I'm going to tell this the way I've told it to two therapists, one deputy, and exactly one

person who knew the cabin's owner well enough to make a call that got returned.

I'm not going to dress it up, and I'm not going to pretend I understand everything that happened.

I also want to say this up front because people love labels. I'm going to say this up front. I'm not going to pretend I understand everything that happened. I also want to say this up front because people love labels.

I'm going to use the phrase Skinwalker-like, the same way people say wolf-like,

when they mean it moved like a wolf and made me think of a wolf.

I'm not Navajo. I'm not going to borrow anyone's beliefs as a prop.

The Appalachian Mountains have their own old stories,

boogers, haints, things you don't call by name after dark,

and whatever we ran into out there fits better into that category anyway.

Something that steals familiarity, uses it like a tool,

and leaves you arguing with yourself about whether your

senses can be trusted.

This happened on a week-long cabin trip in the Appalachians in mid-October, the kind of week

where the leaves look like the whole mountain's been lit from underneath, but the shadows

between the trunks are already winter dark.

There were four of us, me, my wife, Nora, my closest

friend from college, Eric, and Eric's younger sister, Maddie, who joined because she'd just

gotten out of a messy relationship and wanted a reset. We booked a cabin that was advertised as

remote, authentic, historic, which is realtor language for, you won't have cell service and nobody will

hear you if you scream. We wanted that. I'm self-employed and always on. Nora was coming off a

brutal stretch at work. Eric and Maddie had both been living in apartments where you can hear your

...