November 19th, 1995Man West Virginia 37.7398° N, 81.8776° WTwo months ago, I moved into my grandmother’s house. Some lady in a tan car came to my house one day and told me I had to move away, I didn’t know why. I remember not wanting to part from the worn flowered couch, and coffee table littered with beer cans and used needles, it was my house.My mother died when I was 3, leaving me with my father who wasn’t afraid to let me know he never wanted me. I would sneak into my mom’s old room and read her books sometimes, sometimes dad would catch me, but sometimes I was in there for hours.I had been to my grandmother’s house a handful of times before my mother passed, but I don’t remember. My dad never got along with my grandmother, especially after her daughter died.The dirt road crunched under the tires of the station wagon as my forehead vibrated against the window. The house was nestled nearly ten miles into the woods, far from any main road or town center. A sense of familiarity rose over my body as the battered farmhouse came into view, perched on a hill with chipped grey paint. There was a rusty truck to the lefthand side, and a crooked tree directly in front of the porch. Although I had been here many times, for some reason it felt odd, devoid of life or light. My grandmother was old, so once my grandfather passed, she gave up on keeping up with regular
maintenance, who can blame her.My grandmother greeted me with a hug and a plate of cookies, the smell of dinner already cooking on the stove teasing my nostrils. Her house was simple, a small kitchen with a table, a living and dining room, and two bedrooms upstairs. My bedroom was at the far end of the hall, facing the woods. It was a large room with a single window on the left wall facing the door, and a twin bed in the left corner.The first few weeks were fine. I don’t remember anything, other than the creaky floorboards and walls that would creak and moan when it was windy. The wind would whisper through the dilapidated panels, I would listen as I stared out my window at the swaying trees.Things only got weird after I started playing in the woods. Growing up deep in Appalachia, you hear your fair share of folk tales. My grandmother would tell me tales of Skinwalkers, wendigos, and all sorts of myths. She would lower her scratchy, chain-smoker-esque voice and face the crackling fire, saying to me slowly,“Now listen here Bobby, you got no business messin’ around in those woods after dark, y’hear me?”I would nod; my attention more focused on the slice of blackberry cake I was presented with after dinner. The next day my grandmother had to go into town, and I was tired of reading books and drawing, so I put on my yellow rainboots and headed out the backdoor. It was still the late morning as the hazy sky opened, so I remembered my grandmothers warning and passed the tree line into the deep woods.I enjoyed the peace and quiet, sloshing through the muddy leaves and slippery stones. After maybe twenty minutes of walking straight out the backdoor, I reached a circular clearing in the wood. Odd, I thought, it was perfectly circular as if someone planned it that way. The grass in the clearing was dead, odd since we had been getting rain for weeks now.My eyes then landed on the figure in the middle. A sculpture of a cross, made of twigs, somehow woven together. This was a heavily religious region, and most of us go to church every Sunday, but in the middle of the woods. Weird. Something about the cross kept my gaze focused deep within its woven layers, I decided this must have been done by a skilled craftsman, it was intricate.There was an almost dark shadow surrounding what should be an illuminated cross. Suddenly I noticed the wind stopped, everything went silent, even the birds. It was as if someone hit the pause button on the soundtrack of the mountains. I don’t know what it was, but in that moment my grandmother’s words rang through my head, and all I thought was, run.I ran as fast as my pre-pubescent legs could carry me, tripping over sticks and nearly missing low hanging branches. Running until the woods broke and the house appeared, it must have been over a mile, maybe two.Later that evening, when my grandmother returned, I made no mention of my little excursion, telling her I spent the day in front of the TV. She believed me, and I tried to push that sinking feeling of dread away. Yet the rest of that day felt altered, touched. My senses felt dulled, as if someone put drunk goggles on me without my notice. I chalked it up to over-excitement and my own imagination, but I had never felt this before.As I lay my head on the pillow that night, I was terrified. Although I never saw anything, I had this feeling that something, or someone had seen me. It had seen me and followed me home. My heart pounded against my chest as sweat pooled in my clasped hands. The wind, seemingly back with a vengeance this evening, rattled the branch against my window incessantly.I tried to do what my grandmother always told me to do when I was scared, close my eyes and picture a sunny day. Yet no matter how hard I tried, all I could think about was that cross, and the feeling it gave me. After a couple hours of tossing and turning, I finally passed out from exhaustion.That was until 3:30am. I awoke with a gasp, my eyes shooting open, my hair and shirt soaked in sweat. My chest was heaving as I looked around the room confusedly. I began to assume that I was having a nightmare, that was until I saw it, him.There was a man, average height, extremely pale, even ghostly, just standing outside my window. My eyes shot open even wider. My heart pounded impossibly hard, pounding in my ears and throat.He didn’t move, he didn’t blink, he just stood there, staring at me. His eyes were sunken deep into his face, digging into mine. His shirt was red, a deep crimson, almost as if he just got off his office job. While his outfit was inherently human, his face was lifeless and devoid of emotion.I was paralyzed with fear, and that sinking feeling from the woods came rushing back. Somehow, I knew, whatever he was, he saw me in the woods. He followed me home and waited until I fell asleep.I didn’t see him again until I was 40, thirty years later.

