Chapter 1: What is discussed at the start of this section?
I'm posting this from a throwaway account for reasons that will make sense later. I'm not here to argue about beliefs or culture or what a skinwalker really is. I'm just telling you what happened to me and my two friends in the Utah desert in late September a few years ago.
If you need everything to have a neat explanation or fit neatly into your worldview, you're probably going to think I'm lying. I wish I was. I grew up in Salt Lake and the desert was just always… there. Background. You drive through it to get to Moab or Zion or Lake Powell. You see photos of Delicate Arch, tourists crowding around it for sunset, all that.
But what most people don't see are the huge stretches of nothing in between. No services, no lights at night, dirt roads that go on for hours and don't show up on Google Maps. That's where this happened. It started as a bros trip. The kind of plan you make half-joking until someone actually pulls up the weather and you realize there's no reason not to go. It was me, Ryan, and Miguel.
I'd known Ryan since middle school. He's the kind of guy who collects hobbies. Rock climbing, astrophotography, overlanding, you name it. He's the one who had the lifted Tacoma with all the recovery gear and the big rooftop tent. so most of our adventures kind of revolved around whatever he wanted to try next. Miguel was a friend from work.
Quieter, but he had this dry, dark sense of humor that made everything feel a little less serious. He'd been going through a rough breakup, and when I floated the idea of getting out of town for a long weekend, he said yes before I'd even finished explaining. The original plan was simple.
Leave Friday afternoon, drive down past Green River, cut off onto the BLM road somewhere between the San Rafael Swell and the Navajo Nation border, find a remote campsite, and spend two nights under stupidly bright stars. No crowds, no reservations, no rangers. Just us, a fire, and the kind of silence you can't get near the city. We weren't total idiots about it.
We had extra water, a GPS, paper maps, first aid, radios, brand new tires on the truck. I'd camped a lot, and Ryan was almost annoyingly careful with safety. We even had a PLB, personal locator beacon, in case something went really sideways. Looking back, that almost makes it worse. We did everything right, and it still didn't matter. The first weird thing happened at a gas station.
We stopped in Green River to top off, because there's this unspoken rule in the desert, if you see gas, you get gas. I went inside to grab some snacks and pay, and while Miguel was fawning over the beef jerky wall and Ryan was scoping out the cooler for drinks, I ended up in line behind this older guy. He looked like somebody had carved him out of the land around us.
Weathered, dark skin, deep lines in his face, gray hair tied back under a sun-bleached hat. He had on a faded denim shirt with pearl snaps and dusty work pants, the kind of guy who could probably fix anything with bailing wire and duct tape. He glanced at the topo map rolled up under my arm and then at the jerry cans we were filling outside. "'Y'all heading out past the highway?'
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Chapter 2: What happened during the bros trip to the Utah desert?
Then he added, besides, we're not going that far. We'll be fine. We weren't tourists, but I didn't argue the point. I shoved the weird interaction into the mental folder labeled Random Desert People and focused on the road. That folder didn't stay closed for long. We left pavement an hour later. There's a certain satisfaction in that moment when the asphalt ends and the dirt begins.
The Tacoma ate up the washboard sections, dust trailing behind us like a comet tail. We followed the main BLM road for a while, then cut onto a narrower track that led toward a low mesa and a dry wash Ryan had picked out on satellite imagery. "'You see this bend in the wash?' he said, pointing to a printed map he'd marked up.
"'Elevated on one side, flat enough for camp, good line of sight all around. "'If the clouds cooperate, we'll get the Milky Way right over that mesa.'" It really did look perfect on paper. The landscape grew emptier the farther we went. No power lines, no fence posts. Just low sagebrush, scattered black brush, and the occasional twisted juniper.
The colors had that washed out late summer look, muted reds and yellows and grays, that always makes the sky look even bigger. We passed a couple of side roads, two tracks leading off toward nothing in particular. A few had old, sun-faded BLM signs leaning at odd angles. Some had no signs at all.
