 I can still remember it clearly, all these years later. It was 1981 or 1982, I'm not entirely sure, but it was November. That I do recall, late November. Winter had already crept in, you could feel the encroaching ice in the air, stabbing at your lungs when the sun fell. I, at the time, was sheriff of a small town that sat near the northern border. A town called Kendall. I started there around 69, and became sheriff in 73, but that's beside the point. I'm retired now, been for a number of years, and often I get asked by friends or even my grandchildren to hear stories from those days, of which I had plenty. What's the craziest thing you ever did as a cop? My granddaughter asked that one a lot. You ever been scared? Ever had to use your gun? Probably I tell the same few stories, about the time I was shot at, or the idiots who took me on chases up and down the highway. They're innocent enough for them, which makes me look like a hero, and nobody ever really got hurt in the end. But the truth is, the thing that always stuck with me was nothing like that. Nothing so simple as some thug with a pistol or a junked up teenager stealing a car. Nothing that profoundly moved me, in a way that no man should ever be moved. It began one morning, a gray cloudy day, when I arrived at the station to find a call had been left for us. It was from a young man named Jonathan, an Algonquin native, whose father I'd known well some years back. He managed a small stable of horses, that he would lend officers if we needed to mount up. Jonathan said something happened to one of the horses, but he didn't explain exactly what, and said he needed someone there as soon as possible. He sounded distressed, and there was something ominous to his voice. I loaded up and set off his way, about an hour out from the highway. He lived on reservation land, and my mind immediately ran to the thought of a recent tragedy. A group of hikers had gone to camp up in the reservation, all of whom were still missing all these weeks later. I agreed to go and meet with him, and took off in the police pickup in case the terrain got hairy. He lived in a small house, pushed up at the edge of the forest line, and hidden from the highway by toll brush. My truck pushed its way up his dirt road, and I arrived at the property. I'd never been up this far before, whenever we came to pick up a mount they would always be waiting for us on the road. It was in poor, but stable condition, and there was a dark green pickup truck parked at the bottom of a long, steep hill, and I parked beside it. I could see the stables for the horses behind the home, but no signs of the horses themselves. It was a hand-built cabin, with modern amenities presumably installed by the man's father years ago. I remember the old man well. He was quiet and spiritual, a man of tradition. He showed respect to those around him, and never started any trouble. He died some years back, and I knew the boy took it hard. In fact, I believe the last time I saw him was at the man's funeral. He'd be grown now, I thought, as I climbed the slope. I was near heaving by the time I walked up to the rickety steps of the cabin. I rapped on the old cabin door. There was no answer. Suddenly, I began to intake a foul odor. It attacked my nose and caused me to recoil. I called out, and received an answer from behind the house. I found him in a hole by the fields, and next to him a desecrated corpse of one of his horses. Christ, I said, what the hell went on here? I found him like this, out by the forest. I don't know what happened. I didn't know the boy well, but I could sense an edge to his voice, as if he'd been up for days. He took pieces of the horse and drugged them to the hole and began to fill it. I grabbed a shovel and helped, saying nothing all the while. It looked to be some kind of bear that got ahold of the poor animal, but he didn't seem to think so. There's something in these woods, Sheriff. Something out there watching the property. He spoke as if he'd been waiting a long time to tell the story. I began to notice it a few weeks ago. I saw it stand and still amongst the cedars. It? I interrupted. What is it? Some kind of bear? No, no, nothing like that. There's a spirit out there. I've seen it. I wasn't a believer of the stories and myths that the natives often spoke of, but the look and sound of the young man was deeply concerning. Is everything alright, son? You look pale and sick. You need to sit down for a while. He didn't listen, and so I asked him where and when he found the horse. After I began to feel its presence, I stopped letting the horses free in the fields. I didn't want them anywhere near those trees, but he escaped in the middle of the night and I woke to him screaming. I heard his pained cries echo in the darkness and I heard something behind it. Some unholy rasp unlike the sound of any bear or predator in these woods. His wide-eyed expression added discomfort to an already off-putting story. I refused to go out in that darkness with that thing and I waited until sunrise to go check its body and I found it there in pieces across the lawn, bite marks all over it. He continued to tell me about the things he'd seen. He described the weather growing cold, much colder than it already was, and he told me of the sight of something that resembled a tall man sitting just out of view in the trees. Wow, it would never move into the light, and its inhuman cries that would call to him. They sounded like the ravings of a madman. Perhaps the isolation he had was getting to him. Perhaps he was using, and in the middle of a bad binge, anything I could think of to rationalize the situation. The mutilated horse was a different story, a very real concern. Taking it off as a bare-mawling would be easy, but I never knew one that would kill and leave the prey to rot in mangled pieces like this. It simply didn't match their behavior. He stopped talking suddenly, jerking his head back, and looking to the tree line as if he heard something, but there was no sign or sight to accompany the action. I asked him if he'd gotten sleep lately, and he