Jacob’s Lake had always been our sanctuary—a place where the world seemed to pause, where we could leave the noise and stress of our lives behind. Nestled deep within the Kaibab National Forest in Northern Arizona, the cabin we rented each year was surrounded by towering pines, thick underbrush, and a stillness that was both soothing and profound. It had always been our perfect escape.
This year, we chose a different cabin, one more secluded than the ones we’d stayed in before. It was an older place, rustic but charming, with creaky wooden floors and a stone fireplace that crackled warmly in the evenings. The kids were thrilled at the idea of being “real pioneers,” as they put it, with no Wi-Fi, no cell service, just us and the wilderness. We looked forward to quiet hikes, nights spent roasting marshmallows under the stars, and the peace that only true isolation can bring.
But from the moment we arrived, something felt off. There was an odd heaviness in the air, a sense of being watched that I couldn’t quite shake. My husband noticed it too, though he brushed it off as just the usual discomfort that comes with being so far from civilization. We chalked it up to nerves, the city still clinging to us as we adjusted to the deep quiet of the forest.
The first night was uneventful, for the most part. We unpacked, made dinner, and settled into the routine we knew so well. The kids laughed and played, their energy infectious, and for a while, I forgot about the unease that had gripped me when we arrived. After the kids were tucked into bed, we sat by the fireplace, talking about everything and nothing, enjoying the rare time alone.
But just as we were about to turn in, I heard it for the first time—a faint, rhythmic clicking. It was almost too soft to notice, just on the edge of hearing. I paused, listening, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. My husband didn’t hear it and laughed when I mentioned it, teasing me about letting the quiet get to me. I laughed too, pushing the strange sound from my mind, and we went to bed.
The next day was filled with the usual activities. We hiked through the woods, explored a nearby stream, and had a picnic in a small clearing not far from the cabin. The kids were delighted by the wildlife—squirrels, birds, even a deer that watched us curiously from the trees. It was the kind of day we’d come here for, and by the time we returned to the cabin, I was feeling much more at ease.
That night, though, the clicking returned. Louder this time, more insistent. It woke me from a deep sleep, pulling me from a dream I couldn’t quite remember. The sound was steady, deliberate, like something tapping against the wood of the cabin. I lay there, heart pounding, listening as it moved around the outside of the cabin, pausing near the windows, then continuing its slow circuit.
My husband stirred beside me, waking as the noise grew louder. He frowned, listening for a moment before getting up to check it out. Grabbing the flashlight, he stepped outside, the cold night air rushing in as he opened the door. I watched from the bed, my pulse racing, as he swept the beam of light around the cabin.
“Nothing out here,” he called back, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness. “Probably just some branches or something. Maybe an animal.”
But as he stepped back inside, I caught a glimpse of something in the trees. Just for a moment, a flash of pale skin, too pale to be any animal I knew of. But it was gone before I could focus on it, swallowed by the darkness.
I didn’t sleep well that night. I lay awake, listening for the sound, waiting for it to return. But the cabin was silent, the only noise the soft breathing of my family. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and I drifted into a fitful sleep.
The next morning, I tried to push the events of the night from my mind. We had a full day planned—another hike, this time to a nearby lake, followed by some fishing and maybe a campfire in the evening. The kids were excited, and their energy was contagious. By mid-morning, the tension from the night before had faded, replaced by the familiar comfort of our family routine.
The lake was beautiful, shimmering in the late morning sun, surrounded by dense forest that seemed to go on forever. We spent hours there, the kids splashing in the shallows while my husband and I fished from the shore. It was peaceful, serene, the kind of day I’d always imagined when we planned these trips.
But as the afternoon wore on, the feeling of being watched returned. I caught myself glancing over my shoulder more than once, scanning the tree line for any sign of movement. The forest was quiet, too quiet, as if all the animals had decided to keep their distance. Even the birds seemed subdued, their calls muted and distant.
On the hike back to the cabin, I noticed something odd. The trees were marked with deep scratches, long, parallel grooves that cut through the bark like claws. My husband noticed them too, but he shrugged it off as bear marks, though the way he looked at me told me he wasn’t entirely convinced. We quickened our pace, urging the kids along, though we tried to keep the mood light.
