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Hello everyone, I want to share some creepy or strange stories that I know.

Some stories were told by my relatives, mainly by my grandfather or my acquaintances.

I have also encountered some unexplained incidences in my life.

I will also write some stories that have been published in the local newspaper.

In some stories, there may be some moments for foreigners.

I will try to explain them.

I did not change anything in the stories.

If there are any distortions, it is because I heard or read these stories a long time ago and my memory could distort them.

I hope you enjoy stories.

Also sorry for the poor English, I didn't write big and complex text for a very long time.

Basic information of Republic of Zakah or Yakutia.

Yakutia located in Far East in Russia, the largest subject of the Russian Federation in terms of area.

However, population density in it is one of the lowest in Russia, around only 1,000,000 people.

The winters are very long and cold.

Average temperature in December and January around -50°C.

Summer is short, hot and dry.

Average temperature in June and July above 35°C.

About our religion, Ethnic Russians around 40% of the population are Orthodox Christians, Zaka people or the Yukut.

Around 50% of the population mostly have Yukutian versions of Tengri faith and shamanism.

Someone synchronized Tengri with Orthodoxy.

There's also smaller Siberian culture like Evans, Evanx, Yuka, jurors, Dolgens, etcetera, but I don't know much about their culture.

Zaka or the Yakut, our Turkic nation with some Mongolian and Tungistic influences.

The shamans grave grandfather story #1 be him around 7 years old.

Decide to go for a walk in the forest with his friend.

Go further than usual.

A strange structure is soon found, like this one on Pick Related.

And then he shows a picture of some sort of structure in the in the woods.

I guess it's kind of propped up above the ground.

It looks like a little Fort or some sort.

And then he says it's a shaman's grave.

At first they get scared, but decide to investigate it.

Shaman's things are found near the grave, like a shaman's tambourine or the dingier.

Gradually the fear recedes and they start to play with these things, Decide that would be nice to show new cool things to other children in the village.

Back on the road to village.

On the way back to a village they saw a rider on horseback which is heading towards them.

That was the head man of the village looked at children's things and asked where they got it from.

The children told him how they found these things.

The head man got angry and worked out some UFC moves on them, urgently took them to their parents in the village, brings them to their parents and told them what happened.

Parents also got enraged and practiced some UFC moves on them, decide what to do.

There was a female shaman or the udajon in neighboring village.

They went to this village, come to her and start telling her what happened.

Udagon says that she sensed their approach in advance and a ritual should be prepared if they want the children not to be in serious trouble.

The woman prepares for the ritual and asked them to go outside.

After a while, Udegon leaves her house and starts talking.

I did what I could.

You should put things back in place and ask for forgiveness.

Then you will understand whether the shaman forgave you or not.

Did everything what she said.

The next day Grandfather's friend wakes up and found out that he can no longer speak.

From that day on he become dumb, which I think he can't talk anymore.

He lived a long life, doctors and healers tried to heal him, but all attempts were unsuccessful.

Strange man Grandfather story 2 be him around 9 years old, played with his friends in the forest near his village.

It's getting quite late.

The campaign is going home.

Grandfather goes to his house alone.

On the way, he meets a strange old, thin, tall man.

Grandfather does not recognize this person.

A strange person walks up to the child and speaks.

What are you doing here at this late hour?

Go home quickly.

Your little sister misses you.

Your grandmother is going to cook your favorite pancakes.

Your parents have finished their work and are preparing to have dinner now.

The strange man went further down the road.

My grandfather thought it was a family friend who came to visit from a neighboring village.

He returned to his home and sees that everything is just as that person said.

Started to ask about this person.

The family said that no one came to them.

Today grandfather told me how he met this man and described his appearance.

Parents and grandmother were very scared.

This man's descriptions matched to one of my grandfather's grandfather who died long ago.

My grandfather's grandfather was a dark shaman.

Moreover, he was a ravenous shaman.

In the Sakah region, there are two types of shamans, white shamans and dark shamans.

White shamans are serving the gods, IE they mostly give blessings and heal people.

Dark Shaman, or the Oyun was like a Jedi, that is, he could use the forces of both the upper world and the lower world.

But if Oyun could not cope with the inhabitants from the lower world, then they took control over him and he became Zemeke Oyun, ravenous shaman.

Ravenous shamans are obsessed with harming people, primarily their relatives.

This event took place around at the end of May 1941.

A few weeks later, my grandfather's grandmother died.

Soon, my grandfather's parents died of hunger and illness.

Due to the war, my grandfather and his sisters were sent to an orphanage, where they were later taken from there by relatives and raised fishing.

Grandfather story #3 be him around 25 years old, going to meet with his old friend who lives on other Olas region of Yekuda.

Meet him, celebrate and drink some vodka.

They decided to go fishing on a local lake tomorrow.

On next day they arrived at this lake, start fishing, no fish.

A few hours later, still no fish.

Grandfather got angry.

What a shitty lake.

Is there any fish here?

Grandfather's friend got nervous.

I would not dare to say that you know the rules.

You should ask for forgiveness.

No, I believe in Lenin, in the Soviet Party, not in superstitions.

It's your choice, but I'd be more careful if I were you.

In Sakha religion, respect to the nature is one of the most important things.

When you go out into nature, you shouldn't speak loud, drink, have fun and throw a garbage.

Also, you should not insult the place where you are, because the spirits of this place can hear you and gets angry.

Evening came, grandfather and his friend laid in sleeping bags on the shore of the lake.

Late night through a dream.

The grandfather feels like someone is slowly dragging him towards the lake, attempts to wake up his friend who was sleeping next to him, but can't move or speak.

The lake is getting closer and closer, the water touched his feet, the water has reached the waist.

Grandfather gathers all his strength and started to cry.

Paralysis goes away immediately.

There's no one on the side of the lake.

A friend comes up to him and asks what happened.

Grandfather tells what happened.

What a fool.

I told you you're lucky.

If it wanted to kill you, it would not give you a chance of salvation.

Since then, my grandfather stopped doubting the presence of supernatural powers, but he remained a true communist.

Old cow shed Grandfather Story 4 Be me Summer of 2007 sit and watch TV.

Parents are at work, grandmother is preparing food, grandfather is on outside doing outside work.

Feels good.

A frightened grandfather suddenly burst into the house, said not to approach the cow sheds under any circumstances, Called parents.

After a while, when he calmed down, he told us what happened be him a few minutes ago.

Grandfather goes to the cow shed.

Cows are gone to graze, so cow shed are empty.

Decides to clean the cow shed.

Heads toward an old abandoned cow shed where tools and food for the cows are kept.

Grandfather goes inside and starts looking for things.

Suddenly he hears either a roar or a hiss from the far corner.

In the far corner, my grandfather sees the silhouette of a child, a very thin child with glowing eyes with a strange head shape.

Grandfather freezes with fear.

When he stood, there was a stick for stirring livestock feet around.

His hand throws a stick towards the face of the child.

A silent scream is heard.

Grandfather runs the exit, locks the barn door, barricades the door and windows.

After a story, my grandfather called some people.

Several people came to the house in a late evening.

I was sent to my room on the second floor of the house.

After conversations, people go outside.

I was forbidden to go outside and told to go to bed.

