These are 3 Scary DEEP WOODS Stories to Listen to While CampingLinktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepyStory Credits:►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/Timestamps:00:00 Intro00:00:18 Story 100:20:23 Story 200:39:50 Story 3Music by:►'Decoherence' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.auhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wM_AjpJL5I4&t=0s► Myuu's channelhttp://bit.ly/1k1g4ey ►CO.AG Musichttp://bit.ly/2f9WQpeBusiness inquiries: ►[email protected]#scarystories #horrorstories #deepwoods #cryptids 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀
Chapter 1: What happens when the forest goes silent at night?
The Ozarks were supposed to feel familiar, same limestone ridges I'd hiked as a kid, same cedar-scented humidity, but stepping onto Wolf Creek Trail with Sage that Monday afternoon had the weight of crossing a border. Behind us, the ranger's gravel road hissed shut and ahead the forest gathered itself in a rough circle of trunks, as if checking our passports before it let us in.
I shifted the dry bag of acoustic loggers on my back, caught Sage's grin, and we started down the leaf-choked path toward base camp. We worked in easy silence until sunset. My thesis depended on capturing the Ozark's sub-audible life. The moaning limestone, owl wingbeats, bats so high-pitched they sounded like camera flashes.
Every kilometer we strapped a recorder to a trunk, synced the clocks, and marked GPS. Sage hummed to herself while she tightened straps, her ponytail flicking black against the orange evening glare. She was better at fieldwork than most professors I knew, steady, precise, quick to laugh even when mosquitoes clouded our faces. We pitched camp beside a shallow bend of Wolf Creek just after nine.
The cedar needles under the tent smelled like pencil shavings. Sage rigged the bare hang. I logged the metadata. Normal. Rhythmic. Safe. At 9.57 p.m., the forest was still chirping. Katie dids. Bullfrogs. One distant coyote. At 9.59, the sound bed thinned, the way a crowded cafeteria drops to a hush when a teacher steps in. And on the exact stroke of ten, the world punched us in the chest.
I didn't hear the boom so much as feel it. The air turned solid, my ribs buzzing like struck tuning forks. The tent poles flexed. My enamel clicked. One low, perfect note that must have sat down in the 40 hertz basement, too deep for earbuds, too big for explanation. Then it vanished. The creek kept sliding past rocks, but everything else fell mute.
The insects, the frogs, even the breeze in the tops of walnuts simply paused. Sage met my stare through the half-zipped mesh. "'Did you get that timestamp?' she whispered. I nodded, throat too tight to answer. Morning brought sunlight, and sunlight apologized for everything. Birds chatted over the creek. Sage cued the recorder's waveform.
One massive spike, then a flatline, as if the boom had scared the data itself." Maybe an old quarry blast, she said, though neither of us could name a quarry this deep in the hardwoods. At midday, we met a bowhunter stomping downhill with a dressed doe. Sweat darkened his camo. His eyes looked older than his face. He asked what two grad students were doing so far from trailheads.
When Sage explained, his jaw muscles twitched. Woods cough at dark, he muttered. If you value your tongue, stay zipped. I laughed before I meant to. He didn't. My brother didn't listen, he added, adjusting his grip on the dough. All they found was a pile of teeth the size of dimes. He walked on, leaving the smell of iron and sage. That night, the boom returned, ten sharp.
same visceral quake same dead silence afterward but i lay awake cataloguing differences the whip poor wills cut off mid-note and somewhere a squirrel kitched once and was slapped quiet like a microphone being yanked at ten twelve the sounds trickled back nervous and out of sync i slept with one boot on We repeated the ritual Tuesday and Wednesday.
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Chapter 2: What mysterious sounds do the researchers hear?
My watch ticked past the minute. Sage exhaled, maybe in relief, maybe in disappointment. The second hand hit 22 seconds. Something exhaled behind the tarp. It wasn't the violent pressure of the boom. It was gentler, moist, the way a draft sneaks in when a freezer door cracks. Nylon billowed inward, cold breath against my knee. Sage's silhouette froze.
She lifted the knife we use to open freeze-dried meals, its blade suddenly pathetic. I heard joints creak outside, a long stretch of wood or bone, followed by the expert silence predators wear like cloaks. My heartbeat thudded, too loud, far too loud. The forest had learned to hold its breath, only our bodies hadn't caught the lesson.
