In 1952, in the North Cascades, a sheep farmer and his family struggled against a very lethal

enemy that came after dark, slaughtering livestock in droves, terrorizing the family for years.

This is a bizarre and extremely unsettling case,

sent to me by someone named S.T. Varrington,

which they titled,

My Great Uncle's Childhood Trauma.

This story left me with goosebumps,

and it will do the same to you.

I found this case very believable.

It seems to serve as a cautionary tale

about why you need very good locks on your doors and windows

if you live anywhere near the woods.

But it also leaves you with a question.

What killed 47 sheep in one night in 1952?

My great-uncle Teddy died when I was 17. I remember the funeral being small, quiet,

attended mostly by people who looked like they'd lived hard lives in places that didn't forgive

mistakes. Teddy had been one of those people. He had spent his whole life in small towns across

Washington, working lumber mills and construction

sites, never marrying, never settling anywhere for too long.

My grandfather told me once that Teddy had always been restless, like he was trying to stay

ahead of something.

It wasn't until after the funeral, when we were sorting through Teddy's things in his apartment

...