Matt

Maybe you've already told your friends.

Maybe you'll stop in a small town gas station along the way, and some old guy will tell you not to go past the line.

Maybe you'll laugh it off.

Or maybe you'll listen a little sooner than we did.

If you go anyway, if you ignore all of this and decide I'm just making stuff up for internet points, do me one favor.

When you're sitting by your fire and you hear someone call your name from the darkness in a voice that sounds like someone you trust, don't answer.

Because the thing about skinwalkers isn't just that they can look like anything.

It's that once they know your name, they don't have to knock.

They're already inside the story and they're very, very patient.

I'm going to be careful about details.

I'll give real places and real logistics because that matters for credibility.

But I'm not giving exact coordinates, not naming the family, and not naming the specific road we turned off on.

If you know the area, you'll probably guess the general region anyway.

If you don't, you don't need a map to understand what happened.

This was in northwestern New Mexico, a week-long visit that stretched into eight days because our exit got complicated.

Four friends, me, Jonah, Lila, and Marin.

We were all late 20s, early 30s.

We weren't thrill-seeking kids.

We all had day jobs.

Lila shot photos for weddings and side gigs.