I counted to thirty in the dark, praying my pulse wouldn't betray us. Praying the bow hunter's warning was folklore. Praying the thing outside cared less about tongues than it did about coward scientists who lacked one. The nylon fluttered once more, like a sigh of disgust. Then nothing. Still nothing. We stayed motionless until dawn turned the mesh pale gray and thrushes dared to sing again.
When we crawled out, the muddy soil behind the tent showed no paw prints or hooves, yet the resin-stinking sap had thickened, painting bruises across the pine trunks. Sage looked at me, eyes rimmed red. "'One more night,' she said, voice raw. "'Then we find out what's breathing at us.' I nodded, though every nerve begged to run.
Above us, the cedars clicked, shedding a single cone that shattered on rock like an unspoken promise." Sage woke me with a shove at first light. She had already loaded her GPS data into the tablet and overlaid last night's waveform spikes. The three biggest signals fanned outward from camp like spokes. They meet on the ridge, she whispered, eyes too bright for someone who hadn't slept.
I drank instant coffee that tasted of cedar dust and dread, then helped break camp. Every pot clink, every zipper rasp sounded obscene in the hush. We followed the coordinates uphill. Wolf Creek narrowed to a thread, its banks stitched with ice plant and poison ivy. Halfway up, my phone buzzed a lost signal chime even though I'd set it to airplane mode hours ago.
Sage's compass spun twice, reoriented north, then froze. We both pretended that was normal. By noon, we breasted a saddle thick with cedar old enough to have quilted bark. The air changed, cooler, densely still, like the atmosphere in a sealed library.
Where moss and liverwort should have carpeted the ground, there was only naked rock and a sprinkling of pale wood shavings, as if someone whittled invisibly between the trees. Even the gnats had abandoned the place. The Glade's center lay under a ragged tarp camouflaged in leaf litter.
Kneeling beside it, Sage peeled back layers, first a net of chicken wire, then damp burlap that smelled of urine and burnt hair. Underneath crouched three pressure plates fashioned from truckleaf springs. Thick wires ran to a plywood coffin sunk flush with the soil. Someone had welded a sub-bass speaker inside a steel drum, pointing its mouth straight at the sky.
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Chapter 3: What do the strange tracks found in the woods indicate?
As I watched, the rear edge of each track softened, widened, and spread into five human-like fingers that pressed into the mud, nails first. The prints followed us downstream, always just closing the gap. Sage spotted a downed cottonwood bridging the water and scrambled onto it. I followed, the log slick beneath my palms.
Halfway across, the boom re-triggered, this time right beside us, a physical punch that rattled bark loose and sent Sage's recorder tumbling into the creek. She shrieked. The antlers reared on the near shore, head cocked, nostrils flaring as though scent alone could paint us. I screamed back, pure reflex, ripping the silence apart.
the creature vaulted onto the cottonwood bark exploding under clawed grip but the log shifted rolled and the giant plunged into the torrent with a hiss like steam hitting iron water erupted black around it and for once its silhouette made noise thrashing thrumming We sprinted, drenched and shaking, until we collapsed behind a sandstone ledge. Twilight bled through the canopy.
Fireflies dared to spark. Our clothes dripped, echoing like hammers in the returning quiet. We listened, counting each breath double time, but the creek now babbled over its own voice, masking everything. By pure luck we found a flat patch above the floodline. Sage set up the tent with trembling hands. I looped the spare recorder's mic outside, hoping data might explain nightmare.
Darkness fell thick as ink. The night chorus resumed by inches, one cricket, then two, then a chorus that almost sounded brave. We waited for 10 o'clock, but the boom never came. At 11.30, while Sage dozed, a wet, rhythmic crunch drifted through the nylon. Soft, like someone chewing unripe fruit. My recorder's red LED blinked with each sound wave. Closer, closer.
i lay flat holding my tongue against my teeth so it couldn't rattle the chewing paused a breath hovered at the mesh deep satisfied savoring the dark it owned the recorder captured it all until the batteries died at midnight The recorder quit just after midnight, but the memory card held 38 minutes of terror.
Chewing that slipped into wet slurps, a breath so close it vibrated the diaphragm, and one soft click of teeth the way someone might tap a counterbell to announce they were ready to be served. By dawn, Sage and I had listened to the file twice. shoulders touching as if proximity alone could mute the dread. That's when we heard the pattern.
Each time one of us whispered, the creature paused, as though deciding whether the tiny sound was worth the effort. It hunted the loudest thing in reach. While the cicadas warmed in the sun, we rewired our last working recorder. I loaded its memory with owl hoots, coyote choruses, even the sub-bass boom itself. The speaker was puny next to the buried resonator, but it might buy seconds.
