things were quiet for a month.
Then came the call.
A young couple had ignored warning signs and camped in the restricted river area. Something entered their camp. The wife fell while trying to escape.
"He's still here," the man cried over the phone. "I can hear him crying."
David grabbed a shotgun.
On the way, we smelled something foul—like rotting meat mixed with something bitter.
Then we heard it again.
Soft sobbing.
David said, "Don't look."
But I looked.
It was at least 12 feet tall. Bent unnaturally, like a twisted, hunched figure. Moving in jerks. The crying came from it.
David pulled me forward.
When we reached the camp, it was shredded—cut, not ripped.
The young man sat trembling with an axe. His wife's leg was swollen.
"Thank God you're here," he said.
And then—