Just Creepy: Scary Stories
True Skinwalker Encounter: 5 Campers vs Something Terrifying in a Utah Canyon
05 Dec 2025
Chapter 1: What led the campers to a terrifying experience in Utah?
I went camping in Utah with four friends. Something out there kept calling us by name. I don't care who believes me anymore. I'm not trying to turn this into a campfire story or pitch a movie idea. I just need to get it out somewhere that isn't in my own head, because the more time passes, the more I realize that week in Utah was the point where my life split into a before and an after.
if you've ever had the sense that the woods are looking back at you not in some poetic way but like there's a specific pair of eyes tracking you this might ring a bell in a way you wish it wouldn't this happened in the summer of twenty thirteen in southern utah somewhere between the san rafael swell and the edge of navajo land
I'm not going to give exact coordinates because one, I don't want some of you going out there to debunk this, and two, I think whatever we walked into wasn't meant for us. We were five people, all in our early twenties and full of that idiot confidence that comes from having lived just long enough to think you're invincible.
There was me, my roommate Dylan, his girlfriend Becca, my cousin Matt, and our friend Aaron, who we always joked was the responsible one. even though she was only a year older than me. The plan was a week-long loop.
We'd park my truck at a dusty pull-off off a frontage road, hike into a series of canyons that Dylan had been obsessing over on topo maps, follow a dry wash, climb up onto a plateau, then drop back down a different canyon and come out near where we started. Seven days, six nights. We weren't total idiots about it.
We had water filters, a PLB that never ended up mattering, way too many cliff bars, and enough lightweight gear to think we knew what we were doing. The drive out there already felt like entering a different planet. The further south we went, the more the mountains flattened into mesas, and then into those rolling red cliffs that look like they've been peeled back with a giant knife.
The sky got bigger, the air got hotter, drier, emptier. By the time we pulled off onto the washboard dirt road that Dylan had marked on the map, my phone had been dead for hours, and it felt like we'd dropped off the edge of anything civilized. Which at the time, was the appeal. We weren't completely alone though. About 15 miles before the pull-off, there was this little gas station slash store.
You know the kind. One pump.
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Chapter 2: What warnings did the old man at the gas station give the campers?
Faded sign. A few dusty soda fridges inside. Shelves with old canned chili and sun bleached beef jerky. We stopped there to top off on gas and grab extra water jugs because Dylan had started second guessing his calculations in that way where he pretended he wasn't worried, but his knee bounced twice as fast. Inside, it was dim and blessedly cool.
A swamp cooler hummed half-heartedly from the ceiling. Behind the counter was this older guy, native, probably in his sixties, with a long gray braid and a face that looked like it had been carved out of the same rock as the cliffs outside. He watched us with this calm, heavy stare as we loaded up on whatever we thought we needed. "'You all heading out to camp?'
he asked when I set a couple of gallon jugs on the counter." Yeah, Dylan answered, always the self-appointed leader. Just a loop out past, he rattled off the name of the wash and a couple of landmarks, like he was trying to prove we weren't completely clueless. The old guy's eyes flicked up at that, not surprised exactly, more like annoyed or resigned. Those canyons are long, he said.
Heat'll get you if you're not careful. You got plenty of water? We're good, Dylan said, grinning. "'We're from Colorado. We hike all the time.' The man didn't smile back. He looked at each of us in turn. Me, then Becca with her long braid and big sunglasses, Matt with his baseball cap, Aaron with her careful, quiet eyes.
Chapter 3: How did the campers react to the strange noises at night?
He lingered on Aaron for a second longer, like he recognized something in her face, then shifted his gaze back to me. "'You stay on the main drainages,' he said." Don't go climbing up every little side canyon you see. People get turned around out there, lose the sun, lose themselves. He paused. And you don't go calling each other at night, not out there, you understand?
We all kind of exchanged a look like, okay, creepy old man vibe. Calling each other? I asked. Like yelling for each other? He nodded once. After dark, you don't say nobody's name. If you hear your name, and you can't see who said it, you stay put. You don't answer. You don't go looking. It's not for you. I chuckled.