admitted it had been some time since he could rest for more than a couple hours. I grabbed the shaking man by his shoulder and let him to his door. You should try and get some sleep tonight, son. I said, go into a hotel in town. It would do wonders. I can't. I can't leave my horses unattended with that thing out there. I offered instead a helping hand. I told him I would come back before the sun set and stay with him overnight so he could rest his eyes as I watched over his stable. He and his father had been longtime friends to us, and I figured it was the least I could do. Some sleep would serve him well. He thought for some time before accepting the offer, perhaps only because he saw little other choice. I shook his hand and directed him inside, told him to sit tight and relax for the day, and to call immediately if anything felt off again. So I set off back into my truck and headed on down to the station. I told my secretary about what I'd be doing, and I got a shotgun. I didn't believe any monster stories, but anything capable of doing that to a horse could do worse to a man, and I decided not to take any chances. Before night began to fall, I went home and told the family what I'd be doing. My wife immediately didn't take a liking to any of it. She begged me not to go, and the children looked at me terrified as they'd been eavesdropping on the whole conversation. Convincing them took longer than I thought, and the sun was already mid-set by the time I could finally head out. I got to the reservation as the last of the gray faded and began to exchange for a pitch darkness. The truck lights cut through the dark as I navigated the drive path and pulled into the small lot at the bottom of the hill. I felt something was wrong immediately. Jonathan's truck was nowhere to be found. I rode it off. I figured it may be parked elsewhere, and if not then checking the property was the least I could do regardless. The outside of the home was lit dimly by an old oil lantern, and the inside had a faint glow of light emanating from the side windows, but this was not very reassuring. There was something gothic about the lighting, something off-putting, but I never let my nerves get the better of me. So I took the shotgun from the back, slung it over my shoulder, and checked the revolver at my side just to get a feel. I grabbed my flashlight and began up the long hill. The walk felt like an eternity. The visibility was fading quickly, and I lost sight of the tree line before I was even halfway up. It wasn't until I was in the darkness that I realized how much the stories had gotten to me. Every few steps, I stopped and listened out into the dark, but I received no feedback. I navigated by the oil light like some wise old man following the stars in a vast desert, and eventually I arrived at the porch. I noticed the door ajar, and I slung the shotgun around and held it in my arm, cautiously stepping towards it. I called out for Jonathan, but I heard nothing. I pushed the door in further and began to step into the main room. It was covered in tribal decor and sparsely filled. An old animal hide blanket on some retro sofa and a spectacularly woven dream catcher placed above it. Suddenly the horrific stench returned. It filled my nostrils and caused me to almost gag. It was much stronger now and smelled clearly of death, and I had to step back outside. I took a moment to recover and breathe. I pulled the shotgun up and stepped back into the room. To my right was a small kitchen. The sink faucet was running lightly, and there was a cast iron pan with something charred inside, still warm. There were two rooms on either end of a small hallway adjoining the living room. I worked my way down, checking each one with great caution. Both were empty. The stench lingered about and unease set in. I fought for a moment, and I remembered the horses. I ran out the back door and towards the stables. I shined my flashlight into the darkness to find they were all empty. No trace of anything. The doors were either left open or broken off their hinges, and it seemed the animals were long gone now. My heart was pounding, and I was questioning whether to leave or even to call in backup. I was startled by the loud cry of an owl that was sitting atop the trestle of the stable. A grand white bird, at least six pounds, it stared at me with cold eyes before spreading its wings and taking off. The tree line was now eclipsing the rising moon, and a dim gray hue fell over the property, increasing my visibility by maybe a few feet. I slowly began to circle the house, checking the outside and occasionally flashing my light out into the field. My flashlight was strong, but the light couldn't penetrate into the forest, a black void laying just beyond the edge. I felt the temperature drop rapidly, a bone chilling cold accompanied by a harsher wind. I buttoned my coat and continued on. I found a pair of cellar doors locked with a chain. One of them had a hole busted out from the inside and what looked like a couple bullet holes going in around it. I tried shining my light into the hole. All I could see was a set of dirt stained concrete stairs leading into more darkness. My fixation on it was interrupted by an unsound and unnatural rustle. I turned and shined the light back into the darkness, but there was nothing to greet me. I probed the light slowly across the trees, letting my eyes adjust and take in what I saw before moving along. The flashlight didn't seem to be much help. Its effectiveness waned about a hundred feet out and all light was sucked away as it met the forest. I stopped on an odd looking thing, a thin gray tree that stood out from the rest. It looked dead, sitting amongst a patch of shrubbery. I'd not noticed it when I was there earlier and I studied it closely or as best I could. Something seemed off. It didn't look like anything that grew in this region or any other region for that matter. It looked almost alien, four sharp and malnourished branches bent and hung low to the ground and its base was rigid and sunken. Unlike the other plants, it didn't seem affected by the