December 13th, 2001
Kissimmee, Florida.I moved away.Need to get away from this shit. I dropped out of school, screw that.
From him. I haven’t stopped thinking about that night, his eyes. I feel them all the time, day and night, I know he sees me. It follows me.
Grandma is not happy; she is in the nursing home though. So, who cares.Gtg. Buddy is picking me up to grab some molly.July 29th, 2003.
Alabama.I am six months clean.Grandma died.I must go home; she gave me the house. Fuck.August 1st, 2003.
Man West Virginia 37.7398° N, 81.8776° WThis place is a shit show. Ever since I moved out grandma became something of a hoarder. There were countless boxes filled with junk; my old room was stuffed to the brim. I was honestly relieved she didn’t leave my room the way it was, I don’t think I could face it.I spent the last two days cleaning out her shit, putting it all in a big ol’ burn pile in the backyard. No matter how much it calls to me, I won’t go in the woods, I can’t even face it.I sat slouched against the dusty couch, a couple open beers in front of me. I quit the drugs, but around these parts, beer is water. Family Feud played on a staticky TV, the only sound in the room other than that incessant wind. The wind I remember from my time here, the wind that was there that night.I never really got over it. I tried to call my grandma once a month or so, but time wasn’t the same. When I thought of home, I thought of that night, that cross, and that man. I couldn’t think of it too much or I will crave the relief of other substances. I downed a couple more beers and passed out in my wife beater and torn jeans, my head falling back onto the couch.August 2nd, 2003.Man West Virginia 37.7398° N, 81.8776° WMy stained and battered tank top clung to my skin, the metallic, putrid smell of blood and sweat stung my nostrils.“Shit,” I cursed with a clenched jaw as searing, red-hot pain shot up my left shin. I blink dizzily, steadying myself against a nearby oak, the bark crumbling against my shoulder. Gritting my teeth, I slowly lowered my eyes, first past the lower slopes of the looming trees, then to the packed dirt stained with blood, then to my leg.I swear my heart fell out of my ass when my eyes landed on what was supposed to be my leg.My left pant leg was shredded from the knee down, ivory bone glimmered beneath a grizzly wound, and from what I could tell, those were claw marks going horizontally across.Well.My trembling hands reach for the cross adorned on my neck, the cool silver pulsating through my trembling hands. I gripped the oak with my left arm, forcing my eyes closed as my head spun. The world rotated at a speed so fast I thought that this was it, I am going to die.After what felt like an eternity spent there, gripping onto the innocent tree, I steadied my breathing, vomited once, tried to steady my breathing again, vomited again, and passed out.I awoke at what had to be the early hours of the morning, or the latest hours of the night. The moon still shone through the dark lines of trees, casting a white glow across the area.Beneath the canopy of trees, particles of light glimmered about, dancing to and fro, weaving. I shook my head slightly; I must have lost a lot of blood. As I raised my head from the ground, my hands caked with dried blood patted the firm ground, searching for anything, something. My neck ached, my head pounded, and my leg, well at this point my leg was numb, which was very much not good.A distant noise snapped me out of my hysterics, soft but audible. It sounded like a twig breaking, then the crunch of leaves, then another twig. As I was listening intently, I realized the sound was getting closer, and rapidly. The once steady crunching now sounded like two footsteps, sprinting.Then the footsteps stopped at the top of a small hill, about a hundred feet away from me. It was a person, my height, slim, and just standing there. With the nearly rising sun I could just make out the features of the person, it was me.

