I am writing this as a complete and total recount of the events I experienced on Sillion Mountain almost three months ago, so I can have my facts straight if the police decide to listen to me.

No. When they decide to listen to me. They have to because I'm terrified of what will happen if they don't.

I know I already lost my friend Ethan, and I'm afraid that whatever that

thing was may get more people. I've already tried to contact the local authorities, the news,

hell, even the local wildlife conservation group to see if they know anything. But I've either

been laughed away or thrown out for wasting their time.

So this document is a way for me to gather my thoughts, but also as a warning.

At this point, I think I have to be the one to do something about this,

and in case I don't make it back and things get worse, I want someone

to be brought up to speed. My name is Ned Harris. I have dark hair, brown eyes, missing the tip

of my pinky on my right hand, and a small scar on my left cheek. If you read this and later see me casually walking on the streets of Jericho,

West Virginia, it means I failed. Get out while you can. And please, do not go into the woods.

This nightmare came to be when my friend Ethan Lancaster and I decided to camp out on

Sillian Mountain for a week. In celebration of his recent promotion, this was going to be

a first for us, but one we were more than excited for. Sillian Mountain was a notoriously

difficult mountain to hike, and even more difficult to survive on.

Only a handful of people ever made it to the peak and returned.

More than a handful were never seen again.

This would turn most people away, but Ethan and I were avid hikers and campers.

We met on a camping forum five years earlier and became close friends almost immediately

due to our mutual love of the outdoors.

We had been on numerous hikes through the years, varying in difficulty, but when Ethan became

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