At one of those unsigned junctions, Ryan slowed automatically, eyes flicking between the dashboard GPS and the physical map. "'Which one?' Miguel asked, leaning forward. "'Left,' Ryan said. The right one heads toward a dry lakebed that's basically a mud trap if it rains. "'We took the left.'
As the truck bounced over a shallow wash, I caught sight of a rusted-out sedan half buried in sand off to our right. It had no doors, no windows, and its roof was caved in. A tumbleweed had claimed what used to be the back seat. Something about it felt wrong, like it hadn't just been abandoned. It had been left there on purpose.
I watched it vanish in the side mirror, a dark, twisted shape against the bright sand. "'Watch we don't end up like that,' I said, more to myself than anyone. Ryan chuckled. "'That's why I brought traction boards and a winch.' The road narrowed, squeezing between low, eroded ridges. We crossed another wash, this one a little deeper."
The walls on either side rose up, maybe eight or ten feet, crumbly sandstone and packed silt. There were scratch marks along the sides, probably from cattle or deer, but they looked disturbingly like claw marks in the fading light. I didn't say anything. By the time we reached the spot Ryan had chosen, the sun was maybe an hour from setting.
The wash curved in a lazy S-shape, and there was a flat, slightly elevated area on the outer bend that looked like it had been used as a campsite before. A blackened ring of stones marked an old fire pit. Somebody had stacked a circle of rocks around it, and there were a few footprints, though they were too wind-softened to read. This is it, Ryan said, satisfied. Home for the next two nights.
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Chapter 3: What unusual encounter occurred at the gas station?
They sound weird sometimes. Another howl rose up, closer than the rest. It started as a low, growling note and then cracked into a shrill half-laugh, half-scream that sounded nothing like any canine I'd ever heard. It cut off abruptly, like someone had jammed a thumb on a mute button. The wash swallowed the echo. I realized I was gripping my camp chair harder than I meant to.
My knuckles were white in the firelight. Yeah, Miguel said quietly. That's not sometimes they sound weird. That's something else. "'Desert's got good acoustics,' Ryan said, forcing a grin. "'Sound bounces in strange ways. I had a campfire once where a donkey sounded like a demon.' Nobody laughed. We sat there listening for another minute.
The chorus started up again, farther away this time, and I could tell Ryan was right about one thing. The sound was doing something strange in the wash. It seemed to come from one direction and then another, like the voices were circling us without actually moving.' After a while, it faded. We tried to pick the conversation back up but it never really regained the same easy momentum.
The night pressed in around us, thick and watching. I kept having the sensation that if I just turned my head fast enough, I'd catch something standing right at the edge of the firelight. At some point, I realized Miguel's eyes had been flicking toward the same spot behind me every few seconds. I turned casually, like I was stretching.
There was nothing there, just darkness and the vague outline of scrub. You keep looking over there, I said. You seeing something? He shook his head without meeting my eyes, just making sure I don't see something. That didn't help. Around 11, Ryan announced he was going to crash. He climbed up into the rooftop tent, unzipped the flap, and disappeared.
The glow from his headlamp seeped through the fabric above us for a while, then clicked off. I'm gonna hit the bushes, Miguel said, standing up and grabbing his own flashlight. Desert etiquette. You always announce when you're stepping out of camp at night. Not because you expect something to happen, but because if it does, someone knows you didn't just wander off in your sleep.
You want me to tag along? I asked. I'll be fine. If I'm not back in five minutes, assume I got eaten by those demon donkeys you guys were talking about. He walked away, beam of light bouncing on the scrub, then slipping over the edge of the wash. The sound of his footsteps crunched on the gravel for a few seconds, then faded. I poked the fire and tossed on another piece of wood.
The flames leapt higher, chasing the shadows back for a moment before they crept in again. That's when I heard my name. Hey Matt, it came from behind me, a few yards away. Miguel's voice. Casual, like he was asking me to pass something. I turned, expecting to see his flashlight coming back up from the wash. There was nothing there, just darkness and the low blank slope of the washbank. "'Yeah?'