The next day, everything was as usual.

Grandfather refused to say what happened, but he just said that everything would be OK from now on.

I have a version that it could be.

In the mythology of Saka, there is an evil spirit called calf demon which kills livestock, mainly calves, and feeds on their life energy.

Usually it appears as a child in a cow's skin and makes screams like a cow's lowing.

Usually in order to stop it, people call shamans or other people.

I read somewhere that to exercise a spirit, it is necessary that the person who first noticed it to Pierce it with a knife, and then the evil spirit will disappear.

I think that rural Russia has such interesting stories and, you know, unique beliefs.

And so I really do like these stories.

This one is a little bit different than usual, but hopefully you're enjoying.

Anyways, let's get into the story of classmates of my older brother.

This is the same OP.

He says be him around 17 years old, autumn 2005, decided to go alone to shoot ducks.

Came to the place, shot some ducks.

Late evening, collects his things.

Here's some noise in the bushes nearby.

Too dark, nothing can be seen.

Source of noise is getting closer.

The young man began to be nervous.

Who is there?

Noise stopped, fear increased.

Heard somewhere that when a suspicious activity starts, he must say, if you are a human, then come here and talk.

If you're not human, then go away.

But he was not a smart person, also he was very afraid at that time, so he confused the words and places.

If you are a human, then go away, If you are not a human, then come here and talk.

Woke up in the morning in a nearby forest.

The whole body is sick everywhere, scratches and abrasions, does not remember anything.

What has happened after his speech?

Returned to his camp, kill ducks, disappeared, things from the camp are badly damaged, went home.

People said that he periodically gets panic attacks and nightmares after school.

He went to Yatusk.

Don't know about his destiny after.

And now this next story may seem a little bit familiar to some of you.

I read it a long, long time ago, but I didn't feel like I did it justice because it's such a great story.

I revisited it and I just think I can revise it and remaster it much much better.

So this is the O PS father owes the white man.

Sunday my father passed away.

He'd be 55 come April.

He and I were never close, although we had no bad blood between us either.

We just had nothing in common and I never cared, perhaps assuming we'd always have time to form a relationship later on.

He wasn't unhealthy so I never put much effort into going out and visiting him and in fact I haven't hadn't.

Past tense is hard to get used to.

Seen him in three years possibly.

I'm feeling guilty for never showing interest in my father.

Perhaps I just miss him and want to talk about him.

But tonight I want to tell you a story about my father and maybe get some information on a thing he called the white man.

Just to let you know, we are not Native American and the white man didn't steal his land.

My father was a very typical suburban dad and frankly very boring.

He had typical dad interests like fishing and hunting and bowling.

He wore Crocs and turtlenecks and drove a hatchback with a custom license plate.

Despite his very upper middle class white dad exterior, he was a Hick.

A major Hick.

You see, my dad grew up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan in the 60s in a family that was dirt poor and very religious.

I never met most of my extended family on his side, aside from his brother Philly, who becomes pretty important in this story.

But from what I heard about them, I gather they were deliverance on ice.

They lived in what had once been a cabin in the woods.

They raised pigs and chickens and sold lumber for most of their income.

His father beat my father and his siblings during drunken bouts, which left my father with some major scars, mostly physically, but a few of them pretty obvious mental ones too.

Sorry.

Riding as I go to avoid timeouts.

I'm also a little tipsy.

Roads closed, no work, been drinking with the buddy so my riding is slower than usual.

What's important to note is that my father wasn't bright.

He wasn't creative, he wasn't a storyteller.

He could remember things and repeat them and he could focus his energy into things, but he wasn't bright.

Brains were not how he got where he was.

So it's with this in mind that I ask you to handle his stories.

My father used to talk freely of the white man to my sister and I more her than myself as they were much closer, but was always careful to not mention him in front of my mother and Philly.

Philly would make fun of him relentlessly for his boogeyman and my mother never knew of any of it.

I suppose he was afraid of her, thinking he was crazy.

I grew up hearing about the white man who seemed to be a combination of all your typical boogeyman.

He was capable of changing shape, but not color.

In his regular form he was vaguely humanoid but featureless.

However, he could change into actual people or animals.

He was old and not stupid, but still more animal than man.

He chose people, followed them and brought bad luck to them, and most importantly, he liked to make deals.

The white man wasn't a grim Reaper sort, but he was a predator who showed up when a person was about to die or was hurt, and it was such that my father first saw him.

Now, pardon if this isn't told that well.

I admit I have little flair for stories, and I've not heard any of these old tales in a long time, so a few details may be missing.

One year, about January, my father and Philly went out into the woods to go hunting.

The two were about 10 and 9 respectively, although Philly was apparently the leader.

They wandered further from their home than usual and it quickly got dark, which led them getting disoriented and lost.

What had initially begun as a simple afternoon hunt was now potentially life threatening, for they didn't have the gear to easily survive the night.

Things got worse though, when the ground beneath my uncle gave way, revealing that in the dark they had wandered onto a pond which had frozen over and been covered by snow, but couldn't handle the weight of the two boys.

My father, being as I said, a bit stupid, took a moment to react to the situation before he began trying to help his brother out.

After a short struggle, during which time my father got soaked as well, they managed to get Philly out of the water.

Although they were both now exhausted and wet and truly had no idea where they were, for there wasn't a pond anywhere near their house.

The two eventually managed to get off the pond and into the woods in an effort to find shelter or their home.

Eventually they found a crevice beneath the tree and ducked into it for shelter, although it wasn't big enough for them to both fit at once.

Being the dryer of the two, my father volunteered to take the first shift down the cold while his brother tried to dry off in the crevice.

Now here the story splits.

The more reasonable one is Philly's version.

He doze off.

My father woke him up a while later, told him they should keep moving.

They did.

Kept wandering until they saw lights.

Those lights were flashlights.

The neighbors were out looking for them.

They met up with some neighbors, went home.

Their dad beat them.

The hillbillies were all happy, except my dad, because he was crazy.

And then there's my father's version.

My father told me he sat out there scanning the horizon and listening carefully for anything moving in the woods.

Animals may mean better shelter or danger and a person or some sort of vehicle meant rescue.

Considering my dad was religious, Ned Flanders would be closer to the truth, but not far off either.

Sorry for being slow to respond.

After about 20 minutes he began to hear something.

Footsteps.

According to him, it sounded like a large man and not all that far away.

Although he couldn't see anything, which surprised him a bit as it wasn't all that dark and even back then most people wandering in the woods tried to wear at least one bright item on them to avoid getting shot.

But Despite that, the noise got louder and louder until he finally saw it.

A figure as wiped as snow walking through the trees towards him.

It was clear to him that it wasn't human, and he described it as being about 9 feet tall and shaped like Gumby.

It had two arms, 2 legs and two eyes, but no features.

Everything was rounded.

Scared to move, My father sat as still as he could, although it was clear the thing had already seen him slowly and moved towards them and began to speak.

When it spoke, it didn't speak with a mouth, instead it was just words one heard and one responded the same.

What that means is up to you to decide.

Next response I'll be faster.

Was trying to decide where to cut the shit off.

The order of the conversation in the length of I'm not sure but it told him that it was an old thing that lived in the cold and that it needed them.