Because that's what you do when somebody says something that lands just left of normal. "'Like coyotes luring people out?' I said, trying to make it a joke. "'I've heard stories.' He looked at me for a long moment without blinking. "'Coyotes you can see,' he said. "'Coyotes you can shoot. Some things just borrow their voices.' Then he pushed the jugs toward me." You kids be respectful.
Don't go poking around in things that don't belong to you. Don't whistle at night. Don't call each other.
That land remembers. On the way back to the truck, we made fun of it, because of course we did.
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Chapter 4: What unusual footprints did the campers discover around their tents?
Dylan mimicked the guy's voice. Don't say nobody's name. And Becca smacked him on the arm and told him to knock it off. But even as I laughed, there was this small, cool knot in my stomach that hadn't been there before. The way the man's eyes had gone flat when he said some things borrow their voices stuck in my head like a splinter.
We reached the pull-off in late afternoon. It was just a wide patch of compacted sand and rock, with a faint pair of tire ruts trailing off toward the horizon. No other cars, no signs, nothing but shimmering heat and the constant buzz of invisible insects. We shrugged on our packs, locked the truck, and started walking, five little moving dots under a white-hot sky.
That first day was honestly kind of perfect. The land rolled around us in layers of red and orange, streaked with bands of white sandstone and dotted with stubborn little juniper trees. Heat pressed down like a hand on the back of my neck. But there was a dry breeze and we made good time, following the shallow, sandy bed of a wash that only filled with water when monsoon storms rolled through.
We stopped occasionally to take pictures, to point out lizards doing push-ups on rocks, to admire the way the canyon walls slowly rose up on either side of us. We made camp on a broad flat bench above the wash where the sand was packed down and there were a couple of large boulders that offered shade.
It was one of those spots that looks like people have camped there for a hundred years, little blackened circles of rock from old fires, faint outlines where tents had flattened the soil. We didn't plan on doing a fire, too hot and dry, but we gathered around the old fire ring anyway while we cooked with our little backpacking stoves.
As the sun dropped, the colors in the canyon cooled from red to bruised purple. and the shadows stretched out like they were trying to escape something. The temperature finally dipped into the 70s, and a stillness settled over everything that was somehow louder than any noise.
I remember lying on my back after dinner, watching the first stars appear in a sky so dark it almost hurt to look at, and thinking, this, this is why we came. Then the coyotes started,
it started as a couple of lone yips in the distance the way coyotes always sound a little goofy a little wild like someone laughing too loudly at a joke the chorus built quickly voices layering over each other until it sounded like there were a dozen of them yipping and howling and barking back and forth I've camped plenty of places with coyotes around.
Their calls can be eerie, especially if you're not used to them. But there was something about this chorus that made the hair on my arms stand up. They sound close, Becca said, hugging her knees to her chest.
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Chapter 5: How did the campers' dynamics change during their hike?
It's just the echo, Matt said, but I noticed he checked to make sure our food was hung in the scrubby tree we'd tied it to. The calls rose and fell for a while, then dropped off suddenly, all at once, like someone had hit a mute button. The silence that followed was heavy and absolute. No insects. No wind. Even the little burner flame sounded too loud.
I hate that, Aaron muttered, when they just stop. Means they heard us talking trash, Dylan said, grinning. Old guy at the gas station sent his coyote army to check on us. "'Shut up,' Becca said, but she was smiling too. We stayed up a little longer, playing cards by headlamp, telling dumb stories.
When we finally climbed into our tents, me and Matt in one, Dylan and Becca in another, Erin in her little solo tent tucked between two rocks, I was tired, sunburned, and content. I fell asleep to the sound of Matt's breathing and the faint rustle of nylon.' Somewhere in the middle of the night, I snapped awake. I didn't sit up or gasp or anything dramatic.
One second I was asleep, the next I was fully aware, staring at the sloped ceiling of the tent glowing faintly with starlight. My heart was already pounding like it had been doing it for a while without me noticing. The air felt colder and thinner. For a moment I couldn't figure out what had woken me. Then I realized what I wasn't hearing. No insects. No wind. No distant cars. Nothing.
The same kind of deep pressurized silence that had fallen after the coyotes quit, but heavier. Like the world was holding its breath. I held mine too, without meaning to. I listened so hard my ears hurt. For a long time there was nothing but Matt's soft, whistling snore beside me, and then I heard footsteps. They were soft, but in that silence they might as well have been gunshots.
