When I was a kid, playing deep in the old woods behind our house, I heard a scream. It didn’t sound like an animal. It sounded like a soul being torn apart. My dad grabbed me, dragging me toward the tree line. "Don't look back! Just run!" "It's coming out!" I asked him what was coming out. He shook his head, his face pale. "No one knows its name. Everyone who sees it dies." Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks. I looked up and saw a pair of massive, pale hands covered in white fur resting on my dad's shoulders. My dad screamed one last thing: "Run!" Then those hands dragged him backward into the darkness of the treeline. Twenty years later, I built a hunting team to go back into those woods. 1 "Everyone who sees it dies." That voice, intimate yet terrifying, echoed in my ears. I spun around in the pitch-black space, trying to find the source. But there was nothing but a vortex of darkness, wrapping around my fear and grief, suffocating me. A familiar sensation crept up behind me. I turned and saw a massive hand dragging a silhouette into the abyss. I couldn't see the face, but I saw the shoes. Blue and white Nikes. They stabbed into my heart like a knife. I ran forward, desperate. But the figure was dragged further away, disappearing into the void. I screamed for him not to leave me. The only answer was silence. I tried to chase him, but a piercing shriek froze me in place. "Run!" I stood paralyzed. In the endless dark ahead, two blood-red eyes snapped open. My heart spasmed violently. I felt like I was dying. Those red eyes got closer. A pale hand, covered in white fur, reached out from the shadows. I screamed, "No!" The next second, I jolted awake in my bed, my back drenched in cold sweat. It took minutes for the trembling to stop. That scene from when I was eight years old had haunted me for two-thirds of my life. Every few days, I dreamed of it. My dad’s last cry for help. For twenty years, I didn't have the courage to face those woods. Even passing by a cluster of trees made me feel like those red eyes were watching, waiting for me to step in. It shouldn't have been him. It should have been me. I spent twenty years researching what It was. Folklore varied. Some called it a Devil Monkey, others a Wendigo, or a Skinwalker. But like my dad said: "No one knows its name. Everyone who sees it dies." No. That wasn't entirely accurate. My dad traded his life for mine. I became the first person to see it and live. Records of the creature went back over a hundred years. A group of trappers went into the deep woods. Only the guy left at the base camp survived. He heard a scream, and then his friends' heads were tossed out of the tree line. It became a local legend. Hunting parties were formed, but for decades, nothing was found. It vanished as if it never existed. Then, in the late 90s, it reappeared. A group of hikers. The guide went to take a leak, heard a scream, and came back to five bloody corpses. The forest rangers searched for two weeks and found nothing. The third time it appeared, it took my dad. I told the police, but they found no trace. But a plan had been brewing in my mind for twenty years. I got out of bed, stood by the window, and made a call. "Is the team ready?" "This time, it's not getting away." 2 "This is Sarge. That's Dutch." My best friend, Mike, introduced me to the two men. They were veteran hunters, ex-military. I paid a fortune to get them. They had survival skills that could keep them alive in hell. They only agreed when I put fifty grand on the table. The woods were a remote branch of the Appalachian Mountains. Rarely visited, except by a few locals living off the grid. My dad had taken me there for a distant relative's funeral all those years ago. It took us a full day of travel to reach the village on the edge of the forest. The old village head welcomed us, but when he heard what we were after, he turned pale. "Son, listen to me. Don't go in there." "That thing takes lives. Everyone who sees it dies." My voice was low. "I know you mean well, Uncle. But I have to go. I saw it when I was a kid. It took my father." The old man paused, frowning deeply. "Son, leave now. That thing... it can smell you. It might come down the mountain tonight just to finish the job." That was a new detail. Inside his cabin, the village head told us what he knew. No one knew exactly what it was. It looked like an ape, but its scream was unearthly. Its bite force was stronger than a bear or a tiger. People found in the past had their skulls crushed. It usually stayed dormant unless something woke it up. But again, no survivors meant no details. As for the smell? A few years ago, a group of poachers went up in winter, looking for easy fur. They heard the scream. They tried to retreat, but one by one, they were picked off. Only one old poacher made it down. He claimed he saw it—huge, pale hands. Hands strong enough to snap a neck like a twig. He thought he was