 Since a certain broadcast shared my story, I thought I'd share it here as well. Well, technically this is my friend's story, I'm just telling it for her. All night long, jazz was heard in the city of New Orleans. And true to his word, the axman took no victims that night. What do you believe, listeners? Was the famed axman actually multiple people taking advantage of a situation? Or was he the same man? Or as his note implies, something else entirely? Leave your comments on our website and be sure to check out our next episode of America's Murder Mysteries. Sweet dreams, listeners. And maybe put some jazz on before you sleep, just in case. I hit pause on my phone before the familiar podcast Jingle signaled the end of the episode. Checking the playback history, I see I've gone through seven episodes without stopping, and my term paper is maybe halfway done. Ten pages down, another ten pages to go. My eyes hover over the computer screen, and I contemplate continuing my torture. When I notice the time, 11pm, I remember that dinner is a concept that exists and that I have not had it yet. My roommates are usually the ones to remind me. But they had early finals and already left for winter break. If I don't make myself dinner in this brief moment of clarity, it'll never happen. I should probably set an alarm in the future. My knees scream when I unbend them and swing them over the side of the bed. Four hours sitting still does not agree with me. Cursing, I pull my lavender print comforter off the bed with me and hobble to the door. I can feel the cold of the wooden floor permeating my fuzzy socks as I walk, but my knees haven't recovered enough to go any faster than a newborn deer. When the landlord converted this house into apartments for college students, he either didn't think or didn't care enough to insulate the attic very well. It had been fine when school began, and I was honestly excited to have such a large room. Now, though, I'm just glad I haven't frozen to death thanks to the space heater I keep by my bed. The stairs leading down to the second floor are winding, steep, and narrow. But four months of taking them has made me immune to their wicked ways. I flick the hall light on while heading to the main staircase. The old house creaks and moans in the wind, shuttering the windows as I walk by. With everyone gone, the house seems too big and too dark, and the snowstorm raging outside doesn't help. It's a little weird to me that the attic is the least scary place in the house right now. Halfway down the stairs to the first floor is when I hear it. A wail. I stop, one foot suspended in mid-air over the next step, and listen. The windows lining the hallway continue to creak against the onslaught outside, and the wind whistles as it carries itself over and around the house. Common sounds for a snowstorm, but nothing quite like what I just heard. I stand there for several minutes, but I don't hear the wailing again. Maybe it really was just the wind. My stomach grumbles, breaking me out of my trance and reminding me of the dinner I haven't had yet. Looking down the staircase, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, when I see how dark the first floor is. I bolt down the stairs and slam my hand against the nearest light switch. The entryway light clicks on, and I admire its warm glow before meticulously flicking on every other light in the house. My shoulders inch their way down from my ears, and I finally make my way to the kitchen in search of canned soup. I'm watching my soup spin circles in the microwave. When I hear the wail again, only louder this time. I can't tell if the sound has gotten closer, or if being on the first floor has made it clearer. The direction is hard to make out with the wind howling outside, but if I had to guess, it sounds like the wailing came from next door. A bay window over the sink looks out across the side yard to the neighbor's house. I lean over the sink on my tiptoes, straining to see anything through the curtain of snow. If their lights were on, I'm not sure that I could tell. The microwave beeps, but I'm too lost in my own internal debate to notice. Do I go next door to check on my neighbors? But what if it's just the wind or some animal, and I wake them up? It's almost midnight after all, and the storm outside does not look pleasant to walk through, even just across the yard. At the same time, my neighbors could be hurt and need help. Do I really want to be the neighbor who heard something wrong and then didn't do anything about it? And what if something is wrong when I do get there? What if someone is attacking them and attacks me because I came to check? What if that attacker comes here? I stand frozen in the kitchen for what seems like hours, but is really three minutes according to the kitchen clock. Finally, I sigh and head for my coat. I'll just peek outside for a second. If everything looks fine, I'll board myself up and go to sleep in my secluded attic. If something looks wrong, I'll call the cops and then board myself up in the attic. Easy. With my coat zipped and my pajama pants tucked into my boots, I pull on the front door. At first try, the door won't budge, and I lean back before hearing a large crack. The door swings open and ice falls to the door mat from where the door had been sealed shut. I instantly dread getting the door back open once I return. I warily step onto the front porch, mindful of hidden ice slicks, and head in the direction of the neighbor's house. The wind makes my eyes water by the time I make it to my neighbor's driveway, and the bottoms of my pajama pants are wet from snow. It's only been a minute, but I feel like I'll never be warm again. Remembering my poorly insulated attic room I'll be returning to doesn't help the sentiment. From what I can tell, both of my neighbor's cars are in front of the garage, meaning they're definitely home. Or we're home. No lights are on from what I can see, so I make my way to the front of the house. The front door is wide open. I'm so startled I skid to a stop and nearly slip on the sidewalk. The entryway is a black rectangular void in stark contrast with the icy storm. A small snow drift is forming against the door, already four to five inches tall. Shaking, I pull my phone