I work with a volunteer search and rescue team in northern Montana. Most of the time we're responding to injuries, lost hikers, you know, the usual. Last week. Last week, we found a man barefoot, half frozen, and covered in blood, stumbling down a trail we hadn't used in decades. We thought he was a missing hunter. He wasn't. He brought him back to base camp. He wouldn't tell us his name. He kept muttering, it'd let me go, It'd let me go, over and over, like a prayer. He hadn't eaten in days.
We offered food, he refused. When we insisted, he screamed. He said it would know later. While the others were out on a call, I sat with him alone and we started to talk. He said he was part of a three man group hunting elks deep in the wilderness. Said one night something found their camp. Not a bear, not a wolf, something tall, thin bones stretched over skin, teeth like needles. He never called it a name, but I did asked a wind to go. He flinched When I said it no, He whispered the when to go.
He said it didn't kill them right away, It took them, one at a time, always at night, always when they were alone. They took Tom first, left only his tongue, then dragged off. Caleb said he heard Caleb laughing as it took him, but it wasn't Caleb's laugh. The third night he was alone, he ran, got lost, starved, heard it whispering to him, not words, just thoughts, promises. He said he saw it watching him while he slept, said it left bits of his friends in the snow like breadcrumbs,
and then let him go, just like that. He said, it stood over him at dawn, mouthful of Caleb's face, and whispered inside his mind, You're all mine. I didn't know what to say. He looked at me with eyes that hadn't blinked in hours, and said, you don't get it. It's not out there anymore more. Then he pointed at his chest, It's in here. I didn't sleep after that conversation.
He just sat there in the infirmary cot, staring at the wall, not moving, not blinking, like the thought of rest no longer applied to whatever was left of him. And the next morning he was gone. No signs of forced entry, no broken windows. The med tent zipper was still latched. From the inside, but the inside of the cot was wet, not blood, not sweat, just wet, like
something cold had melted there. Overnight we followed the tracks as far as we could, but the snowfall had buried most of them, just a trail of smeared bootprints that veered off the marked paths and disappeared into the timberline. That night, I was posted at the south edge of base camp, forest edge, quiet, too quiet. They couldn't shake the feelings something was just behind the tree line, watching,
not moving, just waiting for me to move first. At some point past midnight I heard footsteps behind the mess tent. I want to check it out and found two things. One a chunk of raw venison missing from the storage cooler. It hadn't been sliced or bitten, they'd been scraped apart nails maybe something dull and rough. And two trail of
footprints in the snow, barefoot. They led about twenty yard into the woods before they stopped, like the person who made them had either taken flight or vanished into the trees. We logged it, set motion cams, increased watch shifts, but two nights later one of the volunteers went missing. We found what was left of him scattered across a tree, like someone had hung clothes to dry. Grib cage split
and hollow, tongue left, hole, eyes gone. The cameras caught nothing but static between one thirteen and one twenty one am, and somewhere in that static on a single frozen frame was we saw something, something tall, standing just outside the infrared range, and a few feet in front of it him a survivor, smiling, mouth opened wider than I thought possible, shoulders hunched like he'd grown something underneath the skin that didn't fit right. We shut down the camp the next day.
I stayed behind to help collect the equipment, last one out, just me and the trees. I don't know why I opened the meat locker before I left, curiosity. Maybe here something closer to instinct. He was inside, not hiding, just crouched in the corner, naked hands, raw skin torn at the fingertips like claws were trying to push their way out. His mouth was moving and not speakings, chewing. I didn't move. He looked at me just for a second, and I swear he said something, but I didn't hear it with
my ears. It was in my bones. You don't have to run anymore. Then he vanished, No sound, just gone. I still don't know how, but every night since I hear something at my window doesn't knock it. It just breathes, and sometimes I catch myself breathing with it. Heither, kids, It's me, mister creep Pasta, and I just wanted to tell you thank you so much for watching tonight's video
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