safe. The next morning, the villagers found a hole in his roof. The poacher was gone. They found him that afternoon by a creek. His head was crushed. Giant prints surrounded the body. Rumor had it the creature fled because the police brought heavy firepower. Sarge and Dutch exchanged a look. "This thing sounds supernatural." I looked at them. "You can back out now. I won't force you." Sarge shook his head. "I'm in. My mom needs surgery, and this money saves her." Dutch shrugged. "I need the cash for my wedding. I'm in." Seeing he couldn't stop us, the village head went to his shed and came back with two sticks of old mining explosives. "Leftover from when they blasted the road years ago. Don't know if they still work, but take 'em. If you can kill that thing, we can all sleep easier." I thanked him. That night, the creature didn't come for me. But none of us slept well. The next morning, under a heavy fog, we stepped into the woods. 3 "Fog's thick. Stay close," Sarge ordered, taking point. "Don't get more than ten feet apart." Dutch took the rear, armed with a compound crossbow and two combat knives. If something jumped us, the crossbow was silent and deadly. Mike and I were in the middle, carrying jagged triangular bayonets—military surplus. Nasty things. One stab leaves a wound that doesn't close. We walked for ten minutes. The fog got thicker. The forest was dead silent. It felt like walking into the mouth of a sleeping beast. Sarge slowed down, tightening the formation. Nothing happened for the first half-hour. We found a clearing to rest. Sarge looked around, frowning. "Something's wrong. This place... it ain't right." Dutch nodded. Mike and I were confused. We were street fighters, not woodsmen. Sarge explained. "A forest this deep shouldn't be this quiet. Birds, bugs, small game... there should be noise. Deer, boars, badgers—they aren't usually this scared of humans because nobody comes out here." "But it's dead silent. That usually means one of two things." "One: A natural disaster is coming. Fire, flood, quake. Animals sense it and bolt." "Two: This is the territory of an apex predator. Something so terrifying that everything else cleared out." We all leaned toward option two. It meant It was nearby. We sat back-to-back, weapons drawn, listening. Usually, a predator would have attacked by now. A tiger or bear would smell us entering their turf immediately. The fact that we hadn't been attacked yet was unnerving. It meant the thing was smart. Cunning. After a while, we moved on. As we approached a creek, Sarge stopped again. Still silent. No animals drinking. That was terrifying. It meant this thing was the absolute ruler here. Nothing dared to even take a sip of water. Sarge bent down, examining something on the ground. It was a shard of bone. But it looked carved. Like a knife. Why would a bone knife be this deep in the woods? 4 "What the hell?!" Mike screamed. We spun around to see him hanging upside down in the air. A snare trap. Hidden perfectly in the leaves. I rushed forward with my knife to cut him down. "Wait!" Dutch hissed. "We've got company." I looked around. Figures emerged from the mist. Men painted in camouflage made of mud and crushed plants. They stared at us with hostile eyes. Their voices were guttural, their English broken and archaic. "Leave. You. Go." "Not welcome." I froze. What year was this? Sarge stepped forward, speaking a few words in a dialect I didn't recognize. Their expressions softened slightly. "Mountain folk," Sarge whispered to us. "They live off the grid. Old ways." They weren't cavemen, just isolated. They traded furs occasionally but kept to themselves. Their camouflage was so good we hadn't seen them until they moved. There were only about five of them. Probably all the men of their small clan. Sarge spoke to them for a moment, then turned back to us, looking grim. "We have to go. They're kicking us out. They say the 'Old One' told them to catch us." My head spun. The thing gives orders to humans? It made sense in a twisted way. If they lived here, they had to coexist with it. We cut Mike down and retreated to the edge of their territory, herded by their spears and bone knives. Once we were clear, they vanished back into the foliage. Sarge looked at me. "Boss... they don't call it a beast. They call it 'Abaha'." "Like a god?" I asked. "Yeah. The Mountain God. The Supreme Spirit." Sarge explained. In these mountains, the old folklore runs deep. Abaha isn't just a monster; it's a totem. A deity. To them, its orders are divine law. But Sarge added, "Tribes often call powerful creatures manifestations of gods. A massive tiger might be called the Mountain Lord. Doesn't mean it's magic. Just means it's top of the food chain." I frowned. "So we can't hunt it?" Sarge pointed to a ridge in the distance. "We circle around their territory. Over there. We lure the Abaha out. Then we kill it."
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