating through the 
thick tree branches. I never ventured back there to investigate, but I did notice that a nearly 
dead tree, a substantial one, had been somehow toppled. There’s rarely any significant wind in 
the summer, so it clearly wasn’t natural. Every morning, my mother would let our dog out into 
the backyard to relieve himself. At this point, we had installed a fence around the garden and 
yard, complete with two gates, one leading into the backyard, which could be opened from our 
side of the house, and another into the garden. One morning, my mom let our dog out, only to find 
the yard gate inexplicably wide open. She was baffled, knowing we’d closed it the night before, 
and no one had been over. Only our closest friends and family knew how to operate that particular 
latch. On another occasion, I was awake with my mom when she opened the back door, and again, 
the garden gate was already open. No one should have been there. A few days later, my mom and 
I were driving back from town, having picked up some groceries. I decided to tell her about the 
unsettling noises in the bush. She turned down the radio, her expression growing serious, and began 
to speak of stories from Up Island about Bigfoot, explaining that he was a part of our indigenous 
culture. As we talked, she brought up the recurring mystery of the gates opening on their 
own. A shared sense of unease settled between us and we drove home feeling deeply suspicious. 
Another night, after returning from work, I again heard something moving in the bushes. I tried to 
dismiss it, heading downstairs to grab a can of fruit. As I walked from the living room into the 
kitchen and glanced outside, for a split second, I saw what I believed were two yellow eyes peering 
from behind the fence at roughly shoulder height. It wasn’t until I was back upstairs that the 
chilling significance of the fleeting image truly   sank in. The next morning, I went down and looked 
out the window, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. We have solarp powered light bulbs in 
the back, but they weren’t reliably functional at the time. The glowing eyes, not blue but bright, 
had vanished. I still believe a Sasquatch lives on this island, though nothing similar has 
happened since. I was 15 in Sweden when my dad and I visited a vast lake home to an island 
5 km long. At one end, a ferry connected us to a mainland town. We planned to camp on the island’s 
far side. The journey was arduous, a constant ascent and descent that tired us, especially when 
the asphalt gave way to punishing gravel. No one, as far as I knew, lived so far from the town. We 
eventually reached our spot, prepared dinner, and pitched our tents. I distinctly recall stowing our 
cooking gear in its bag outside beneath a small built-in awning designed for such things before 
retreating to our tent for the night. A light rain fell, but we slept soundly. Morning brought 
a startling discovery. The cooking bag lay open, ransacked, and clearly someone had gone through 
it. Large bootprints marred the damp earth around our camp. After a brief disagreement, we both 
affirmed neither of us had been out during the night. The unsettling truth solidified. An unknown 
visitor had been at our camp. Profoundly unnerved, we packed our cooking essentials, gathered our 
belongings, and quickly departed. The gravel roads made our bike ride back to town a grueling 
one, leaving us to wonder about the identity and intentions of our nocturnal intruder. We decided 
not to linger for answers. This incident, however, was preceded by another memorable foray into the 
wild, specifically at the horns of Alberta. It’s a challenging 12 km trek, ascending 700 m, 
with the majority of that elevation gained in the final 500 m as you approach the head 
wall. We knew unequivocally that camping by the lake itself was discouraged due to a 
severe lack of flat ground and tree cover. The preferred option was to camp below the head 
wall. Yet, we decided against convention for several compelling reasons. We found a few small 
level patches where we could erect our tent, albeit perilously close, just 5 m, to the water, 
utterly exposed without a single tree or bush for concealment. Our motivations were pragmatic. To 
escape the ravenous mosquitoes that had feasted on us the previous night, our bug spray having 
vanished to accommodate a friend new to hiking who lacked the energy for a descent and quite simply 
for the breathtaking panoramic views. Hours later, the very landscape we admired turned hostile. The 
most ferocious winds I’ve ever experienced began to lash at us. Our tent, though securely pegged 
and weighted with our gear, was violently ripped from the ground, threatening to become a kite over 
the lake. We managed to seize it just in time, I holding it down as my companions scrambled to 
secure our other belongings. We huddled inside, hoping the winds would abate, but we 
were quickly soaked, partially by rain,   but mostly by the lake spray whipped into the air 
by the gale. Then a monstrous gust slammed into me with such force I felt I might be torn from the 
earth. I was propelled forward, collapsing onto the tent. The impact, coupled with the relentless 
wind, tore the rainfly, ripping it clean off the tent. At this point, the decision was clear. We 
had to dismantle the tent and pack everything into our backpacks or face the utter destruction 
of our gear. It’s pertinent to mention that during this chaotic ordeal, I was under the influence 
of psilocybin mushrooms. Fortunately, it wasn’t a bad trip. In fact, I found myself laughing with an 
almost manic intensity, embracing an unparalleled sense of adventure, despite the very real fear 
of spending the night cold, wet, sleepless on the ground, and facing a brutal hike out the next 
day. We considered descending to the main campsite below the head wall, but with darkness rapidly 
encroaching and the wind and rain intensifying, it seemed an even more perilous option. It 
was a blessing that none of us were lost in a psychedelic haze at that precise moment. A misstep 
from the cliff’s edge, even in perfect conditions, would have been perilous, but under the whipping 
