Now I have a dog man's story here, you guys may think is pretty interesting. It happens in California. Here's what the man writes. I live in a remote part of Antelope Valley in southern California, nestled against the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, next to Devil's Punch Bowl Park. My property stretches across two and a half acres, fenced in and secluded enough that isolation has become its own kind of companion. My nearest neighbor lives half a mile away.
In their porch. Light is like a distant star on the horizon. The nights are thick with silence and mystery. For the past ten years, this land has been home, but it's never been entirely mine. Something else claims it too. From the moment I moved in, I felt it a strange energy that seeped into my bones, both inside the house and out. The quality of the energy wasn't hostile, but it wasn't exactly friendly either. Now this land is harsh and unforgiving, a high desert sitting directly on the
San Andreas Fault. At times, deep underground subtle rumbles reached the surface, vibrating through my body as though it wants to remind me that it is alive. The previous owners were an elderly couple. They had lived there together for almost twenty five years and operated a horse rescue business. Sadly, the lady of the house had recently passed away, and the husband decided to sell the property and move on.
I remember one time, while I was having a conversation with the man, I felt the strange energy come over me. I took a chance and casually mentioned it to him, then watched his eyes well with tears. I saw a hint of longing in his face, as if he knew exactly what I meant, and I was already missing it. I think all the horses that lived on the property
left a con presence there which still remains. Despite the negative experiences that I had in the first few months after I moved in, sleep was not a refuge but a battleground. Night after night, I found myself trapped in the clutches of vivid sleep paralysis. My body was heavy and unyielding, and it felt like it belonged to someone else. Dark, shadowy shapes gathered above me, their forms amorphous and shifting
like smoke. Their presence was unmistakably oppressive. They whispered in voices just barely audible, their hissing tones brushing against my ears like an invasive wind. But the worst part was the hand. It was cold and unseen and impossibly strong, and it would wrap around my own locking it in a crushing grip. No matter how much I strained, I couldn't break free. My hand was immobilized, and I could feel a taunting pressure in its grasp, as if the
entity was mocking my helplessness. So every night the terror grew worse, and I felt violated, like a prisoner in my own bed, unable to defend myself against an enemy that I could not see. For weeks, I endured this, too, afraid to fight back, unsure if I even could. But one night the fear gave way to anger, pure unfiltered anger, and I had had enough. Lying there, unable to move, I summoned every ounce of courage I had. My voice didn't reach my lips, but it echoed in my mind,
loud and defiant. Now you've had your fun, and you wanted to terrorize me, and you succeeded, But no more enough of this nonsense. Leave me, kill me if you must, but you will never win. The room fell deathly silent, the kind of silence that feels alive, pressing against your ears. And then, as quickly as they had come, the shadows receded, the whispers stopped, the crushing grip on my hand released, leaving me trembling but free. That was the last night
they visited. I don't know if it was my defiance or something else that drove them away, but they left. The house felt quieter after that. It was less heavy, though the memory of those nights still lingered like a scar. I won that battle, but I've never been certain of the war. Although the house became quieter after that, outside, the feeling of being watched grew stronger, especially at night. Still today, every evening, even when I arrived home and step out of my car to open the gate, I
feel the eyes on me. Not human eyes. There's something else, something heavy and deliberate. I walked my property at night with my three fearless massive wolfhounds, and on some nights they stopped dead in their tracks, refusing to move, their hackles rise and their gazes fixed on the darkness. The first few times panic gripped me. It was as if an invisible line had been drawn one I dared not cross. My fear was a tangible thing, gripping me tighter with
every step. And then I heard it, a voice in my mind, calm but commanding. As long as you don't actively look for me, you'll be fine, it said. The voice was not a threat, but a warning, and the words lingered, and while they didn't erase the fear, they dulled its edge. Since that night, I stayed on my side of the line, keeping my walks brief and my gaze low, but the presence never left. The nights when the codes hauled were almost comforting, their halls familiar and alive.
But then there were the silent nights when my dogs, usually very bold, stood frozen, ears flat, refusing to bark. Those were the nights I knew that it was near. Since then, I never sought it out, never tried to pierce the veil of darkness around me. But sometimes I can't help but wonder, as I stand under the vast, starless sky, what watches from the shadows, and why does it let me stay. I've seen it only in glimpses, the blackest of black shadows and low to the ground,
with the unmistakable shape of a massive K nine. It never crosses the boundary, but it doesn't have to because I don't challenge it. Somehow, I know that would be my undoing. For ten years, I've called this place home. Yet every night reminds me that I'm not alone. The truth that I've struck with whatever claims this land has held steady, but the uneasy balance is not without its moments.