It came whenever people got too cold or too lost or hurt from animals or accidents, and it took them away if something else hadn't already.

It had no interest in the dead, just the dying.

Conversing with it was unsettling, but not unpleasant, according to my father.

With that, it told him to get up so he could get his brother, and then they were to follow him away.

My father, of course, refused and demanded they left.

Why though, The thing asked.

You'll just freeze anyway, so it doesn't matter.

Still, though, he refused to move, and eventually the thing asked him why he was so stubborn.

It sounded a bit surprised, as if most people didn't argue much.

I just don't want to die or have him die was the best my father could come up with.

Then we'll need to make a deal.

My father told me the thing which never, not over any of their visits, told him its name if it had one.

Talked like a car dealer or game show host.

They tried to convince him what he really wanted, what he really needed.

Wouldn't it be easier to go with him?

Wouldn't that be simpler?

But still my father refused.

Eventually they settled.

They would get out, but their lives would be on a loan.

It would be owed interest, and one day it would still come for them.

The thing which he eventually began calling the white man then began to walk off, although it didn't say anything to him.

My father said he understood that he was being let out now and that he should follow it.

He then woke up Philly and the two headed off.

Of course, you'd think he'd have been more suspicious of following a giant snow monster that had already tried to kidnap him, but my father wasn't bright or likely a great storyteller either.

Before Philly was even awake though, the monster had disappeared, the giant footsteps vanishing.

At first my father thought for sure he'd been cheated or simply abandoned, before realizing there was a trail of Rabbit Prince, which he began following instead, somehow understanding that somehow those belong to the monster.

Occasionally he'd catch a glimpse of an all white rabbit and it was then he understood the thing could change shape.

After a while they saw the lights of their neighbors in the distance and headed towards them.

Of course as a kid the story was a lot scarier and I'm sure I'm missing a few details.

Even then though, I understood the plot holes and how far fetched it all was.

My mother used to tell stories of how her childhood home had been haunted all while telling us ghost didn't exist, so I assumed this was similar.

A tall tale.

Now, before I keep going, I want to say a couple of things.

First off, I don't really believe my father's stories, although I think he believed them for some reason or another.

I just thought you guys would get a kick out of them and then maybe there's some Yooper legend Google didn't pull up that he adapted this from.

I also want to say that my uncle, again, thought this was all a load of shit when he would tell the story.

It was just a story of how they got lost, almost died, and eventually got home to an ass whoopin.

A few things my father added in he did agree on though.

There were rabbit footprints and possibly some bigger ones, although these looked like indents in the snow to him rather than actual prints.

And my father did end up following a rabbit, which could have been white or blue for all he remembers out at one point, which he thought was stupid even then.

My uncle also didn't hear anything of the white man, not until my father saw him again a year after they got lost.

My father's excuse for not sharing this story with him was either he'd think I was crazy or think he was going to die, and only the shock of the next incident scared the story out of them.

Glad you guys are liking it and thanks.

Even though we weren't close, it's still kind of hard I guess.

At least there's always memories and stories.

A year passed and my father began to think he had maybe gone crazy that night, or that he'd fallen asleep and dreamt it and just woke up without realizing it.

That is, until one night again, winter again, with snow on the ground, he was out tending to the hogs, alone with his dog.

As a boy, my father had only two close friends, Philly and this dog, a Basset Beagle mix named Shorty.

This was a fact he repeated time and again during many stories of his childhood, which always made me wonder how his sisters felt.

Were they not close?

Guess not since I never met them.

Anyway, they are in the pig barn, which was far enough away from their house that in the summer, implying there is one, the smell of shit and pigs didn't walked indoors.

The barn was capable of being opened on both sides, and in the warmer months the back would be left open so that the hogs could enjoy the outdoors, while in the colder months it'd be closed up tight.

So of course, my father was a little surprised to find the back of the barn open wide.

This had happened once or twice before over the years, and usually meant he had to run back home and get his father in Philly so they could hunt down all the pigs who even in cold weather, would head out in an effort to find food or get into something.

But tonight that wasn't an issue, for all the hogs were huddled as far from the door as possible and very reluctant to go out even on a clear night.

Assuming the pigs had gotten a bit of a sense and didn't want to deal with the weather, he headed through the pen to close up the door, with Shorty following him the whole way.

He gets there and Shorty takes 1 sniff before darting out the door, howling and barking the whole way, obviously chasing after something.

Shorty, my father would say was a bit of a tattletale.

If something was misbehaving, he'd try to stop it.

When sneaking out or getting up past bedtime, you had to make sure the dog didn't see you do it.

This applied to other animals too, and if a pig or chicken didn't do what it was supposed to, the dog would get into it.

So with that in mind, my father didn't think perhaps the dog was after something, but that it was instead scolding a hog that had wandered off alone into the pen as quickly as possible.

After all, pigs all look alike move a good bit, and my father wasn't brilliant.

My father counted up the pigs and noticed that one, an adult boar, was missing.

So he headed out after Shorty to find the lost pig in the still in the snow.

It was easy to find Shorty.

All he had to do was follow the dog's footprints.

But that was when he realized something was wrong.

Shorty's prints were in the snow, but they weren't following the tracks of the hog.

In fact, there were no prints from the hog, which there should have been.

No new snow had fallen, and there wasn't enough wind to easily cover them.

And furthermore, there were tracks.

They just weren't from a pig.

Instead, they were large, vague, dense in the snow.

These my father recognized.

He had seen them before in the woods the year before, if only briefly, and here they were again with Shorty on hot pursuit of the creature.

Mustering up his courage, my father followed them as well.

After all he wanted his dog back and scared or not, he needed to at least look for him and the hog or his father would kill him.

The pen was decent size for a hog pen, but soon he at the fence which was made-up of a 5 foot tall hog panels.

Shorty was capable of climbing these.

I'm assuming his build was more Beagle than basset, because the image of a Basset Hound climbing a fence is hilarious to me.

And he could see that the dog had already gone over the fence and into the woods.

Of course, the fence hadn't stopped the white man either.

His track simply went right over the fence, as if he hadn't even had to break stride to get over it.

So he climbed the fence, soon was in the woods for the UP is really just woods and cleared woods for pens and buildings.

And it wasn't long before he heard the barks of Shorty in the squeals of a frightened pig running.

Now he came to the scene quickly.

Standing among the trees was the white man who had seemingly grown bigger over the last year.

In one arm he held the struggling and screaming hog, which had to have weighed at least £400.

A few feet away from him, carrying on, was Shorty, his hair on end and teeth bared, acting as if he had cornered the beast.

There was no communication or confrontation between them.

There was just an impression.

An impression that the white man had waited for him, that he had just stood there, ignoring the dog just so he could get a glimpse of him.

There was a brief pause, then my father realized something terrible.

The white man did in fact, have a mouth.

Below the beady black eyes was a slit, a long line, and it opened just a bit to reveal teeth as white as the rest of them that shined in the moonlight.

Just as quickly as he flashes grin, he was gone.

The white man silently took off running into the woods, gracefully dodging between the trees with just the soft crunch of snow following him.

Shorty took a few steps after him before my father had the mind to call him back, and the two headed home with my father sobbing the whole way.