wind and driving rain, it would have been a   certain death. Instead, we sought refuge behind a 
cluster of defiant bushes on the lakes’s opposite bank, huddled together, praying for the gale to 
relent. After an hour of enduring nature’s fury, the tempest finally softened its assault, and we 
made the collective decision to attempt repitching   the tent. Our tattered rainfly miraculously 
still seemed salvageable. With meticulous care, we secured every available tether, every peg, and 
while it looked precariously fragile, we hoped it would hold. Another aggressive gust, or a renewed 
downpour, would surely tear it to shreds. Yet, against all odds, the battered tent held its 
ground. I lay awake for what felt like an eternity, every creek and rustle sending a fresh 
wave of anxiety through me. But we ultimately made it through the night dry and having salvaged a 
few hours of muchneeded sleep. Allow me to preface this by stating that I have always been and remain 
a staunch skeptic. I hold no religious convictions and the concepts of ghosts or spirits have always 
struck me as fanciful notions unsupported by any logical framework. My academic background in 
physics further solidified my rational worldview, which is precisely why the following incident 
remains such an unsettling anomaly in my   life’s narrative. I was a freshman in college 
embarking on a camping trip with a new group of acquaintances, heading to a mountain in southern 
Arizona, where I had previously camped many times   without incident. We arrived around 100 p.m., 
set up our camp, and as dusk gradually descended, I found myself becoming increasingly inebriated. 
though never to the point of losing complete   control. By approximately 1000 p.m., we were 
all gathered around the crackling campfire, engaged in a lively game of charades. Our campsite 
was nestled among the trees with a sizable hill, perhaps 20 ft high, rising directly 
behind us. Needing to relieve myself, I excused myself and began to ascend the hill, 
intending to find privacy on the other side. The moon, nearly full, cast enough light to 
illuminate my path perfectly. I reached the summit and started my descent down the opposite slope, 
a grassy clearing that eventually merged with the   dense tree line. Just as I was about to drop my 
pants, my gaze flickered to the tree line, and I froze. There, standing a mere 20 ft from me, was a 
figure. My vision at this point was still a little blurry from the alcohol, but the sheer abnormality 
of what I was witnessing instantly snapped me into a chilling sobriety. I squinted, straining to make 
sense of it. It stood on two legs, its entire form shockingly white, facing me directly, its presence 
undeniable. Though I couldn’t discern specific facial features, it possessed a notably large 
head, and its pallet skin seemed to emit a faint, almost ethereal glow in the moonlight. I honestly 
cannot recount the duration of my paralysis, locked in a silent stare. But it was long enough 
to deeply ingrain the image in my mind. Then it simply turned, retreating back into the dense 
forest, moving on two legs with an unnerving grace. I scrambled back to the campfire, trying 
to convey my astonishing tale with a calmness I scarcely felt, desperate not to sound utterly 
insane. Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, everyone else was so deeply in their cups that my 
story was met with dismissive chuckles and quickly forgotten. Even I, caught in the celebratory haze, 
had largely pushed it from my thoughts. It wasn’t until a month later that the memory resurfaced 
with startling clarity, and it has haunted my mind   ever since, irrevocably challenging my long-held 
beliefs about the unexplained. What truly was it? Has anyone else ever witnessed something so 
profoundly bizarre in the heart of southern   Arizona? This indelible experience always brings 
to mind a chilling tale from my own childhood set in a quiet Idaho neighborhood. My younger 
brother, often timid, harbored a particular fear of walking home alone from school, even though 
our house was just a few blocks away. One day, I, being the older sibling, was exasperated by 
his apprehension. I had to stay late for homework help, and dismissing his fears, told him to simply 
walk home by himself, assuring him there was nothing to be afraid of. He reluctantly departed, 
and I returned to my studies. A few minutes later, he burst back into the classroom, breathless, 
his face etched with pure terror. It was clear he’d been profoundly spooked. I merely told him 
to wait for me. On our walk home, he recounted a truly bizarre experience. He had seen a jet black 
Sasquatch-like creature moving in incredibly fast circles around him. Then he spotted another 
brown hued Sasquatch hiding behind a shed near our house, also moving with astonishing speed. I 
won’t deny it. Listening to his frantic retelling, a genuine prickle of unease began to creep into 
my own mind. As my brother scrambled inside, a fresh wave of primal alarm seized me. Just as I 
was about to follow, my gaze involuntarily darted across the desolate street. There, bathed in 
the dim, fading light, stood an apparition. A creature uncannily resembling a Sasquatch, yet 
distinct in its vibrant, shocking yellow hue. Its enormous eyes locked onto mine for a 
terrifying instant before it spun around   and vanished into the shadows with an impossible, 
breathtaking burst of speed. I slammed the door shut, fumbling with the lock, my heart hammering 
against my ribs. I saw one, too. I gasped to my brother, my voice trembling with a mixture of 
terror and vindication. We immediately called our mother, frantically recounting the bizarre 
double sighting, only for her to dismiss it as   the overactive imaginations of two boys who’d 
watched too many horror movies. To this day, the memory of that bright yellow enigma haunts 
me. I yearn to know if anyone else has ever   witnessed such an extraordinary variation of the 
creature. That vivid encounter always reminds me of a peculiar elementary school camping trip with 
a few friends and their fathers who served as our chaperones. Our chosen spot was eerily named 
Jefferson Memorial Cemetery, an inongruous acre of uneven grass carved out of the dense forest. 