That night, the clicking was louder still. It woke us both this time, the sound reverberating through the cabin like a heartbeat. I lay there, frozen, listening as it moved closer, stopping just outside the window. My husband grabbed the rifle from the closet, his expression grim, and motioned for me to stay with the kids.
He crept to the front door, opening it slowly, the hinges creaking loudly in the silent night. I watched him step outside, his figure silhouetted against the darkness, the rifle ready in his hands. For a long moment, nothing happened. The night was still, the air thick with tension. Then I heard it—the slow, dragging sound of something moving across the ground, just out of sight.
He raised the rifle, aiming into the darkness. I held my breath, waiting for the crack of the shot, for something to happen. But before he could pull the trigger, the thing moved. It was fast, impossibly fast, a blur of pale skin and long limbs that darted into view. My husband fired, the sound shattering the night, and for a split second, I thought he might have hit it.
But then came the scream.
It was unlike anything I had ever heard before, a sound so alien, so inhuman, that it sent a chill through my very soul. It started as a low, guttural growl, deep and resonant, vibrating through the ground and up into my chest. But it quickly escalated, rising in pitch and intensity until it became a piercing, high-pitched wail that cut through the air like a blade.
The scream was both animalistic and demonic, a terrible fusion of rage and pain that echoed through the trees, bouncing off the cabin walls, reverberating in my skull. It was a sound that shouldn’t exist, a sound that seemed to claw at the edges of sanity, threatening to pull us into some dark, twisted nightmare. The kids woke up screaming, their cries merging with that awful noise, creating a cacophony of terror that filled the night.
I could barely move, frozen in place by the sheer horror of it. My husband stood rigid, the rifle still raised, his face drained of color, eyes wide with shock. The scream seemed to go on forever, a relentless assault on our senses that made my teeth ache and my vision blur. I wanted to cover my ears, to block it out, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the thing.
It had stopped moving, just standing there at the edge of the clearing, its form barely visible in the darkness. But the outline of it was clear—tall, skeletal, with arms that hung too low, ending in twisted, claw-like fingers. Its mouth was open, impossibly wide, the source of that unholy scream, revealing rows of jagged, uneven teeth. And its eyes—those hollow, empty sockets—seemed to burn with a malevolent fire, locked onto us, filled with an unfathomable hatred.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the scream stopped. The silence that followed was deafening, almost worse than the noise itself. My ears rang, my head throbbed, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I could still hear. The thing stood there for a heartbeat longer, its mouth slowly closing, that hideous grin fading into a thin, bloodless line.
Then it moved again, faster than I could follow, disappearing into the trees with a rustle of leaves and a soft, fading click. It was gone, leaving nothing behind but the memory of that awful scream, lingering in the air like a poison.
We didn’t wait any longer. We gathered the kids, threw our bags into the car, and sped away from that cursed cabin as fast as we could. The drive through the dark forest felt endless, the narrow dirt road winding through the trees, every shadow a potential threat. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely keep the wheel steady, but all I could think about was getting as far away from that place as possible.
As we finally reached the main road, I glanced in the rearview mirror one last time. My heart nearly stopped when I saw it, standing in the middle of the road, far behind us, barely more than a pale blur in the darkness. It didn’t chase us, didn’t move, just stood there, watching as we drove away. But I knew, in that moment, that it wasn’t finished with us. That it would always be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike again.
We never spoke about what happened at Jacob’s Lake. We didn’t want to scare the kids more than they already were. But the nightmares haven’t stopped. Sometimes, late at night, when the house is silent, I swear I hear it again—that faint, relentless clicking. It’s as if it’s waiting, biding its time, reminding us that no matter how far we run, it knows where we are.
Because deep down, I know it wasn’t just a creature. It was something worse, something ancient and evil, something that doesn’t belong in our world. And it’s still out there, somewhere in those dark woods, waiting for another chance to unleash its terror on the unsuspecting.
Hayden Coombs 