I called out, feeling stupid, because maybe he was just out of sight behind a scrub patch. Silence. I waited. The hair on the back of my neck started to rise. Another minute passed. The only sounds were the fire, crackling and shifting, and the faint rustle of the breeze. "'Mig!' I tried again, louder. No answer. I grabbed my own flashlight and stood up, my heartbeat ticking a little faster now."
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Chapter 4: How did the group react to the eerie voice in the desert?
None of us said anything for a long moment. Then Ryan forced a laugh that sounded like it hurt. You've been with me since we left the house, he said, and I've been with you. If something swapped one of us out, when would it even have done it, while we were all right there together? Miguel opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, "'What about last night?' We all thought of the same thing.
Miguel going to pee, his footprints ending in the wash, the voice behind me. I looked at Miguel. He caught my glance and bristled a little. "'What? You think I'm—' "'What? A demon in a Miguel suit? Come on, man.' If I were one, I said slowly, choosing my words—' And I wanted to isolate one of us. That's literally the exact scenario I'd use.
Get one person alone in the dark, where it's hard to see details. That's exactly what a demon in a mat suit would say, he shot back automatically. Ryan held up a hand. Stop, he said. We are not turning this into some paranoid freakout. That's how people end up doing something irreversible. We stay together. We don't wander off. We don't answer any voices that call us from anywhere we can't see.
We keep moving until we hit the main road or we run out of gas. Those are the only options. Okay, Miguel said quietly. Okay, I echoed. It wasn't okay. The final twist didn't feel like a twist at first. It felt like relief. After what felt like hours of driving in circles, the road suddenly widened and smoothed out.
A sign appeared, an actual, official metal BLM sign, not one of the faded wooden ones. It had numbers on it that matched the main road on our map. A few minutes later we saw pavement. We went from dust to blacktop like crossing some invisible border. Ryan pulled over just long enough to get out and kiss the hood of his truck.
Miguel laughed, the sound a little too high, a little too close to crying. I just sat there, staring at the stripe of highway stretching out in both directions. Cars passed. Actual cars, with people inside who had no idea what was happening a few miles off the road. The normal world felt thin and fragile, like paper over something much bigger.
We hit Green River again around five in the afternoon. The sun was finally starting to drop. The town looked exactly the same as it had when we'd left. There was one difference. The old man from the gas station was sitting on the bench outside, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hands. He watched us pull in with an expression that I can only describe as sad resignation.
When I got out of the truck, my legs stiff, he looked me up and down. I told you to stay on the highway side of the line, he said. We tried, I said. My voice sounded hoarse. We really did. He shook his head slowly. Thing about that line, he said, is it ain't always where you think it is. Ryan went inside to pay and to use the restroom. Miguel leaned against the truck, staring at nothing.
I hesitated then sat down on the bench next to the old man. "'Can I ask you something?' I said. "'You can,' he replied. "'Doesn't mean I'll answer.' "'Fair,' I said. "'What do you know about—' I trailed off. I didn't want to say the word out loud, half out of respect, half out of fear that it would hear. About what's out there, I finished instead. He watched a pickup roll by on the highway."
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Chapter 5: What strange experiences did the friends share after their trip?
The last time we all got together in person, me, Ryan, and Miguel, was about six months after the trip. We met at this bar downtown that had good burgers and decent beer. Normal guy stuff. The desert stuff came up pretty quickly. It felt like it had been waiting just under the surface of all our small talk. You guys still having... weirdness? Miguel asked. Nightmares, I admitted. Sometimes.
And this... other thing. With my phone. Ryan stared at his drink. Same, he said. Not the phone thing, but the… the feeling. Like something's in the room, just out of sight. Like stepping into a spiderweb you can't see. Miguel laughed, but there was no humor in it. You know what's messed up? He said. I started checking mirrors.
Chapter 6: What unsettling events lead to the decision to stay indoors?