A careful, deliberate crunch of sand and grit outside the tent, moving slowly around the camp. not the skittering of a lizard, not the shuffle of a small animal. These sounded big, two-legged, heavy enough to leave a print. They came closer, passing behind our tent, then pausing near where Dylan and Becca were.
I could picture them lying the same way I was, flat and tense, and suddenly very, very awake. The footsteps lingered near their tent, then moved again, circling. There was something about the rhythm that made my skin crawl. Too slow. Too thoughtful. Like whatever it was enjoyed taking its time. I thought about the old man's warning. Don't call each other, don't say names.
I almost said Matt's name anyway. The urge to break the silence with another human's voice was strong enough to make my throat ache. But something about that urge felt wrong, like it was something pushing from outside, not a real impulse of mine.
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Chapter 6: What happened when the campers heard their names being called?
So I stayed quiet. I stared at the zipper and tried to count my own breaths. The footsteps stopped right outside our tent. The nylon sagged inward an inch, like something was leaning on it from the outside. I could see a faint shadow through the material, tall, narrow, more upright than anything on four legs. It stayed there for what felt like a full minute, just... there. Listening, maybe.
Smelling. Choosing. Then it moved on. The rest of the night was a blur of shallow, fitful sleep and long stretches of staring at the dark. When gray light finally started seeping into the tent, it felt like someone had lifted a weight off my chest. We all did that thing where you pretend everything's normal, but you check each other's faces to make sure you weren't the only one.
As we stepped out into the morning, I saw Erin standing by the edge of camp with her arms wrapped around herself, looking at the ground. You guys hear that last night? I asked, trying to sound casual as I shook sand out of my boots. Dylan snorted. Those coyotes? Dude, they were going nuts. No, I said, like, footsteps. There was a small pause. Erin glanced at me, then away.
Becca frowned, stirring oatmeal in her pot. i thought i dreamed that she said quietly like something walking around i heard it too aaron said her voice was flat it walked right by my tent twice we all kind of drifted together then looking down at the sand around camp At first I thought it was just the normal mess of prints from us walking around, but then I noticed the size of some of them.
A line of prints circling the tents, just outside where our guy lines reached. They were half scuffed, but you could still make out the shape. "'Coyote?' Matt guessed, dropping into a crouch. "'No,' Aaron said. "'Coyotes don't walk like that, and they don't walk on two legs.' The prints weren't perfect, but they were long. Too long.'
like someone with a narrow foot had stepped in soft sand and then dragged their toes elongating the impression in a couple of spots the print looked almost like a human bare foot but the spacing was all wrong too far apart like whatever made them had legs just a little too long for its body Dylan shrugged it off because that was his role. Could have been someone else camping, he said.
Rancher maybe, or some hunter. We probably just didn't see their car. Not a big deal. "'Okay,' Erin said, but she didn't sound convinced. She kept looking at the prints while she ate, like if she stared hard enough, they'd rearrange into something that made more sense. After breakfast, she smoothed them over with her boot until the ground looked untouched. Day two was longer and hotter.
The canyon walls rose higher, closing us in, and the wash twisted more, turning every corner into a small surprise.' Some stretches were genuinely beautiful, narrow side canyons with hanging gardens of bright green where water seeped through the rock, big alcoves eroded into the cliff face where swallows had built their nests.
But there was this undercurrent now, a tension that made all of us a little snappier than usual. we stopped for lunch under a shallow overhang that offered a band of shade while the others dug around in their packs i walked a little way down the wash to pee as i was heading back i heard becca call my name jason come look at this Her voice came from around a bend in the wash, just ahead.
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Chapter 7: What terrifying encounter did the campers face in the canyon?
There was no one there. The wash stretched ahead in a gentle curve, empty. I could still see our packs and the others behind me when I turned, but this stretch was completely bare. No footprints except mine. Becca? I called, confused. Where are you? Her voice floated back, faint and muffled. Down here. Hurry up. It didn't sound like it came from in front of me this time.
It sounded like it came from both directions at once, like the canyon was throwing it around in strange ways. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Then, from behind me, closer and absolutely clear. Dude, who are you talking to? I turned so fast I almost fell. Becca was standing next to Dylan and Aaron, back where we'd dropped our packs, half a bend behind me.