from my pocket and numbly dial 911. When I don't hear the familiar ringing of a connected call, I glance at the screen and notice the reception out here is completely lost. Shit. I stamp my feet to keep warm as I look between my house and the neighbor's front door. If I can connect back to my wi-fi, I can get a message out. I squint into the darkness of the house from ten feet away, trying to make sense of the shadows. My feet move on their own, and I find myself inching closer to the front door and the mysteries it contains. I know I should run home and contact the police, and I know I should keep myself safe in case of whatever or whoever is inside. But I glance once more at my own house, lights pouring from every window like an inviting Christmas tree. I long to return to its comfort. Yet when I turn back to the open door, I can feel the darkness of the house inviting me. I have to see what happened. Just for a second. My phone's flashlight illuminates my way as I crest the steps to the front porch and into the foyer. I'm too afraid to call out in case I alert an intruder, and I hope my footsteps are muffled by the storm outside. To the right of the foyer is an empty dining room, and to the left is a living room. My neighbors must be avid hunters, because the walls are covered with mounted animals of different kinds. The flashlight glints off their glass eyes as I move, and I can't shake the feeling of being watched. I take a few more steps into the living room, shining my light across each creature. A moose head rests proudly over the fireplace, flanked on either side by a couple of white-tailed bucks. Over the couch are taxidermy ducks, hares, and what looks like a deer, but bigger, an elk, I think. My light pans across the room to the back of the house, catching on another set of glass eyes. The light doesn't quite reach that far into the room, leaving most of it still encased in shadow. I'm leaning forward and wondering which animal the bust could be when the eyes blink. I gasp, my hand flying to cover my mouth as I watch the eyes arc from the floor to my eye level. A high, eerie wail erupts from its location, ending in an uncomfortable screech. I stumble backward onto hardwood, my phone clattering across the floor, scrambling away from the creature, I palm the floor for my phone. Shaking, I manage to lift it again and see the outline of a large animal standing in the middle of the room. It's moved several feet closer in the dark, and now stands, regarding me, splayed out on the floor. Long legs, tipped with splayed hooves, support a lean body and a thick, dark neck. A small brown head rests atop the neck, set with a wide nose and tiny eyes, reflecting yellow and green in the light. While its body does not appear any taller than me, the antlers rise high above us, almost reaching the ceiling. My phone's light cast shadows through them, like barren trees arching across the ceiling. This is an elk, a live elk here in this living room. I struggle to stand up and back away towards the open door, keeping eye contact with the elk as I go. Shadow trees dance across the room as my phone shakes in my hand, appearing as if they too are caught in the blizzard outside. My breath comes in shallow pants, and I will myself to appear more intimidating than I feel. The elk silently watches each step I take, making no move to follow. My boot taps the middle threshold of the entryway, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I quickly glance behind me to ensure I don't trip, but hear a snort in front of me. As soon as I return eye contact with the elk, it blinks, then charges. I jump backwards out of the house and land precariously on the sidewalk, careening my arms to keep my balance. I turn and sprint in the direction of my house, hoping the elk doesn't decide to gore me on its antlers. Just before reaching home, I spare a glance behind me. The elk is standing still as a statue on the sidewalk, watching me run. I slow to a jog, grateful to be out of immediate danger, but confused about what any of this could mean. I catch my breath on the front porch and fumble to get my ice-encased front door back open. A chorus of wails surround me. I stop, shivering for more than just the blizzard. Looking out from my front porch, dozens of dark shapes stand at the edge of my vision. Even without a proper light source, their eyes glow in oil-slick yellow. Within a second, I throw myself against the front door, falling to the floor as broken ice slitters around me. Just as quickly, I stand and slam the door closed, turning every lock I can. Running to the back door, I do the same, checking that all the entrances to the house are secure before running to the second floor. I sit on the top step, watching the entryway, waiting for something to happen. The wind outside howls a mournful tune, accompanied by the groans of the old house. I sit silently for several minutes, my eyes never leaving the door. The entry light flickers, then goes out. One by one, every light in the house goes dark, leaving me on the stairwell in pitch blackness. I struggle to keep my breathing calm, trying to mask my location as well as I can. The doors hold steady, but I hear the tinkling of broken glass and the rustling of something below me. It doesn't seem to be in the kitchen or even the living room. No, no, it's deeper. More like the basement. My blood freezes. I never lock the basement door, didn't even think of it as a possible entryway from the outside. It must have forced its way through one of the tiny storm windows. When I picture the beast contorting its body to fit through a shutter, the thing in the basement makes a good deal of noise as it shuffles around, knocking over long forgotten paint cans in boxes of junk. I can't tell if I have enough time to run and lock the basement door, and the indecision keeps me rooted to my spot on the stairs. When a long shriek erupts from downstairs, I realize the thing has made its way to the first floor. I creep up the stairs to the attic as fast as I can manage without making a noise. The old floorboards creak as I walk, but I pray that the beast downstairs cannot hear me through the noise of the storm. Luckily, I don't trip on my way up the winding steps in the dark. My closed bedroom