Chadwick Rye

The desert night was silent save for the crunch of gravel under Nate’s boots. His flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating scraggly juniper trees and red rock formations. He checked his watch: 2:37 AM. The witching hour in Navajo country.

Nate had scoffed when his Navajo friend, Michael, warned him about night hikes in this area. “Skinwalker territory,” Michael had said, his usually jovial face deadly serious. “Evil medicine men who can take animal form. They hunt at night.”

But Nate was a man of science, not superstition. He’d come to study the unique geology of the region, not to indulge in folk tales. Besides, the cool night air was perfect for hiking, away from the scorching daytime heat.

A scream shattered the silence.

Nate froze, heart pounding. It came again—a high-pitched wail that was almost, but not quite, human. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

“Hello?” Nate called out, immediately regretting it. The scream had awakened some primal part of his brain, screaming at him to run, to hide.

Movement caught his eye. Something large darted between two boulders, too fast for Nate to make out clearly. But he could have sworn it ran on two legs, not four.

Nate’s hand shook as he pulled out his satellite phone. No signal. Of course.

Another scream, closer now. Nate ran.

He scrambled over rocks, thorny bushes tearing at his clothes. The thing was behind him, he was sure of it. He could hear it breathing, a raspy, guttural sound.

Nate’s foot caught on a root and he tumbled, rolling down a slope. His flashlight flew from his grip, shattering against a rock. He came to a stop at the base of a sheer cliff, disoriented and bruised.

In the faint moonlight, Nate saw a cave opening. Shelter. He crawled inside, pressing himself against the cool rock wall.

Minutes passed like hours. Nate strained his ears, listening for any sign of pursuit. Gradually, his breathing slowed. Maybe he’d lost it. Maybe it had all been his imagination, triggered by Michael’s stories and the eerie desert night.

A foul odor filled the cave, like rotting meat and wet dog. Nate gagged, covering his nose with his shirt.

“You’re in my home, bilagáana,” a voice rasped from the darkness. “Foolish move.”

Nate’s blood turned to ice. He scrambled backwards, but strong hands gripped his ankles, dragging him deeper into the cave.

“No!” Nate screamed. “Let me go!”

Suddenly, light flooded the cave. Nate squinted, momentarily blinded.

“Nate! Are you okay?” It was Michael’s voice.

Nate blinked, his eyes adjusting. Michael stood at the cave entrance, flashlight in hand. Behind him were two Navajo police officers.

“Michael?” Nate said, bewildered. “How did you find me?”

Michael helped him to his feet. “When you didn’t come back to the motel, I got worried. Called in a favor with the tribal police.” He wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”

Nate spun around, but the cave was empty. No sign of his attacker.

“There was something in here,” Nate insisted. “It spoke to me!”

The officers exchanged glances. One of them, his badge reading “Officer Begay,” stepped forward.

“Sir, we’ve been tracking a fugitive in this area. A dangerous man. It’s possible you encountered him.”

But Nate shook his head. “No, it wasn’t human. It was…” He trailed off, realizing how crazy he sounded.

Michael put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get you out of here, my friend. We can talk about it later.”

As they exited the cave, Nate noticed strange markings carved into the rock beside the entrance. Symbols he didn’t recognize.

Officer Begay saw him looking. “Old Navajo petroglyphs,” he explained. “Probably centuries old.”

But Michael frowned, studying the markings. “These aren’t old,” he murmured. “And they’re not normal petroglyphs.” He turned to Nate, his face pale. “We need to leave. Now.”

Back at the motel, Nate sat on his bed, hands shaking as he sipped hot coffee. Michael paced the room, agitated.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Nate asked.

Michael sighed, sitting across from him. “Those symbols at the cave… they were skinwalker signs. Fresh ones.”

Nate’s mug slipped from his grasp, shattering on the floor. “That’s impossible,” he whispered.

“I told you this was their territory,” Michael said. “The police are looking for a serial killer who’s been targeting tourists. But the elders… they believe it’s something else. Something older.”

A chill ran down Nate’s spine as he remembered the voice in the cave. “It called me ‘bilagáana.’ What does that mean?”

“It’s Navajo,” Michael replied. “It means ‘white person.’ Or more literally, ‘the enemy.’”

A sudden scream pierced the night, identical to what Nate had heard in the desert. It was coming from just outside their room.

Both men rushed to the window. In the parking lot stood a figure, humanoid but wrong somehow, its proportions distorted. It tilted its head back and screamed again, an unearthly wail that made Nate’s teeth ache.

Then it locked eyes with Nate. Even from a distance, he could see they were glowing red.

It smiled, revealing rows of pointed teeth.

“Still think it’s just a legend?” Michael whispered.

The creature’s form shimmered, and suddenly a coyote stood in its place. It gave one last chilling howl before darting into the darkness.

Nate sank to the floor, his worldview shattered. “What do we do now?” he asked, his voice trembling.

Michael drew the curtains closed and began gathering their belongings. “We run,” he said grimly. “And we pray it doesn’t follow.”

As they fled into the night, the skinwalker’s scream echoed across the desert, a promise that the hunt was far from over.