March 19th, 2025
Man West Virginia 37.7398° N, 81.8776° WYou are going to think I am the stupidest asshole in Man West Virginia when I tell you, I have been living in my grandmother’s house for 22 years. When I was ten, I saw a man in my window. When I was 18, I saw myself in the woods. Now, I can’t afford to move out of this place, and I refuse to sell it off to developers.I walk using a cane thanks to my injury from 20 something years ago. I never go in the woods, never. When I was 18, I woke up in that same clearing, at 3:30am. I don’t know how I got out there, I don’t know who or what attacked my leg. All I know is that I saw myself in the woods, turned and ran like hell, just like when I first found the clearing. I ran like my leg wasn’t maimed, because I did not want to find out who that was, and what he wanted with me.From there I stumbled into the house, ran for the landline and dialed 911. Horrifying. That single, unintentional experience traumatized me. I don’t know why I saw myself in the woods. I don’t know if it had anything to do with the man in my bedroom window. All I know is that scared the living shit out of me, and I will never in my life step foot in those woods again. I stay inside all hours of the day, I keep my shades drawn, doors locked, and TV blaring to drown out the wind. I pay a local kid to deliver groceries and beer to me every Monday, so I never need to leave the house. I have no friends, family, or even acquaintances. This is my life, all because I strayed too far from the path as a child.As a teenager, I was a drug addict. It was a result of childhood trauma from my mother and father, and of course, the man in my window. I don’t think I’ve ever really healed from anything, time just keeps moving. I stick to beer and try to hope that whatever entity or presence I woke up all those years ago, doesn’t decide to come back for me.This evening, I tossed my microwave dinner remains in the trash and made my way to the upstairs bathroom to wash up. As I pulled the string to the single bulb hanging from the ceiling, it crackled and went dark, great. I don’t go down to the basement often, only when a light goes out, or I need to fix the furnace. It fills me with a sense of dread and always sends a chill down my spine. Even my grandmother avoided the basement.I steadied my cane against the top step, flicked on the light switch, and took a deep breath. The first step creaked, immediately the air felt like a cold winter morning, causing my palms to sweat. My eyes jutted around nervously as I scanned every dim corner and crevice, there was nothing. It was simply just the horrible, itching feeling of being down here that terrified me. I grabbed a new lightbulb from the shelf as fast as I could and hobbled up the stairs. I did not look back, too scared to see someone following me. I simply shut and locked the basement door and made my way back to the bathroom.I somehow managed to screw in the new lightbulb without falling, ever since that night in the woods, I can’t get around well. Now I stood, hands braced on either side of the sink, staring at myself in the mirror. I looked horrible. I lost my hair sometime in the past ten years, and now I was as bald as my grandfather was. My skin was pale, ghostly even, probably from not going outside in 20 years. My eyes were sunken and dulled, devoid of personality of life. This was a tortuous and redundant existence. Yet I was trapped, in this house, in my own fears.I sighed, splashed cold water on my face and made my way to bed. I slept in my grandmother’s old room because, well, you know why. I tucked myself into the moth-bitten comforter and tried to brush off the residual dread I felt from my trip to the basement.The house was eerily silent, there was no wind tonight. I focused on my breathing for a few hours with eyes screwed shut until I managed to fall asleep.Take a guess what happens next.3:30am.My eyes shot open.The man I once saw outside my window was now standing at the foot of my bed.The same blank expression on his face, the same ghostly sunken eyes, red shirt, and black pants. My heart pounded so fast I thought it would explode, sweat dripped down my forehead and soaked my hair. How did he get in here, why did he wait all these years?As endless thoughts raced through my head, I began to realize something as the man and I stared at each other, unmoving. In my decrepit, fragile state that I have subjected myself to, I now resemble the man in front of me. The same eyes, bald head, and blank expression.All this time, it was still me.It was a 40-year-old me.Just then, it was as if he read the shift in my expression, and a sick, gruesome smile crept up his face. Razor sharp teeth were dripping with saliva as his mouth stretched impossibly far and he began to creep towards the mattress. I open my mouth to scream and-