Like, I'll be brushing my teeth and suddenly I'll think, what if my reflection doesn't move right? Has it? I asked. No, he said, not yet. We all sat there for a second, absorbing the yet. Then Ryan said, I've been thinking about that Polaroid, the one that said it can come as any of us. Miguel frowned. Why? Because, Ryan said slowly.
I haven't told you guys this yet, but after we got back, I found something in my gear, in my camera bag.
Chapter 7: How did the group's perception of danger change during their stay?
Another photo? I asked, stomach dropping. He nodded. I didn't take it, he said. I know what's in my camera. I manage my SD cards like a control freak. But when I plugged the card in, there it was. One extra shot. What was it? Miguel asked. Ryan hesitated. It was a picture of my bedroom, he said, taken from the corner by the closet. I wasn't in it.
The bed was made, the curtains were open, light coming in. Totally normal except for one thing.
What, I asked.
Ryan took a long drink of his beer like he needed liquid courage. There was someone sitting on the bed, he said. Back to the camera. Same build as you, Matt.
Chapter 8: What final encounter leads to a sense of urgency to leave?
Same hair. Wearing clothes I've never seen you wear. He met my eyes. I called out your name, he said. In my empty apartment, like an idiot. What happened? I asked, my mouth suddenly dry. Nothing, he said. Nothing at all. I deleted the photo, but I haven't taken the battery out of my DSLR at night since then. I don't want it pointing at anything. Miguel shuddered. So what?
We're just stuck with this now? He asked. It followed us home like some kind of horror movie STD. We don't even know what it wants. I thought about the old man's analogy. Fishing. Hooks. Names. I think it wants...invitations, I said. Opportunities. Little cracks in the door. Like answering when it calls, Ryan said. Or going off by yourself. Or ignoring a warning from someone who's seen it before.
It wasn't meant as an accusation, but it landed like one anyway. We sat there, three guys in a noisy bar, surrounded by people who had no idea that a few miles off a Utah highway, there was a place where roads looped wrong and names were bait. Eventually the conversation drifted to safer topics. Sports, work, plans for the holidays.
We hugged it out in the parking lot like why not, we might as well, life is short. Miguel joked that we should get matching I survived the Utah desert tattoos. We laughed. I watched them drive away and felt a familiar chill under my ribs. Two weeks later, Miguel stopped answering texts. At first, I thought he was just busy. People go through phases. Then I saw his Instagram go dead. No new posts.
No likes. No stories. I called him. Straight to voicemail. I drove to his apartment. His car was gone. The manager said he'd moved out, left his keys in an envelope, paid up through the month. He hadn't told us. I called his mom pretending I just wanted to catch up. She said she thought he'd gone to get some fresh air for a while, maybe down south. He'd always liked the desert as a kid, she said.
Weird place for a fresh start, she added. But Diego always was a strange one. Diego, I repeated, thrown. Miguel, she corrected. Sorry, we still slip sometimes. He hated when we called him by his first name. He's always gone by his middle name. You know how kids are. I hung up and sat in my car for a long time, staring at nothing. Miguel's first name. I had never heard it before.
Not once on the trip. Not once in all the time I'd known him. It felt like a very small thing, that missing piece of information. And then I thought of the hut wall. It knows names. And I thought of the Polaroid. It can come as any of you. And I thought of the voice in the wash, sounding like him, saying my name. Hey, Matt.
If it knew his real name, the one he'd spent his whole life avoiding, the one he never answered to, what would that mean? Would it be a deeper hook? Or would it be the one thing it couldn't use? I don't have a neat ending for this. I don't know where Miguel is. I don't know if he just took off without saying goodbye because he wanted a clean break from everything.
Or if something wearing his face is out there right now, sitting by somebody else's fire, learning new names. I don't know why it seems content to just watch me, to take pictures while I sleep, to rearrange small things in my apartment when I'm not looking. A mug slightly moved, a chair angled differently, a jacket on the wrong hook. Maybe it's playing with its food. Maybe it's just patient.
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