Living here means accepting the inexplicable as part of life, like the black shadows of glimpsed in the corner of my eye, or the faint vibrations underfoot when the earth seems to breathe. One night, about two years ago, I experienced something I still struggled to make sense of. It was a quiet, moonless evening, the kind of night where the darkness felt heavier than usual. The air was colder than it should have been for the season. It was
almost damp, and my dogs were restless. I stepped out to take them for a walk around the perimeter, but they wouldn't budge from the porch. Their bodies were stiff, their tails were low, and eyes were locked on the tree line at the edge of the property, and that's when I saw it, something massive, moving just beyond the fence. Its shape was indistinct, cloaked in the shadow, but its sheer size ruled out any ordinary predator. It wasn't a
coyote or a mountain lion. It was something bigger, heavier, and utterly alien in the way it moved. At first, it seemed to glide without effort, but then its motion fragmented and shuddered, like an image caught in a flickering light. It was as if it existed in flashes, each appearance, momentarily bending the darkness around it like ripples in black water. The effect was hypnotic and deeply unsettling, as though the creature was not entirely bound to the same reality that
I inhabited. I froze there and stood, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum. A low, rumbling growl rose from my dogs, and the sound reverberated through the still night air. But even then they did not move closer. The creature stopped abruptly, and the shifting light seemed to dissolve into stillness. That's when I saw them, two glowing orbs unmistakably eyes shining with a faint, other worldly luminescence. They reflected a light that wasn't there, as if pulling
brightness from some unseen source. Those eyes locked on to me, unblinking, steady, and impossibly knowing. I couldn't move the weight of its gaze to pin me in place, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Whatever it was, it wasn't just watching, It was evaluating. It didn't run, and I couldn't. Instead, I slowly backed into the house and my dogs followed close behind. The thing didn't follow, but its presence lingered like a weight on my chest.
Another time, I came home late from work, and as usual, I stepped out of my car to open the gate. The air was still, but the feeling of being watched was so intense that it felt like a hand pressing on my shoulder. I hurried to the gate and fumbled with a lock, and then I heard it, a low growl, not far behind me. Spinning around, I saw nothing but the dark expanse of my yard. My dogs were inside the house, barking furiously, their voices muffled by the thick walls.
The most unsettling experience happened last winter. I was in bed, drifting to sleep when I heard scratching at my bedroom window. My bedroom is on the second floor. I lay there, paralyzed, listening to the steady, deliberate sound. It wasn't the wind or a tree branch. The scratches were too purposeful, too rhythmic, gathering my courage. I peeped through the curtain and there was nothing there, just the faint outline of the tree
swaying in the wind. But as I turned away, I saw a faint outline and the frost on the glass, and the shape of a massive pall. Despite everything, I've come to respect this land deeply. I never puts the boundaries and tread with humility. I think that's why it lets me stay. We share this land, me and whatever watches from the shadows. And for now, that uneasy truce is enough. But even now, as I write this, I can feel it. It's outside in the dark, Something is
waiting and watching. It's always watching. Oh oh, I read this story cold. I had not read it before I pulled it up. Rebecca, my editor just actually sent it to me today, and I thought, I'm just gonna knock out one story today in a podcast and get it out and then I'm gonna get to work. I'm so blown away by the way this guy can write, Holy smokes, and I think it's a guy. I'm almost sure it is. Doesn't give his name, so I don't know if it's
a man or woman. It's written kind of in a masculine sense, and it has a masculine feel to it, but who knows what. More than the story, it's the writing. It really stood out to me on this. Did you guys like that? Hey, I am pretty busy these days, So what I may do is just do one story per podcast, or maybe two short stories. Just get some shorter podcasts out to keep things rolling. Man, if I go too many days without doing this podcast, I start
jonesing for it. Know what I may? I start getting I don't know, antsy, and it feels like I kind of lose my It's like I open up a file to read and I can't read anymore. So I got to keep doing it to be able to keep doing this. So that's what I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm just blibering. I'm just blibering. That's what I do. Hey, thank y'all for listening. Hey, I wanted to say one
more thing before I get off this podcast. I don't know if you guys watch TikTok, but there's a guy and I don't watch it much, only follow maybe I don't know, two or three dozen channels. I'm normally just it's usually while I'm in the bathroom, I'm just flipping through videos. But there's a guy from Kentucky. He's a truck driver. The name of his TikTok handle is Peterbilt seventy one. He does all kind of stuff. He first, he drives a big peter Bilt. It's an older model
peter Bilt. But he pulled the camera out of his truck the other day and there's that big old peter Bilt with that big snout sticking out on the front and a sleeper behind it, and he's pulling a low boy with a big excavator on the back. I don't know, I just admire those guys. I wish I knew how to drive one of those trucks. I'd love to do
that for a living. But he also does these little short one minute videos sitting in his truck eating lunch, and he Whenever I watch him eat, it reminds me of me and my grandfather and the stuff my grandfather would feed me. I can't tell you how many times my grandfather and I would sit on the back porch in the summer and he'd get a pack of hot dogs, cut him out and hand me just raw cold hot dog.
We'd have a pack of crackers in a block of cheese, you know, sharp cheddar cheese, and we just sit there and eat hot dogs and crackers and cheese and any sausages and other kind of sausages you can get in a can. But he eats a lot of these canned meats and canned anyway. I can't do the sardines and some of the things he does. This guy will eat anything. But I know where he gets it from because he came up eating that way, and when you come up eating that way, you always eat that way. But I
just love him, I love his personality. I don't know his name, Peter Bilt seventy one. Y'all look him up on TikTok. He may be on YouTube too, I don't know, but if you watch TikTok, I just love the guy, and I just wanted to give him a shout out. I doubt he's a truck driver. He may hear this, he may not. I don't know. But Peter Bilt seventy one, you the man. You make me hungry every time I
watch your videos. Brother, all right, thank youall for watching the podcast or listening to the podcast, and we'll sing on the next one. Thanks,