We packed light. Batteries. Thermos. A single seismic plate pried loose from the pit and wired with a manual trigger. If everything failed, the plate would drop hard enough to unleash a real boom. Maybe stun the monster. Maybe break the ridge above us. Maybe both.
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Chapter 4: How does the encounter with the creature unfold?
Twenty minutes later, the woods inhaled, swallowing its own chorus. A spike of silence so sudden my ears rang. In that gap, a branch cracked behind us, farther uphill than any deer would tread, and the smell of freezer-burned blood drifted on wind that had no temperature. Sage thumbed the play button. Screeching owls lashed the treetops.
The wendigo erupted from the dark, antlers cleaving air, but it twisted toward the counterfeit racket instead of us. We ran. The speaker's batteries bled fast. Each new call dulled, pitch-warping, like a tape chewed in hungry gears. The creature adjusted every time the volume dipped, locking onto the real noise of our boots.
I felt it close, air thinning, tongue-tasting copper, and I yanked Sage off the two-track into a chute of blackjack oaks. She jacked the volume to max, flooded the brush with distorted bobcat screams. Something huge barreled past the opening we'd just exited, shaking acorns loose. We broke from the trees onto the limestone shelf above Wolf Creek Gorge, only half a mile to ranger country.
But the recorder stuttered, went silent, batteries bled dry. The night snapped shut around us like a camera shutter. Behind, dry leaves rustled in cadence. Step, drag, inhale. Step, drag, inhale. I grabbed Sage's wrist and sprinted along the rim. The Wendigo followed without haste, letting the gravel under our soles do its work. I could hear its fingers.
Or were they hooves now, testing the path for better purchase? It had all eternity. We had lungs already tearing. Lights winked through the trees, headlamps bobbing along the service road. Two rangers in a pickup.
hope flared and with it the unmistakable crunch of my boot against a fallen limb the creature surged limbs unfolding closing the distance in three soundless strides antlers brushed the overstory bark rained like sleet instinct overruled terror i slammed the seismic plate flat on a slab of limestone and hammered it with the recorder's dead body
steel met stone with a hollow clang a heartbeat later the hidden spring cut loose punching the ground with a pressure wave so deep my vision swam the bluff spat dust oaks quivered and the wendigo recoiled antlers flaring as if caught in windshear It loosed a breathy snarl, the first true sound we'd ever heard it make, and staggered sideways into cedars that cracked like gunfire around its weight.
We tore for the headlights. The truck fishtailed to a halt and Ranger Darren Kincaid vaulted out, shotgun half raised. He shouted something about permits, about night closures, but the words died when the sub-base echo rolled over us and the trees beyond the bluff bent in a ripple, as if something enormous brushed them aside. Kincaid hustled us into the cab.
He wanted explanations, but Sage could only pant, and I kept glancing through the rear glass, waiting for antlers to silhouette in the red glow of brake lights. None did. Three hundred yards down the grade, the truck rocked over a rut. Something wet slapped the bedliner. Kincaid stopped and swung his flashlight. A fresh deer tongue, glossy and twitching like it wasn't sure about death yet.
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Chapter 5: What is the significance of the final confrontation?
the flare guttered out behind a ridge leaving me with the vague memory of its origin i kept moving breath steaming i smelled the camp before i saw it the copper tang of torn nylon and something like wet dog left too long in a truck bed a two-person backpacking tent lay in ribbons poles snapped clean as broomsticks
One sleeping bag was split from footbox to hood, down feathers clinging to the wet ground like snow. An ultralight stove still clicked, trying to ignite against the drizzle. The warmth meant whoever slept here had been driven off minutes, maybe seconds ago. I knelt beside a muddy impression the size of a skillet.
Five thick toes fanned wider than my hand, no sign of tread or heel wedge, just raw, padded flesh pressed three inches deep. A second print overlapped the first, canted outward, as if the owner pivoted mid-step. Eight feet up the nearest spruce trunk, fist-sized clumps of coarse black hair dangled in sap lines. Parallel gouges scored the bark, so fresh the wood gleamed pale beneath the rain.
My headlamp flicked to low power, 30%. I thumbed the spare battery from my hip pocket, but my hands were shaking. The satellite communicator lay in the trampled vestibule, screen cracked, an unsent SOS blinking amber. I pictured the owner pounding the message, fingers slippery with rain, then something tearing through the fabric, something big enough to shred aluminum poles like wet spaghetti.