Of course he got into trouble.

He had the sense to not tell his parents what he saw, but still got in trouble for losing a hog.

He only ended up telling Philly because he couldn't stop crying, and even then he couldn't stop.

Philly didn't appear to believe much, but he didn't say anything to argue against it.

Philly eventually began to write off everything as my father being schizophrenic and the white man being the manifestation of it.

I know nothing of mental disease, so I don't know how that diagnosis would ever hold up.

Anyway, years went by before my father saw the white man again, although he claims to have known he was there during that time, every winter, without fail, one hog or a group of chickens in a single night would go missing.

Only once was there an exception.

One year a local boy went missing in the woods and never turned up.

That year, no hog went missing from the farm.

It was the livestock as well as the sharp teeth that led my father to the conclusion that the white man had to eat and that he wasn't a vegetarian.

The white man, though, never once told him he killed his victims, nor that he ate them.

Considering what he took, though, my father thought it was easy enough to figure out.

When he was 16, he saw the white man again.

The exact age I remember for it was when my father began driving.

It was late at night to my father was driving home.

He had begun to work at the nearest gas station, sometimes not coming home until late.

It's worth noting that my father had his own set of skills and talents, such as being a hard worker or an excellent cook, but driving, especially in the winter, was not on the list.

Driving scared my father.

He was terrified of slipping or crashing and drove very slowly and very cautiously.

Never one to yell at us, he'd snap if we talked too loudly in the car or turned up the radio too high because it began to make him nervous.

With that in mind, what I'm about to tell you shouldn't surprise you.

He crashed.

Granted, he crashed trying to stop and help someone else who had crashed, but he still crashed.

Another car had slid into the ditch along the rarely traversed Rd.

towards his house and in the process of trying to stop and help, he too had an accident, one that was much more violent than the 1 he was trying to help.

Somehow or another he ended up hitting a tree hard enough to seriously damage his car and injure his leg.

The other driver of the other car came out to help him and after realizing he couldn't walk back to town, decided to walk back on his own and get help for the both of them.

My father thanked him, and the man went on his way.

Now granted, it was hillbilly hell winter in the middle of nowhere, but it would, by my father's calculations, take less than an hour for the man to get back to the gas station and find help in less than an hour for them to get back to him.

Because then they'd be driving, right?

So in two hours he'd be in the heated cab of a tow truck, either on his way to his house or a doctor's office.

It was about midnight at that point, and my father had a wristwatch on which he checked occasionally as he shivered in the dark.

1:00 AM comes around.

2:00 AM comes around.

3-4 He dozes off and wakes up shivering to the sound of footsteps, big and heavy like a man's.

For whatever reason, he assumes that the guy couldn't find help, or that help couldn't get down the road, and he's come back to help him.

Or maybe the guy just up and left and some other traveller has come to see if he's alive.

He pulls himself up enough to look out the rearview mirror, and that's when the pit dropped out of the bottom of his stomach.

For you see, there wasn't a man in the snow.

Even though he should have been able to see someone if you could hear them.

There isn't anyone there.

The footsteps are, but there isn't a person According to him.

He felt like he was in a nightmare and began looking frantically behind him, trying to see someone, hoping he was just overreacting.

But then he saw a long white form step in front of the brown in black of the trees and realized it was the white man again, slowly stepping towards the car.

His movement's slow and graceful, but he seems a little worried.

My father's never seen him in the open before, but here he is, moving cautiously, like a cat when it's worried about being seen tonight.

Eventually, the thing gets to the car and stops again.

There's no angry words, no begging.

In fact, although my father was scared shitless, he again just clammed up and held still as they began talking.

This time the conversation was short, one sentence not said inside my father's mind.

Don't worry, already paid.

With that, the giant keeps on moving, making a point of going across the road and into the woods on the other side.

As my father watched comedic Lee, he always made a point to tell us that the white man stopped before crossing, making a point of checking for traffic before heading across.

Once the beast was out of sight, my father began sobbing and kept sobbing until the mailman, even in the UP you got to get mail found him.

4 hours later.

My father recovered, although he ended up having to spend a small fortune getting the car repaired.

The other driver a bit less lucky.

He simply never showed up again.

He left to find help, but never made it back to town.

An investigation was opened, but leads all sputtered out.

Mind you, this last story is probably the last one for a bit that I remember clearly.

Some of the others may be a bit fuzzy because it's been about 10 years since I really heard any of them.

Somehow my father knew that the white man was attached to the winter.

This surely wasn't a surprise to anyone at all, seen as he was a white monster in the UP that only showed up when snow fell.

The issue, of course, was that it was often winter in the UP.

A few more years went by with no really noteworthy incidents.

The white man would take something every winter, but it didn't Get Shorty or my grandmother or anything.

By now my father was 18 to 19 and getting ready to leave.

His family was poor, and even if they hadn't been, my grandfather did not believe in college.

With his sons now men, he gave them an option.

Become farmers, clergymen, lumberjacks, laborers, or get out and don't come back.

It was because of Philly that they didn't do that, Although I'm sure my father wanted to get away from the winter.

Philly decided they'd both join the military and get out of there.

Vietnam had recently ended and he would joke that he thought he'd get somewhere warm that had never seen snow.

I guess I could lie in for a comedy's effect.

Say they both were sent to Alaska or Russia, but the truth is a bit more boring.

They were accepted and went through basic training but neither ever saw combat.

Philly was removed from service for a birth defect eventually and my father stayed in but never did anything until his contract ran up.

Merely working on bases those few years.

He has to be transferred somewhere warm and being liked by his higher ups found himself in Texas.

With it getting late, I'm admittedly going to wrap things up a bit faster than I'd planned.

My father had tons of stories about weird things they'd find in the woods before he ever left the UP and other odd incidences he tied vaguely to the white man, but it was some time before he ever saw him again.

After all, if he was tied to winter, it'd be a while before they'd be a reunion in Texas.

But towards the end of my father's military contract, a storm hit the area he was stationed in and brought with it snow.

Being one of the few on the base who had any knowledge of how to handle the mess.

He saw himself outside a lot during the storm, and it didn't take long before he realized the white man could travel.

The storm lasted 2 days.

On the second day, he woke early to de ice paths and roads in a desolate part of the base.

He was surprised to see another soldier in the distance and grew a bit concerned when he realized the man wasn't moving quickly.

He approached him, only to realize something again.

There are no footprints leading out to this man, who he now realized was devoid of color.

A detailed white shape with two dark eyes.

If he hadn't been so surprised, he'd have screamed.

Instead, he claimed he probably looked as white as the white man as the color left him no interest.

With that, the figure vanished.

My father was found some time later by a fellow soldier staring into the distance across an open field.

Exhaustion was his supposed excuse.

Two days later, he received a call from his older sister informing him that his father had died.

There wasn't much detail to go into.

His father had simply fallen over in the field and died while feeding hogs, and that was that.

No mess, no fuss.

My father, understandably, didn't care much if the white man did it.

It wasn't much of A punishment, but eventually came to decide the white man was, if nothing else, a bad omen.

Admittedly, it's now 4:00 AM for me.