Whispers and theories abounded in our small town about the unsettling contours of the land. As 
the campfire crackled to life, one of the dads, clearly a connoisseur of campfire tales, began a 
chilling story. He spoke of the cemetery’s origins as a hastily dug mass grave for Civil War soldiers 
whose camp had once occupied that very ground on route to Gettysburg. One by one, he recounted, 
the soldiers began to die, their bodies brutally mangled by some unseen force. Unbeknownst to them, 
the site had previously been a sacred ground for a coven of witches whose dark rituals had imbued the 
earth with a malevolent spirit. This entity, too powerful to be expelled, was bound to the area, 
ensuring it never strayed into the surrounding woods. And so the dad concluded, the spirits of 
the dead soldiers, angered by their unceremonious burial, continued to wail in the night, their 
tormented cries mingling with the howls of what   some believed to be a demon dog. No sooner had 
he uttered these words than a deafening shriek erupted from the depths of the woods. We screamed, 
jumping in unison, then dissolved into nervous laughter, believing it was a cleverly orchestrated 
prank by one of the adults, who we thought had vanished into the trees to heighten the effect. 
The trick, we conceded, had perfectly set the mood for a night of spooky camping shenanigans. 
Yet, to our dismay, within half an hour we were hastily packing up and leaving. Years later, 
I learned the unsettling truth. No adult had disappeared into the woods to scream. The shriek 
we’d heard was real, and the chaperones were just as genuinely terrified as we were, fleeing from 
an unknown presence that had shattered their   composure. Every summer, my family retreated to 
remote island campsites, sanctuaries accessible only by boat. The lake itself was vast, teameming 
with fish, predominantly trout, and catfish. This particular year, my best friend joined us. As 
dusk settled and the adults relaxed by the fire, drinks in hand, my friend and I decided to cast 
our lines into the twilight kissed water. I tossed my rock out, felt a powerful tug, and began to 
reel in what proved to be the largest fish I had ever hooked. A truly monstrous specimen, far 
beyond anything I’d encountered. Fishing for me was a practical pursuit, not a hobby. But this 
catch was something else entirely. My efforts to hoist the colossal creature from the depths proved 
nearly feudal, its weight immense. My friend and I hollered for our parents, whose attention was 
firmly fixed on their evening drinks. The fish itself must have stretched a full 2t, bending 
my trusty rod into a precarious ark. Then, with a sudden, gut-wrenching thack, the line, rated 
for 60 lb, recoiled violently, snapping clean. My cherished lure, Leo, became a casualty, 
flung into the canopy of trees above as the monster vanished back into the water. We 
stood there, shell shocked, screaming at my family about the unbelievable size of the fish 
that had just escaped. Dad, ever the skeptic, claimed there were no fish of such magnitude 
in the lake, and that our youthful imaginations   were undoubtedly running wild. Yet, even 10 years 
later, when I revisited the memory with my friend, our accounts were identical. A massive, monstrous 
fish that simply defied the natural order of those waters. The mystery of its presence and how 
it came to be there continues to haunt me.

50 TRUE Scary Deep Woods & Cryptid Stories 🌧️ Rainy Night Horror To Fall Asleep To
Get ready for a terrifying journey into the depths of the wild – where no one can hear your screams.
True horror stories from the dark forests will make you shiver, questioning every crack of a branch and every shadow among the trees.
From mysterious disappearances to chilling encounters with unseen creatures, these stories are not for the faint of heart.
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