The highway stretched out before us, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the Idaho wilderness. It was late—so late that the darkness seemed to swallow everything whole, leaving only the dim headlights to guide the way. The GPS had taken us off the freeway due to construction, rerouting us through a desolate stretch of an Indian reservation. We were both tired, running on fumes from a long day, but the red-eye flight was the only one that fit our budget. It was about 3 a.m. and we still had a few more hours before we’d reach the airport. We hadn’t planned on this detour, but what could we do? We trusted the GPS.
The land around us was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that presses in on you, making you feel like the world has stopped turning. The radio was low, our conversation had died down, and the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of light from passing road signs was all that filled my mind. My hands were steady on the wheel, but a gnawing sense of unease had settled into the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t explain why, but something felt…off.
That’s when we saw her.
A small figure, sitting alone on the corner of the road. She was just a child, no more than six or seven, dressed in a simple white dress that seemed to glow under the pale moonlight. My heart skipped a beat. What was a child doing out here at this hour? Instinctively, I slowed the car as we approached. My wife had dosed off, so I nudged her and asked if she was seeing the same thing I was.
My wife leaned forward, her brow furrowed in concern.
“We should stop,” she said, her voice laced with worry. “She could be lost.”
I nodded, but something about the situation didn’t feel right. As we got closer, I could make out more details: the way her hair hung limply around her face, the dirt smudged on her dress, the way she sat perfectly still, as if waiting for something. But it was her face that sent a chill down my spine. It looked…wrong. Like someone had tried to create a child’s face from memory but had missed the mark. Her skin was too smooth, her features too perfect, too symmetrical. And her eyes—those eyes—were bottomless pits of darkness, devoid of light or life.
The feeling of unease exploded into full-blown terror. Every instinct screamed at me to get away. My wife must have felt it too because she suddenly gasped, her hand gripping my arm tightly.
“Keep driving,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
I didn’t need to be told twice. I slammed my foot on the gas, the car lurching forward as we sped past the girl. My heart pounded in my chest, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I glanced in the rearview mirror, half-expecting her to still be sitting there. But she wasn’t. Instead, she was running after us, her legs moving unnaturally fast, almost like she was gliding across the ground. Her eyes, those inhuman eyes, were locked on us, filled with a cold, malevolent hunger.
“Go faster!” my wife’s voice was strained with fear.
I floored it, the engine roaring as we tore down the road. I didn’t look back again, couldn’t bring myself to. All I could think about was getting away, putting as much distance as possible between us and that thing. After what felt like an eternity, the road finally curved, and the girl vanished from sight. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, my hands shaking as I gripped the wheel.
My wife was silent beside me, her face pale. I didn’t know what to say, so I just kept driving, hoping that whatever we had just seen was far behind us.
But the night had other plans.
A few miles down the road, we spotted something else. At first, I thought it was just another trick of the darkness, a shadow cast by a tree or a piece of debris on the road. But as we got closer, it became clear that it was a dog—only it wasn’t. The creature was standing on its hind legs, its form hunched and twisted in a way that defied explanation. It had the shape of a dog, but its eyes…they were the same as the girl’s. Black, empty, and terrifyingly aware.
It watched us as we approached, its head turning to follow our movement. There was an intelligence in its gaze, something predatory and calculating. It didn’t move to chase us, didn’t need to. The way it just stood there, silently observing, was enough to freeze my blood. I could feel its stare even after we passed it, a weight pressing down on us, a reminder that we were not alone out here.
We drove in silence for what felt like hours, the barren fields on either side of the road stretching out endlessly. Every now and then, I would catch a glimpse of something in the darkness, a shadow flitting through the tall grass, a shape running parallel to us. Whatever it was, it was fast—unnaturally fast. We were going 70, maybe 80 miles per hour, but this thing was keeping up with us effortlessly.
I tried to focus on the road, but my mind kept racing, replaying the events of the last hour over and over. What were we seeing? How was any of this possible? I wanted to believe it was just exhaustion playing tricks on us, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t. This was real. Too real.
Finally, we reached a small town, the first sign of civilization in what felt like an eternity. The lights of a gas station glowed like a beacon in the night, and I pulled in, desperate for a break from the relentless terror that had gripped us. My wife was still shaking when we got out of the car, her eyes wide and unfocused.