I'm heading to bed, but if the thread's still up tomorrow and there's any interest, I'll wrap it up with at least two to three stories I have that are of any interest.

I hope at least a few of you got somewhat of a kick out of it.

Which leads me to asking a question.

Anyone have any idea what this thing was?

If he wasn't just a blowing smoke out his ass slash crazy?

Any legends of anything like this?

Oh fine, one more, give me a moment.

Needless to say, my father grew afraid of snow in the winter.

When his contract ended a year or so after that, he returned to the UP for one summer to help his mother deal with the mess that was the home place.

I need to pause here to describe my family.

On my father's side.

You need to remember as well that I never met most of them, knowing them only through old family photos and family stories which don't all involve winter monsters.

My father was 28 when he married and 32 when he became a father, and on the other hand, his parents have been together since his mother was 14 and his father 18.

His parents were not old when all their children moved away, but they were also were old in that way only hillbillies and Hicks can be.

Furthermore, his mother had never done anything by herself and with her husband dead, had no one to turn to.

Only my father was willing to return home and help her.

When he got there, the place was a mess.

Despite his father dying less than six months previously.

It looked at him as if a monster had come and torn apart the place.

The pig barn's roof was ripped away, trees have been knocked over, buildings had collapsed, and everything looked in disrepair.

When he asked what had happened, he was less than happy with the answer.

The year he and Philly left, an enormous storm had blown in off the lakes, bringing with it both snow and wind.

That night, they'd woken to find the roof of the barn folded up like a sardine tin and the hogs gone or killed.

Most notably, one pig's corpse had been left high in a tree, as if some giant had picked him up and put him there.

Oddly, none of their neighbors had had such damage.

The next year, now even poorer, the family has struggled more.

Troubles multiplied after the chicken shed collapse when a whole heap of something fell into it, apparently freeing the birds to nature.

Another storm the following year took down trees which destroyed their sawmill and ended their lumber business.

The year after a car had been crushed under an enormous grandfather of a tree.

So on, so forth.

The only year supposedly that have been free of damage had been the winter just prior.

His father had been feeding the few replaced hogs and fell over and died on the way home.

Obviously the news shook my father up.

He couldn't tell his mother the white man did it, nor did he believe the white man had entirely, but some part of him just couldn't help but feel there was a connection, that a debt had gone unpaid and the collector had been unable to find him.

Hastily, he helped his mother move and sell what few items of value remained.

Before the winter returned, he made sure to be well back into Texas, where they had a short, warm winter free of snow.

During which time he met my mother.

Perhaps ironically, a year later.

They got married in January.

Furthermore, her birthday was in December.

My father always liked having happier things in the winter time though, so it didn't bother him in the least.

It's good to see why man can be helpful, friend.

Make sure he doesn't kill your hogs for pavement though.

Anyway, I'm going to sleep.

If it's still up in the morning, I'll finish it all up.

And then someone replies saying all right friend.

And then the OP comes back 8 hours later saying although there were more stories prior to this, there are mostly small ones or more detailed accounts of how animals are stolen.

My father probably had dozens of these but I can't remember most of them and I apologize for that.

If I can get in touch with my sister who was much closer to him than I was, I may ask her a bit.

I'm mostly telling the big ones, but when I'm done, I may include a few of the littles that I forgot.

Anyway, although my father met my mother in Texas, she wasn't from there.

She was from Pennsylvania, and her family still live there.

About when their lease in Texas ran up, the holidays rolled around and she suggested they head up to where her parents lived for an extended vacation.

So a few weeks before Thanksgiving, they headed up there.

Apparently my father was terrified, for if the white man could travel then he'd surely be there over the winter and he owed him a great deal of debt.

But he couldn't tell his new wife that he couldn't go somewhere with an actual winter because of a demon he made a deal with, now could he?

So we tried to play it off as a fear of meeting his in laws for the first time.

Unfortunately, he hit it off with them.

So when he continued to act nervous, he began to raise a few questions with my mother, who one night confronted him and asked if he was all right.

This was the closest he ever got to telling her about the white man.

He asked her if she believed in demons or monsters, and she told him no.

Well, if she didn't, did she think she could?

No.

If someone told her they believed in demons, she'd think they were crazy.

The conversation was thus dropped.

Considering he told my sister and I of the white man from an early age, part of me thinks she must have eventually known something about him, but it never came up.

Certainly as time went on, my mother thought of my father as eccentric, if not harmless.

Back to the story, though.

By now it was cold, although snow hadn't fallen yet.

One night, a few days before Thanksgiving, he woke up to ice outside the house.

In this ice, he swore he saw a shape slightly darker than the surroundings, the shape of a vague humanoid creature.

By now he's terrified.

He's either gotten so wrapped up in this that he's gone mad, or he's been taunted before the 1st snow even falls.

Which is why when it does fall a few days later, right on Thanksgiving Day, he loses it.

My grandparents were wealthy and had a large family, and for every holiday they threw enormous parties.

Thanksgiving was arguably the largest of these parties and everyone have been planning into working on it for weeks.

By the evening prior people were showing up and by Thursday afternoon the house was packed.

It was about then that it began to snow.

It all started with my uncle, not the hillbilly one, joking they were going to get snowed in.

As just the lightest of powder began to fall like in a horror movie, my father inched towards the window and looked out.

The skies were Gray.

Snow was wafting down.

In a panic, he switched the channel off whatever pregame event everyone was watching to check the weather, which of course began to upset people.

Knowing he'd come up from Texas and that he had a bit of an accent that could be of southern Hick, people asked if he'd never seen snow before.

No, my mother assured them.

He's from Michigan, he's seen it before, he just doesn't like it.

By now he's panicking though, and people are joking about him or just weirded out.

His issue wasn't just the white man, it was that he owed the white man, that the white man was angry, and that he was stuck in the house with 40 other people while he dealt with the white man.

Eventually, my mother escorted him out to the bedroom where they were staying.

They argued briefly and he was told to stay there until he was calm or dinner came around.

Like a child being put into time out.

My father, among other things, was very obedient, so the thought of arguing back and leaving didn't really occur to him.

Instead, he was now trapped in a smaller area, and unfortunately for him, the room overlooked the large backyard, which was fenced with just a short iron fence and backed up directly to an empty lot and then the woods.

As the snow accumulated and it grew darker and darker, he grew more and more anxious.

His time was deviated between watching the yard and woods like a hawk and trying to ignore said yard and woods.

Finally, at about 7:00 PM, he was taken downstairs to eat.

But being locked up there had had the opposite effect.

He was now more nervous and more anxious than ever, and it showed.

I could go into detail on the dinner, but really it's not relevant to the story.

The Long story short, it didn't go well and eventually he was sent back upstairs well before anyone else was done.

By now it was dark.

Part of him expected the white man to pop up as soon as it got dark, but like a girl getting ready for a date, the white man made him wait.

Hours ticked by and he sat waiting in front of the window with just the sounds of the party downstairs keeping him company.

Slowly, he began to calm down a little.

Maybe the white man wouldn't show up.

Maybe all he could do was appear vaguely when he was this far from home.

With a sigh of relief, my father decided to head to the bathroom.

When he came back through, he saw just the briefest flash of white against the trees.

His heart sank, his fear returned, but still he knew he had to go take a look.