She had a tortilla in one hand and looked completely normal. I... You just called me, I said, my voice sounding thin to my own ears. You said to come look at something. She frowned. No, I didn't. We were talking about how much your feet smell. Matt laughed. You hallucinating already, man?
my mouth went dry i wanted to say i heard you it was your voice but i remembered the old man's warning the way he'd said if you hear your name and you can't see who said it and i swallowed the urge to make a joke about it
echoes are weird here i said instead must have been that erin's eyes met mine for a second there was a question in them but she didn't say anything she just bit into her energy bar and looked down the canyon like she was trying to see something only she knew was there That afternoon we started seeing it.
At first it was just glimpses, a flash of movement on a ridge above us, too quick and far away to be anything definite. A shape cutting across the skyline, thin and wrong, like a coyote stretched upright. Once, when we crested a low rise in the wash, I caught sight of something standing on a distant outcrop.
A lanky, dog-shaped silhouette with a too long neck, head cocked at an angle that spoke of curiosity. more than aggression. It was gone when I blinked, but the impression stayed burned into my brain. Did you see that? I asked Matt, who was hiking just behind me. See what? He said, wiping sweat from his forehead. Never mind, I muttered.
By the time the sun started slanting low, the canyon had narrowed into one of those tall, straight-walled corridors where the sky is just a strip of blue between vertical rock. It was gorgeous in that cathedral kind of way, but it also meant that night was going to come faster.
Shadows were already pooling along the bottom when we finally found a spot wide enough to pitch our tents, a sandy shelf a few feet above the main wash. Three more days to the high point, then it's all downhill, Dylan said, checking the map as we cooked dinner. We're killing it. Can we maybe not hike until almost dark tomorrow? Becca asked.
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Chapter 8: What lessons did the campers learn from their experience?
We're only two days in. We can still go back the way we came and be at the truck in, what, three, four days. I'm not spending another night moving deeper into, whatever this is. Dylan bristled. We've already done most of the elevation, he said. We go back. It's going to be more uphill. If we keep going, it's mostly flat and then downhill. We're almost halfway.
Almost halfway is not halfway, she shot back. And halfway means it's the same distance either way. I say we head for the truck. Becca looked between them, torn. Matt stared at the ground. I felt that same tug of war inside my own chest. Pride versus fear. The map in Dylan's hand versus the old man's warning in my memory.
While they argued, I noticed something new in the sand a few yards from camp. At first, I thought it was just another weird print, but as I got closer, my skin prickled. In a small bare patch of sand, maybe three feet across, there were tracks.
They started as the same two long prints we'd seen circling our tents the night before, spaced far apart like something with long legs had been pacing. Then halfway across the patch they changed. No smudging, no overlapping.
One print was elongated and wrong, and the next was... human. Not a perfect human foot, but close. Wider at the top, narrower at the heel. Five clear toe impressions. The stride shortened a little, like whatever it was had to adjust how it walked in its new shape. The tracks walked over to a small, flat rock near a juniper bush and stopped.
On top of the rock, sitting perfectly centered, was a little clump of hair tied in a knot with a strip of dirty cloth. The hair was a mix of brown and blonde, tangled like it had been cut or yanked from more than one person. There was a dark stain on the cloth that could have been old blood. It looked like an offering or a trophy. "'Uh, guys?'
I said, my voice coming out higher than I meant it to. "'You might want to see this.' The argument cut off. They walked over. Becca put a hand over her mouth when she saw the hair. Aaron swore under her breath." "'What the actual hell?' Matt whispered. "'Is that—is that ours?' I reached up to my own head automatically.
The hair on the rock looked short, some strands about my length, some longer. I glanced at Becca's frayed ends, at the way Dylan's shaggy cut unevenly brushed his collar. It could have been from any of us, or none of us. That almost made it worse. "'We have to go,' Aaron said." Her voice was oddly calm now, like she'd moved past fear into something more solid.
I don't care which direction, but we are not staying another night in this spot. In the end, math decided it. Dylan reluctantly admitted that, yes, if we pushed hard and didn't stop for a long lunch, we could reach a point on the map where the canyon widened and a side trail cut up toward a gravel road in two days instead of four.
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