door greets me at the very top, and I take a moment to recall if I was the one who closed it. I don't remember. The clicking of hooves moves from the foyer to the main staircase, making my heart race faster the closer they come. I weigh the risks and gamble on my bedroom being safer than the danger I can hear downstairs. I slowly turn the knob and open the door a sliver, peeking inside. I see my bedroom as I left it, albeit dark. With one ear trained on the second floor, I swing the door open and glance around. The room is empty. I sigh in relief and quickly shut the door behind me, turning the door handle so the latch doesn't audibly click when it closes. Adrenaline makes my head pound, muddling my thoughts. I sit on my bed, running my hands through my snow sodden hair, and staring at the door. It occurs to me that the door is unlocked, and I scurry as fast as I can to throw the lock, then dash back to bed. I'm shivering, but I can't tell if it's nerves or the frigid temperature of my room. The faintest glow of the moon shines through the snow, lighting my room a gray, barely distinguishable from the shadows. Downstairs is silent, but I don't know if it's because the animal has left or because the hallway rug muffled the footsteps. I pull my comforter around me, and I wait. The wind whistles against the window behind me, and I can't help but think it's the herd of elk outside singing their haunting chorus. Five minutes pass, and every shifting moan of the old house makes me jump, another ten, and I think I'm safe up here in the attic. The stairs creak. I want to scream, as the telltale sound of hooves clacking on wood makes its way to my bedroom door. The creature stops at the top step and pauses for the longest minute of my life. I can hear it huff, then sniff under the door frame. Nothing happens for a while, and it slowly dawns on me that the creature hasn't found a way to get in. I almost laugh, hooves. The creature has hooves, and it can't open a door. I'm still reluctant to leave the far side of the room, but I begin to relax at this revelation. I'm safe up here after all. I just need to wait for the creature to get bored and leave, and everything will be all right. It is strange, though, how the creature made it this far into the house. It broke a window getting into the basement, but how did it open the basement door? I may have forgotten to lock it, but I was sure the door was closed. Maybe I was wrong, otherwise the elk would be able to. The doorknob turns, and my blood freezes. First left, then right, slow and deliberate, then violent, rattling. The only thing standing between me and the creature is a shabby lock and five feet of bedroom floor. In a blind panic, I duck underneath my bed, covering my mouth, so the harsh breathing doesn't alert the creature to my presence any more than it already suspects. The doorknob halts, and the attic falls silent. Something drags across the door to the floor, and I see them, even in the dark. Five charcoal-dipped fingers slip under the door frame, wriggling to find purchase. The nails are cracked and stained black with mud, leaving traces of black as they wiggle and claw the underside of my door. Each scrape makes my hair stand on end, and I clench my teeth so hard I hear them creak. One long screech echoes behind the door, and the fingers disappear. The stairs creak, and I hear the clacking of hooves descend to the second floor once more. I don't know if the creature has left my house, and I wouldn't be able to hear it from the attic if it did. The chances of me leaving my bedroom to check are slim to none, and I retreat further under my bed. Over time, the storm calms and the night ends on a silent note. I can't sleep for a single second of it. Dawn breaks blindingly over a snow-covered landscape, illuminating my bedroom like a house on fire. The light doesn't reach me where I'm at, far underneath my bed. Even with the arrival of the new day, I cannot muster the courage to leave my hiding place. Hours pass, and my stomach rumbles. I numbly remember my dinner, left abandoned in the microwave downstairs. It's not until my joints hurt too much to remain on the hard wooden floor any longer that I contemplate coming out. My arms and legs are frozen stiff, and it takes several minutes just to unbend them. I drag my body from under my bed, and look around my room. My eyes are sore from the hours spent staring at the door, and the midday sun doesn't help. Right now, however, I avoid looking at my door. I know I need to leave at some point, but I can't stop imagining a set of eyes watching me from the empty rooms of my house. Instead, I procrastinate by checking my phone for the time. Noon, I sigh, dreading my inevitable trip downstairs. My hand hovers over the lock on the door when it clicks. My phone, the Wi-Fi, my neighbors. I want to hit myself when I realize I've forgotten about them. I was so cold and scared it never occurred to me to try contacting the police again. The cell signal is still out, so I enable Wi-Fi calling and dial the number. I've never called the police before, and it takes longer than I would have thought before I'm connected to an operator. Ironically, my exhaustion saves me because I sound calmer than I feel as I explain last night's events. The operator assures me they will send a car to the neighbor's house right away, and then check on me afterwards. I hang up and stare at my phone screen. My door hovers at the edge of my vision, almost audible in its desire to be acknowledged, so I turn around and open a Google search for Elk on the east coast. The first result is a summary from a Wikipedia page. Elk were widespread across the continent, with the territory for Eastern Elk extending from the eastern coastline to the Mississippi River. I scroll a little further and read a second article. While Eastern Elk used to populate the North Eastern United States and Canada, hunting severely diminished their numbers, the Eastern Elk went extinct when the last one was shot in 1877. The last Elk in the area disappeared almost 150 years ago. So what did I see last night? Slowly, I face my door and turn the lock. It swings into my room with a creak and I step back. A trail of muddy human footprints winds up the stairs and stops at my door.