Sure enough, lumbering out of the woods and through the field was the white man.

He was smaller now than my father had ever seen him, but still larger than a man.

It stopped at the fence and looked up towards him.

It was clear to my father that the white man knew he was there and wanted something, but was unwilling to come closer.

For a long moment he stared at the creature.

It was clear it was willing to wait until they came out, and something he said compelled him to just go immediate and be over with it.

It took him a while, but eventually he got his wits about him and decided to do just that.

He would not follow.

He would scream if it touched him.

Surely with 40 people in the house it would drop them and run, or they'd come out and save them.

People didn't vanish like that, and no one had ever written about a snow monster actually killing someone in their yard.

So with that logic, he got dressed and headed downstairs.

By now many of the partygoers were intoxicated or had headed to bed.

Slash left, and apparently his escape to the backyard went unnoticed.

You would think, with his logic being that they would save him if something went wrong, that he would have stayed inside, seen as they were all too wasted to notice him leave, but still he went on.

At this point 6 inches had fallen and the snow was still falling heavily.

It was a bad storm, especially for this time of year, and it seemed to be feeding the creature before him who had now grown a bit and was closer to his original size.

Without words it once more spoke to him.

It told him that he had left and had not been paying his debts.

Had they not made a contract, failure to go against that would result in that contract being null and void, and he'd have to go and gather up my father and Philly and take them away.

Perhaps feeling cocky for once in his life, my father pointed out he could simply move to a warmer climate, perhaps Hawaii or Brazil.

But the white man countered that Philly would not move there.

His other family members and friends would also not move, and eventually it can snow anywhere.

The contract could not be avoided.

And even if that had been a solution, here he was now in the snow.

What stopped him from just taking him now?

With that, the beast reached out towards my father.

Although the white man moved quickly, far quicker than any man could have moved, time did not.

It slowed so that while he was aware that everything around him was happening very quickly, it also lingered on, giving him enough time to tell the white man to wait before he was ever touched.

It was he would assure my sister and I the selfless idea that he had to keep Philly safe, and motivated him to do what he did next.

It wasn't him saving his skin, it was him saving his brother's skin.

This did not, he told us, free him of sin.

It simply made an excuse for it, for what he ended up doing.

The white man waited, recoiling from my father.

His mouth opened slightly, as if he were almost smiling.

He knew what sort of idea my father had.

What if I made you another deal?

My father asked.

It would need to be impressive, was the answer.

My father thought about it for a moment, but could come up with nothing.

This was not an effort to be difficult, but he simply couldn't think of something that interests the man that he could sacrifice.

Understanding this, the white man suggested something for him.

Will you personally give me interest?

Will you let me take what you owe?

To this?

My father agreed.

He would allow that.

He'll let the white man take something that covered his almost 10 years of debt.

He assumed this meant himself, that the white man would just take him and perhaps give the debt to his brother to continue paying off.

Instead though, the monster simply opened its mouth wider till done.

Nothing more was said.

The beast simply turned around and headed back into the woods, the soft dents in the snow it left behind quickly being filled by a new snow.

A little confused and more than a little worried, my father headed back inside.

As he grew more and more uncomfortable, some part of him was sure he had made a horrible mistake.

That mistake did not come to light until a few weeks later when my mother grew very ill.

Eventually she was rushed to the hospital where they found she had miscarried but not passed the entire fetus, resulting in a major infection.

She nearly died and was believed to be infertile until she had me a few years later.

My father, of course, always blamed himself for it, although he never told her.

He simply apologized over and over for it.

He was convinced, though, that all of it had been due to his contract with a white man, and that the loss of his unborn child was the payment he owed.

The incident, ironically convinced my mother to stay close to her parents in case some other medical issue happened.

She wanted to be near them and the doctor she grew up with.

My father reluctantly agreed.

I may as well move back home or to Alaska, was his opinion on it.

The next year, my one uncle, mother side she had two brothers drove off a bridge during a particularly bad snowstorm.

By time they recovered his car, not until the next spring, the body was no longer in it.

The year after, my grandfather lost two German Shepherds he kept in an outdoor kennel, the both of them simply vanishing from a locked pen.

On the third year, the family suffered no loss, but two locals went missing on a poorly timed camping trip.

My father was a religious man, the sort where every time anything went well, he thanked Jesus or God on the same notes whenever anything went poorly.

If it was during the colder months, it was certainly the white man's fault.

Whatever creature this was, he believed it had followed him to Pennsylvania and that it now took its interest here instead of back in Michigan.

The logic there I never entirely understood.

Did it do this all over the world, or at least America?

We're all missing people who vanished in the winter months, victims of the white man, or just people near my father?

Had it really moved across the country just for him?

Once I asked my father some of that, he didn't know the answer to any of it.

All he knew was that I followed him like a curse.

BRB need to head out and do some stuff.

Will finish if threads still up when I get back.

I think there's two more major incidences and then I'll just post some little stuff if anyone wants it.

I appreciate the compliments friends.

I imagine if my father had given up the first time he met the white man, things would have been a good deal easier for my mother to be honest.

Sucks for her I guess.

Anyway, continuing on, the winter before I was born was the next time my father met the white man.

Like I believe I've said, my mother came from some money after she found out she couldn't have children, a fact that didn't bother her even after my sister and I were born.

She joked that her diagnosis have been good news to her.

Her parents, who were far more traditional than her, bought her a puppy to help ease the pain and work as a child substitute.

The dog, in 1980s dollars, had costed them $800 and was a papered Borosie breed, pictured, imported from Russia.

Despite my mother's disdain for children, though, she absolutely adored the dog, and the dog wished for nothing.

It was to the degree that my father feared she loved the dog more than him.

When winter rolled around that fourth year, my father grew nervous as usual.

Every year something had been taken, even if it hadn't been from him personally, and every year he worried that the white man would take his wife or some close friend.

Halfway through December came a storm that left them with two feet of snow, and it was then that my father was sure the white man would appear.

The dog that my mother had was a very regal fellow.

He was also white, very fast and prone to running off after anything that moved.

All these are facts you need to understand.

Being such a regal, noble dog, he was quiet beyond peeing in the house and never had accidents.

In fact, he'd rather make himself sick than do anything of that sort.

While this made him very easy to house break, it had also made him a challenge during the winter months, for it meant he needed to go out even in the worst of weather.

During the middle of the storm, the dog begins to whine.

Although my father was usually quite the gentleman and doughed it on my father often more than she wanted, he would not walk the dog in the snow under any circumstances.

It was cowardice, he believed, but he simply couldn't bring himself to be alone out there in the cold.

Of course, he didn't want his wife out there alone either, and had thus fenced in a large yard.

So out goes the dog, who cannot be without a leash or a fence.

My mother hangs by the door, something that drove my father nuts as she wouldn't close it either, and waits for him.

A few moments pass and then the dog begins to bark.

For those who have been around Burzosi's you should know this is a bit out of the ordinary for they are usually very quiet, timid animals and would rather run home when confronted by something they can't hunt then make a fuss.

Concerned, my mother followed him outside.

What happened next is how my father described what my mother saw, so it's not even a direct retelling from him.