The forest shuddered. A single hollow knock echoed through the timber, wood on wood, deeper than any axe blow. Another answered farther off, then a third, closer, the rhythm unnervingly deliberate.
my rational mind whispered cougar windfall distant hunters practising calls yet none of those required three-point cadence i forced myself to breathe evenly and scan the ground no blood no obvious trail of supplies whoever had camped here was simply gone darkness thickened The trail back to my meadow seemed twice as long, every switchback unfamiliar by lamplight.
Branches flexed beyond the beam like slow arms. Midway down the slope, something paced me just inside the tree line. I could not see it. I felt it. Heavy footsteps that sunk the earth, then stopped when I stopped, resumed when I moved. Once, I swung the light wide and caught twin discs of green reflection ten feet off the ground, too high for deer, too low for an owl.
The eyes vanished without a sound. When I reached my camp, the spruce trunk that held my food bag was scarred by fresh claw marks. Four deep furrows ran parallel, stopping directly beneath the pulley branch. The yellow stuff sack still swung, but the rope creaked as if it had been tugged hard, maybe testing weight. The rain had paused.
The silence was near perfect, broken only by my pulse in my ears. Inside the tent, I zipped into my bag fully clothed, bear spray clutched like a talisman. The night stretched elastic, each minute a separate terror. Windless branches clicked together overhead, three taps, pause, three taps again.
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Chapter 6: What eerie messages are left in the forest?
Each strike echoed off basalt walls, tightening a noose of sound until I reached a narrow draw choked with salal. Halfway down, a newly fallen cedar blocked the switchback. The trunk hadn't been sawn or split by wind, it had been twisted. Fibers spiraled like taffy around a stress point thicker than my torso.
Embedded in the fresh splinters was a shard of obsidian, crudely napped to a cutting edge. I yanked it free on instinct, light, glassy, wickedly sharp, and tucked it into my belt loop like a talisman against folklore. That was when the forest began to speak in mimicry. A stone clattered across the creek behind me, exactly replicating the one I'd kicked loose minutes earlier. Upstream.
Another splash. Same timing, same weight. It was as though my passage were being rehearsed by something unseen, each sound thrown back at me with perfect, mocking precision. The stink hit next. Fermented berries, wet hide, and something coppery, like blood left to sour in a steel bucket. My stomach flipped. Birds had long since gone silent.
Even the rain seemed subdued, absorbed by miles of moss before it could patter. By dusk the storm arrived in earnest. Wind whipped through snags, turning dead limbs into giant wind chimes. Wet shale sent me skidding, pain knifed up my ankle. I cursed, tested weight, sprained, maybe worse, but walkable.
Limping now, I hunted for shelter and found a nurse log the size of a subway car, its hollow belly dry enough to crouch under. The space smelled of rot and crushed fur needles, but it was cover. I wedged myself against the back wall, forced down two energy chews, and listened. Footfalls, slow, deliberate, circled the hollow. I killed my headlamp, but moonless darkness is not true dark in the hoe.
Every moss strand glows faintly, a bioluminescent ghost-green veil. Through that shimmer I glimpsed bulk beyond the log, a silhouette broad as a refrigerator, shoulders hunched, head nearly brushing the underside of a leaning hemlock. Breath rasped, a deep nasal draw, followed by a rumbling exhale. Not quite human, not quite beast, but unmistakably sentient. Hours bled together.
Rain hammered the log roof, drips charting constellations on my sleeves. Sometimes the presence retreated. Sometimes it returned, closer, testing. Once, a hand or paw slid across the opening, fingers probing the air. I held my own breath until my vision pinwheeled. Near midnight thunder boomed so close it rattled the earth, but the roar that followed came from ground level.
Something hoisted a bowling ball sized rock and slammed it against the nurse log's mouth. The impact jarred my teeth, drove a shockwave through my spine, and sealed the entrance with splintered bark. Total dark. Rain outside, my heartbeat inside, and a guttural whistle bleeding through the seams. High at first, almost avian, then descending to a register felt more than heard.
A sub-bass moan that made the log vibrate like a tuning fork. It held the note for an eternity, then snapped it off with a pop of lips. Puh. as if satisfied with the resonance. Silence again, save for the soft rasp of something massive dragging fingertips across the wood, tracing the prison it had made for me.
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