“I need to use the restroom,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Okay,” I replied, forcing myself to sound calm. “I’ll get us something to drink.”
We walked inside together, neither of us wanting to be alone. The gas station was empty, save for the woman behind the counter. She was older, her long black hair streaked with gray, her face lined with age and wisdom. As my wife headed to the restroom, I made my way to the coolers and grabbed an energy drink, hoping the caffeine would help clear my mind.
When I approached the counter, the woman looked at me with piercing eyes, as if she could see right through me. I tried to shake off the feeling, handing her the drink and a few snacks. But when I mentioned needing something strong to keep me awake, she paused, her expression darkening.
“There’s a lot of bad juju out in these parts,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with warning. “You’re not seeing things. What you encountered… it’s real.”
I felt a shiver run down my spine. “What do you mean?”
She glanced around, as if checking to make sure we were alone, then leaned in closer. “This land is old, older than you can imagine. There are things here that have been around long before we ever set foot on it. Some of them are good, but others… others are not. You crossed paths with one of the bad ones.”
My mouth went dry. I didn’t say anything, but a single word came to my mind: Skinwalker.
The woman nodded slowly. “They can take many forms—animals, people, whatever they need to get close to you. But they’re not what they appear to be. They’re dangerous, and once they’ve marked you, they won’t stop until they get what they want.”
A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. “What do they want?”
She shook her head, her eyes filled with a sadness that cut deep. “That depends on them. But you’re lucky you didn’t stop for that child. If you had, you wouldn’t be here now.”
I swallowed hard, my thoughts racing. All I wanted was to get out of there, to put this nightmare behind us. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t over, that something was still out there, watching, waiting. And how did this lady know what I experienced, what I was thinking?
My wife emerged from the restroom then, her face still pale but determined. She gave me a weak smile, and I knew she was trying to be brave for both of us.
“Ready to go?” she asked.
I nodded, thanking the woman quickly before we headed back to the car. As we pulled out of the gas station, I couldn’t help but glance at the fields one last time. The darkness seemed thicker, more oppressive, as if it was hiding something just out of sight. But whatever was out there, it wasn’t following us anymore. At least, that’s what I told myself.
The rest of the drive was uneventful, but the tension never left us. Even when we reached the airport and boarded our flight, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had barely escaped with our lives. The images of the child, the dog, the shadows in the fields—they haunted my dreams for weeks afterward.
We never spoke about it again, my wife and I. There was an unspoken agreement between us to leave that night buried in the past, where it belonged. But every now and then, when the night is quiet and the wind howls through the trees, I find myself remembering those eyes—those dark, empty eyes—and I wonder if we truly left that place behind, or if it’s still out there, waiting for the right moment to find us again.
Over the weeks that followed, I found myself replaying the events of that night, searching for answers that never came. I’d stare out the window during long drives, half-expecting to see a shadow in the distance, something fast and silent, keeping pace with us just out of sight. I knew my wife was struggling with it too. She would wake in the middle of the night, her breaths shallow and her eyes wide, as if she’d been jolted from a nightmare she couldn’t escape.
One evening, after a particularly restless night, she turned to me and said, “Do you think it’s still out there? Do you think it’s looking for us?”
I didn’t have an answer. How could I? All I could do was hold her close and hope that whatever had marked us, whatever had chased us through the empty fields of that reservation, had lost interest. But deep down, I knew the truth: once something like that has your scent, it’s hard to shake it off.
A few months later, we were driving through a different part of the country, on a trip meant to clear our minds and put some distance between us and that night. The landscape was different—rolling hills and dense forests instead of barren fields—but the feeling was the same. The unease, the constant need to check the mirrors, to watch the shadows. I told myself it was just paranoia, that we were safe, but the fear never truly left.
It’s been years now since that night. We’ve moved on with our lives, built new memories, and tried to leave the past behind. But every so often, when the wind is just right and the night is just dark enough, I find myself thinking about those eyes, those impossibly black eyes that stared at us from the corner of the road. I wonder if they’re still out there, somewhere in the dark, waiting for another unsuspecting traveler to cross their path. And I wonder if, one day, we might find ourselves on another lonely stretch of highway, with those eyes watching us once mor
Hayden Coombs 