The snow had piled high, and although 2 feet was what they had gone, over the course of the storm they'd gotten more proud of that.

Some of the snow had been shoveled against the fence to clear a walkway, and with the added few feet on top of that, it had made a ramp along the fence line.

Something big moved away quickly enough that all my mother saw was a streak of white against the snow.

It was this that her dog had been barking at from atop this ramp, and when it fled, the dog went after it.

Of course, my father claimed the thing she saw was the white man, although my mother simply thought it was a cat or some other animal that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Regardless, the dog was gone.

It runs my mother screaming that her dog is gone and they have to go after it.

It's chase something and if they don't find it soon it'll freeze to death.

He refuses to go after it.

He makes every excuse he can.

Honey, he'll be back, sweetheart, it's not worth risking our lives.

Look pumpkin, we'll leave the door open so we can come back in.

My mother's having none of it though.

If he doesn't go with her, she'll go without him and then have a talking to him when she gets back.

If she gets back, since it's so dangerous.

According to him.

Guilting always worked on my father, so with a sigh, he got dressed and headed out with her, her holding the dog's leash in a squeaky toy and him holding a loaded shotgun just in case.

So off they wander after the dogs rapidly fading footprints, my father's stomach doing cartwheels as he realizes there's another sets of tracks, a set of vague indents that only look like footprints to those who know.

He realizes he's going into the lion's den after this stupid dog, and nothing less than picking up his wife and running back home is going to prevent it.

So still, he charges on after her, feeling more and more like a scared child, especially after the trail takes them into the woods.

My father did not like the north due to the weather and wasn't crazy about the woods despite enjoying hunting.

My father especially did not like Pennsylvania's woods.

They're not like most woods, he would say.

They're empty.

They're quiet.

As they get deeper and deeper into the woods, the trail begins to pick up.

The footprints are less filled in, the gate dropping from a run to a walk.

My mother's calling for the dog, squeaking the toy occasionally, and trying to convince my father the dog will just be around the next bend.

This continues on for a while until they're deeper in the woods than they thought possible.

It was just like being a little boy again, my father told me.

Unfamiliar woods going on seemingly forever.

Eventually, he almost convinces her to turn around, but that's when they hear a low whine, like a dog that's been hurt.

She spins around and catches, just briefly, a glimpse of Snow White fur in her flashlight.

Off.

My mother takes after the dog, calling and squeaking her toy, with my father frozen in spot behind her, not yet pursuing.

That's because he's looking down at the tracks.

There's my mother's, his wife's footprints, and there's the Prince of a dog, but there's no vague indents.

The Prince that had until now been consistent are gone.

He calls back to her.

Nothing.

He can hear her, but she's not going to listen to him, and that means he has to run after her every step of the way.

She's just enough ahead of them that he can see her, but not called to her.

And the path they're taking is taking them further and further from home.

Back then, where they lived, the suburbs had only just hit the area.

There was their subdivision and their backyard.

Beyond that was another backyard and then a street, and across from that were construction sites and fields before you eventually hit hundreds of acres of practically untouched woods.

If you went far enough, you would get to more fields and old farms, but there was nothing but relative wilderness for miles and no other big neighborhoods.

It was a very real possibility you could get lost and not be found right away.

It was a very good place to lure some poor cursed fool away.

What happened next would be described how my mother told it to my father.

Every so often she'd catch a glimpse of her dog, just the Snow White outline of them or the fluff of his tail.

Whenever she'd give up hope there'd be the dog.

Eventually, though, one last time, she lost sight of them.

It was then that she heard a snapping sound, followed by the yelping of a dog that sounded far too familiar.

The sound was carried by the wind, she said, and sounded high and distant, which made it impossible to find where the animal went.

Then there was nothing.

The trail ended.

There were no more prints.

The dog didn't appear, no matter how much she called for it.

Eventually my father caught up.

He claimed the trail did continue.

She simply didn't understand what she was seeing and hopefully never would, for in front of the dog prints where they ended were those indents again.

After a few minutes of the two checking around, they found the dog's collar snapped and hanging on a branch just high enough to seem off to my father.

Of course, my mother believed the dog got caught, broke the collar, and simply never was seen again, but my father took it as a sign the debt had been paid off for another year.

Without the adrenaline of the chase, my parents came to realize how tired they were and how far from home as well.

By now, my mother's sobbing.

It's too late and dark to keep chasing the dog, and even she understands that.

And she is unlikely to get it back with how fast and far can travel.

Assuming it wasn't spirited away by a demon, of course.

My father's crying too, because he knows they're probably lost and probably being watched.

The next hour or two they spent wandering back home, getting more loss at times before spotting familiar landmarks and eventually making it back home.

Those few hours, my father said, were some of the scariest of his life.

He felt like an animal being stalked, like one wrong move would mean his contract had come up for while he paid it off.

For now, he didn't entirely trust the white man's word.

He had little doubt that if they too got lost, well, that's just too bad, isn't it?

Still, though, they made it home.

My mother, now emotionally and physically exhausted, begged him to do her one last favor while she went and undressed and got ready for a long night.

Could he please go around back and make sure the dog hadn't somehow beat them home, that he wasn't whining along the back gate asking to be let in?

Reluctantly, he agreed.

Along the back of the fence he saw him, a gigantic white form blocking out the natural light of the moon.

He was waiting, waiting to make another contract, his white teeth sparkling in that almost smile.

Without words, they spoke once more.

Would you like to be free of your debt?

Well, of course, was my father's answer.

Even as he got a bad feeling about what the white man may propose.

The white man spoke of a rare opportunity.

The next year, he assured, could be the last year.

No more debt.

All he had to do was agree to one last deal where the white man would get to take twice in one year.

Something though, about how he spoke frightened my father, and after the last deal they had made, he wasn't sure he wanted to agree.

He thought about it for a moment and refused.

It was then that he saw the white man frown as he described it.

It was not like how a human would, but rather it was as if the slit mouth inversed on itself, sucking itself in and some sort of alien expression of displeasure.

Well, that's unfortunate, the white man remarked, before simply slipping back into the snow.

My father headed back in.

The dog never showed back up.

That spring, her parents bought her another dog, another Borzozie, although this one was black instead of white.

This dog I grew up with, he fortunately was not as regal or noble as a dog before him and had no issue pissing inside if the weather got too bad.

Now before I get to this next part, which I guess is the second to last big part if I'm remembering everything clearly, I'm going to get myself some food as I've not eaten all day, so I'm going to take this chance to make something clear.

My father spoke with this thing multiple times, but it never used its voice.

It had a voice, he told me, but it wasn't when you heard, and you didn't speak to it with your voice.

It all happened without actual audible words, and things were more gestures than actual sentences.

You understood one another.

Things were translated into rough sentences, but exact wording wasn't there.

With that in mind, the white man didn't necessarily say exactly.

Well, that's unfortunate.

My father often could translate these sentences better into things that sounded less corny, but I've honestly not cared much to make it sound great, since the white man was telepathic or something of that sort, and probably wasn't speaking the King's English anyway.

Like I said, the following year I was born.

My parents did not use birth control.

Of this I am unfortunately certain, for my mother was adamant that we shouldn't make the same mistake when it came time to teach us the birds and the bees.

