Seventeen years ago, in the deep woods of Georgia, my family and I experienced a month of sheer horror that haunts me to this day. I want to tell you the story, not because I expect you to believe it, but because it’s the only way I can get it out of my mind.
My family owned a piece of land a few hours from our hometown, and every August, we’d pack up our tents and head out for a weekend of camping. It was our tradition—a way to disconnect from the world and immerse ourselves in nature. But that year, everything changed. That year was our last trip, and it ended with my parents selling the land within a month.
On the final day of our trip, we decided to go for one last hike. It was something we’d done many times before, so it felt routine—until it wasn’t. We were all there: my mom, dad, two sisters, brother, and three cousins. As we walked, we began to hear a strange noise. It wasn’t like anything we’d heard before, not an animal we could identify. It was an eerie, guttural sound, impossible to mimic, and it echoed through the trees, growing louder with every step we took. We pressed on, trying to ignore it, until we came to a large boulder by the water where we decided to rest.
We were sitting on the boulder, talking and eating snacks when the sound came again, louder this time, closer. My mom jumped, spinning around to face the trees behind us, and our Black Lab, Hyla, started barking—an intense, frantic bark that I’d never heard from her before. Her fur stood on end, her tail rigid, and her barking was so fierce it sounded like she was choking. I felt a wave of fear wash over me, and as I glanced around, I saw the same fear reflected in everyone’s eyes.
My dad turned toward the direction of the sound, and as soon as he did, the noise echoed through the woods once more. Hyla took off, sprinting toward the source of the sound. I screamed for her to stop, but she ignored me, disappearing into the dense forest. My dad shouted her name, then took off after her, vanishing into the trees as well.
The rest of us just stood there, paralyzed by fear. My mom insisted we stay put and wait for my dad to return. We were too scared to do anything else. I remember feeling like I was going to vomit, the fear twisting my stomach into knots. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, but eventually, my dad emerged from the trees, his face pale and drawn. He was out of breath, and there was a look in his eyes that I’d never seen before—pure, unfiltered terror.
“We need to leave. Now,” he said, his voice shaking. He didn’t explain, didn’t wait for questions. He just ushered us back to our camp, ordering us to throw everything into the vehicles as fast as we could. I wanted to ask him about Hyla, but I was too afraid of what the answer might be. As we piled into the cars, I called out for her, hoping she’d come running, but there was nothing. No sign of her anywhere.
The drive home was suffocatingly silent. No one spoke a word. I kept thinking about Hyla, guilt gnawing at me for leaving her behind. By the time we got home, it was dark. My mom told us to go upstairs and get ready for bed, but I couldn’t let it go. I needed to know what had happened. After about fifteen minutes, I crept back downstairs, quietly making my way to the living room where I could hear my parents talking in the kitchen.
Their conversation was hushed but urgent.
“What was it? What did it look like?” my mom asked, her voice trembling.
“It was tall,” my dad replied, “at least twelve feet, and it reeked. Its skin was gray, mottled with patches of black, and its eyes… they were black too, like bottomless pits.”
“And Hyla? Did you see her?” my mom pressed.
“Yes,” he said, his voice cracking. “She was running straight toward it. I yelled, but she didn’t even flinch. It didn’t seem to notice her at all. It was focused on me, moving closer, and... it looked like it was smiling.”
“What did you do?” she asked, fear thick in her voice.
“I turned and ran back to you all as fast as I could. I called for Hyla, but she didn’t come. I didn’t look back.”
“Oh my God,” my mom whispered.
I couldn’t hold back my tears. My parents heard me and rushed over, trying to comfort me, but I knew there was more to the story. I knew that whatever my dad had seen in those woods had shaken him to his core.
Three days later, I was outside mowing the lawn when I felt something brush against my leg. I looked down, and there she was—Hyla, looking just like she always had. I dropped to my knees and hugged her, but my relief was short-lived. No one had brought her back. She had found her way home on her own, but how? How had she traveled so far?
I called for my dad, and when he saw her, his face mirrored the shock I felt. He yelled for my mom, and when she came out, her expression was the same. None of us understood how Hyla had made it back, but we were just glad she was home.
That night, things began to change. Hyla, who had always slept in my room, refused to come inside. She barked at the back door, insistent and frantic, until my dad finally told me to let her out. I didn’t want to, but I did as he said.
The next morning, she was waiting at the door, just like always, but something was wrong. She wolfed down her food and water, then immediately wanted back outside. As soon as she stepped off the porch, she vomited—a thick, black substance that looked like tar and smelled like death. I screamed for my dad, and when he saw it, he looked terrified. He whispered something to my mom, and I saw the fear in her eyes too.
He took Hyla to the vet, and when he came back, he said she was fine, that she must have eaten something poisonous. But I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever was wrong with her had something to do with that creature in the woods. I couldn’t understand how she had found her way back or why she was acting so strangely.
In the days that followed, Hyla changed. She stopped eating her food, stopped drinking water. She didn’t want to be inside anymore, didn’t want anything to do with me or anyone else. She wasn’t my dog anymore. She wasn’t even a dog. She seemed... intelligent, in a way that was deeply unsettling. She would sit in the yard, watching us with a gaze that felt almost human, as if she was studying us.
And then there was the black tar. It started to appear all over the yard, in growing piles that stank of rot and decay. My dad said she had an episode where she slept an entire day and night, growling if he got too close. I was terrified of her, convinced that whatever had come back was not Hyla.
One day, she was just gone. I searched everywhere, but she had vanished without a trace. When I told my dad, he just said not to worry, that if she wanted to come home, she would. But I didn’t want her to come back. Not that thing. Whatever it was, it wasn’t my dog.
There’s something wrong with Hyla, I kept telling myself. But the truth is, I don’t think Hyla ever came back at all. What returned from those woods was something else, something that had taken her place. And whatever it was, I hope I never see it again.