wind. It stood eerily unmoved. I spent some time trying to match it to something familiar to me, but then it moved. It stood tall and turned, sprinting into the forest. Moving with such an unearthly speed that it instantly became a blur. And half a second later, it was gone. I had no time to register what I'd just seen. I jumped in shock and instinctively fired my gun, but it was gone well before the clatter of the buckshot reached the shrubbery. It was so sudden that for a moment I questioned if what I saw was even real. I had in my head only the remnants of some horrid face that briefly disgraced my vision. There were no details that registered, only a feeling of dread that ran down my spine. I backed against the house, shotguns still leveled on my shoulder, scanning the forest. I didn't know what to do, despite the tree line being about 100 yards out, the speed in which it ran led me to believe it could close the distance before I could even react. I pressed myself against the cabin and began to slowly circle out, never taking my eyes off the forest. I would only walk a few feet before stopping and keeping a keen ear, repeating again and again as I made my way around to the front of the cabin. After several painstaking minutes, I arrived. I stepped over the railings onto the porch, limiting the directions the thing could come at me from. The brief moment I needed to turn to climb, I entered into a panic. I scuffled over the rail and quickly turned to scan the trees again. Nothing. I took a few deep breaths and pressed my back up to the wall again. Suddenly, I heard a ghostly howl that came in tandem with the wind almost carried by it. I couldn't tell what direction it came from. It cried again, and then silence. The cold was now unbearable, and I needed to make a break from my truck, which thankfully remained unperturbed at the bottom of the hill. I knew I couldn't wait there forever, as shaken as I was I needed to leave. I began my tactic again, walking to the base of the hill and listening. The ground was wet and slick. I had to go much slower than I'd have liked to avoid tumbling down. I felt naked, completely surrounded by darkness and going off of nothing but hope. Most of the trip down was without incident, and finally I did near the bottom. Before I could lower my guard, I heard the howl again. It seemed close. I swung my weapon in light at where I thought the sound originated, and my heart sank when I saw a large pair of eyes staring directly at me. It was the large owl sitting atop a tree and looking down at me intently. I took a sigh of relief, but was interrupted when I heard rapid trampling from behind me followed by a loud bump against the middle of my truck. I turned again to find the vehicle swaying slightly. The creaking of its struts was the only sound now. I dropped to my knees, investigating under the vehicle, nothing. I circled and checked the bed, empty. I wasted no more time. I got into the car and turned the ignition. Part of me didn't believe it would turn on, but it did. I thanked God and began to reverse out. I took one last look at the house. The lights had gone out, but in the pale yellow glow of my truck's lights, I thought I could see it, watching me from the windows inside, but there was no way to be sure. My adrenaline wouldn't let me linger any longer, and I drove off as fast as I could out onto the highway and towards home. The scene was something that would never leave my mind, but as unreal and haunting as the night was, the discoveries made the next day have stuck with me far longer. I kept what I saw to myself. Part of me didn't even believe it, so I knew there'd be little luck in explaining it to others. I simply said Jonathan and his horses were nowhere to be found. John's green truck was found on the side of the highway, about 10 miles south. It careened off into a ditch and totaled. There was dried blood on the dash and a stained bowie knife sat in the grass. Various articles of clothing were on the ground, and two sets of tracks led into the forest, one of them barefoot. This had been enough to acquire a search warrant of Jonathan's property, so I, along with my deputies, went to investigate the property that afternoon. The house was untouched, nothing misplaced or unusual since the previous night. I made an effort to separate myself from the others for a moment, searching the grass to grab and pocket the shell that I'd fired. My priority was to check those cellar doors, and after cutting the chain and walking down, I found the source of that awful stench. Blood remains of bone with human teeth marks riddled all over them. Blood stained chains and cuffs nailed to the wall. My mind immediately jumped to the thought of the missing hikers, and my fears rang true as the only DNA that could be extracted matched with that of Sally Miller, one of the women who disappeared. It was by far the most wretched thing I'd ever encountered in my work, and it's not one that anyone at the station likes to speak of. Jonathan was never found. What was left of him and his story ended with those tracks in those woods. I've only brought up the incident that night to my wife and a friend at the station. Martha was deeply concerned, and she had no issues believing me. She was always extra cautious around the forest since, never letting the children near the trees. And my longtime friend Bernard told me it must have been some sickly emaciated bear, and I never argued the point. I didn't know what I saw, but I know what I didn't see. I didn't see any creature of God sitting in those woods. The image of that mistaken tree has appeared in more than a few nightmares, and I never seemed to get a clear picture whenever I think back on it, not that I often try. I retired, never fully closing the book on the case, and in truth, part of me never really wanted to. Jonathan was long gone, and whatever answers there may be, I have no interest in knowing. Some things are best left unsaid, unanswered. The mythical evil that lay in those woods seemed to pale in comparison to the evils in the heart of what I believed was a good man.