If you were looking for a story to make you scared of the dark again, to enrage you even, or to make you cry, this story might accomplish all three.

It was sent to me from a user named Crayola Commander, and is titled Marines v. Skinwalker.

If our boys in the military didn't have it rough enough,

apparently sometimes they might come face to face

with something that simply should not exist.

A true story or otherwise.

I'll let you be the judge.

I got stuck with checkpoint duty after I screwed up my knee. It wasn't in combat, not doing anything heroic. I actually stepped in a hole during a night training exercise at 29 palms. I felt

something pop and spent the next six weeks on light duty, while the docks decided whether to med set me

or let me finish my contract. They decided I could stay. Lucky me, but I couldn't do full infantry

workload anymore. So they sent me to babysit a road

in the middle of nowhere. It's called Marine Corps Air Station Yuma. But we weren't anywhere near

Yuma. We were 40 miles out at the edge of the Barry M. Goldwater Range, where they drop bombs and shoot missiles,

and generally blow the crap out of the desert. Our job was manning checkpoint 7 Delta, a glorified

guard shack at the access road, making sure civilians didn't wander onto the range, getting

themselves vaporized. Four of us rotated 72-hour shifts. Three days out there,

four days back, at the main base. It beat getting kicked out, but Christ, it was boring.

The checkpoint was a single-story cinder block building, painted the same tan as everything else in Arizona. There

was an office with radio and security monitors. The bunkroom had four racks, and the bathroom

always smelled like bleach and piss simultaneously. We had a kitchenette with a microwave and coffee

maker that got us more use than any piece of equipment in the Marine Corps.

The generator outback hummed constantly.

...