Of course, in their defense, they thought they couldn't have children.

Eventually, though, a little miracle me happened.

This was something they didn't discover until fairly late in the pregnancy, when all these symptoms simply couldn't be ignored.

Upon finally heading to the doctor, they found not only was my mother pregnant, but she was pregnant with twins.

Twins were common in my mother's family, with pretty much every generation having at least one batch of them.

My mother herself was a twin.

This wasn't a major shocker, and my parents began planning accordingly.

Everyone was excited, most of all my father who loved children and had always wanted a big family.

What did not excite him was my mother's due date, the middle of February.

Throughout the year, perhaps cruelly, my mother and more so uncle, teased him.

His sons were going to be born in the middle of winter.

Wouldn't his little boogeyman be pleased?

These jokes, of course, didn't amuse my father in the least.

As the due date approached, my father grew more and more nervous, although nothing thus far had indicated any issues with the pregnancy.

Still, he was just certain something would happen part way through January.

Sure enough, it did.

Another storm hit, which caused a few power outages.

In the middle of the night.

With the power flickering on and off and the storm raging, my mother went into labor.

Her due date was a month away, but she was quite certain this wasn't false labor and demanded, despite the conditions, to be taken to the hospital.

My father, despite his fear of the winter snow driving and driving in the winter while it snowed, agreed without hesitation.

He was prepared for something bad to happen after all, and so he steeled himself and headed out to warm up the car.

Unfortunately, if the white man truly existed, he had also steeled himself and was quite ready for a battle.

As my father left the house, he noticed two things.

The first scared him the most.

Of course.

It was those now very familiar indents in the snow, the almost footprints of the white man.

Then there was the weather, which would have been the more reasonable thing to be worried about.

The cloud cover was thick, thick enough to cover the moon and prevent any natural lighting.

It was bitterly cold, with a strong wind and heavy snowfall.

The drive would be unpleasant.

The more sensible person would have just called an ambulance, especially if they didn't like driving in the winter.

But my father felt that for some reason it'd be safer driving her there himself, That if he was in control, the white man would be less likely to pull something.

And so once the car was warm, he escorted my mother to it and began to drive to the hospital.

Remember, of course, that this was over 20 years ago.

These were new suburbs outside the city.

The hospital was going to the speed limit a little over 20 minutes away.

In this weather, it'd be longer.

Eventually a hospital was built closer to our home, but I was born in the recent dark ages.

The journey started with a few hitches.

The car did not want to leave the driveway, the windshield wipers did not want to work in the slush of the snow, and the heat refused to go very high before even leaving the neighborhood.

The small hatchback that became part of my father's persona over the years slid twice on the poorly maintained roads of our suburbs, but once they got out into the open, main roads were much better salted and scraped.

Everything seemed to be turning up in their favor.

Traffic was non existent.

The winds died down slightly, slips were avoidant.

My father relaxed as much as someone in a snowstorm with a woman in labor can.

And that, he said, was the biggest mistake.

Ahead of them, it appeared some snow had blown into the road, forming a short blockade.

Confident, my father drove over it and promptly became struck in the surprisingly solid slush.

No amount of backing up or revving Ford freed them and with a nervous sigh my father had to exit the car and try to push them over or dig them out.

It was then that he realized he had not hit snow, he had hit the white man's hulking form.

He let out a slight screech and when his wife asked why, he had no word for it.

He couldn't.

In those few moments he had explained a lifetime of demonic harassment and even if he could, he didn't think this was the time or the place.

It's nothing, I was just startled by something.

Was his answer before closing the door and staring down the beast, who simply stared back with beady eyes again.

There was no real confrontation.

It was like having a conversation with a car dealer once more as the white man tried to make his deal.

This thing was here to collect interest but wanted to offer last year's chance once more, twice and once a year, no more again.

Remember, my father was not a bright man, and it took him a moment to understand what the white man meant.

Once the image clicked into his mind, the white man echoed it as if to confirm.

Two boys for two boys.

If he offered his own unborn sons, the white man would finally consider his and Philly's debt paid.

It was that simple.

But my father continued to refuse.

He would not offer his sons up as a substitute, and that was final.

There was one last push for it before the white man gave up.

There was no confrontation, although my father always used to add I would have fought him if I had to.

Fortunately, though, he didn't have to.

The white man simply slid away from under the car and into the white of the snow without anyone ever noticing.

You must be asking, of course, what my mother thought happened.

My mother simply thought that snow had gone under the car and that my father got the car free somehow if there was a giant monster.

She never saw it.

He got back into the car, drove her to the hospital, and she had two healthy boys, of which I was the slightly older, despite us being three to four weeks early.

We were a bit small, but not sickly.

I'm sure you thought this would be a more dramatic conclusion, but it didn't.

There wasn't one, but if you've been paying attention, you probably noticed something as well.

I've mentioned a younger sister, but never a brother.

Before anyone asks, my slightly younger twin brother didn't somehow become my sister either.

Everything went relatively well, although my brother and I remain in the hospital a few days longer than usual to monitor for any health problems.

The next month, things continue to go well, although my father acted more nervous than usual during the winter months.

If the white man had shown such interest in US, why had it suddenly disappeared?

Why had it taken nothing else?

There hadn't even been any missing persons, which seemed to occasionally subside its hunger in the curse.

It was the middle of February when things came to a head.

Ironically, perhaps, it was on the day my brother and I were expected to be born on.

Initially, my brother and I shared a room, although we had different cribs.

My mother was not a champion caregiver, and my father most frequently cared for us, so when I began crying loudly in the middle of the night, it was him who came to see what I wanted, and it was him who discovered the window beside my brother's crib open.

No, he wasn't missing.

He wasn't gone like the pigs with the dog or my uncle who drove off the road into a lake.

They didn't put out missing posters like they did for the poor man who tried to help a 16 year old version of my father after he drove off the road.

Instead he was simply dead.

A cold body and a cold crib in a room with much too cold for babies.

The official cause of death was SIDS, although I'm sure it'd have been something else had my parents not close the window before the paramedics arrived.

My father's logic with the white man was often faulty.

Why did the white man sometimes leave bodies?

My brothers, grandfathers and often times not.

Not to mention there's the logic holes some of you have pointed out.

Why didn't he just go back on his deal?

Why didn't he take the two boys and everyone else?

Who knows really.

My father never had an answer for it either, but it was clear to him that since no one else died, it was that year's interest.

Now I want to say one more thing before I move on to the next part here.

My mother was not a good mother, at least not until I got somewhat older.

She loved me, I'm sure, and she was certainly my favorite parent.

We simply had a closer interest and better conversations.

But she was not a good mother when I was an infant.

She hated babies, she wasn't crazy about children, and she would have not had kids if it had been her choice alone.

She suffered badly with postpartum depression, which didn't clear up entirely until my sister was about 3.

With that in mind, I want to note that she was the last one to care for my brother and I before going to sleep.

Of course, that sounds like a straight up blame my mother for that one.

I don't entirely.

I think it could have been some accident on my father's part, or some half hearted kidnapping attempt or who knows what.

I just always thought it was a possibility and I believe my father knew that as well.

My uncle never knew of the window.

My grandparents never knew.

Only myself, my mother, my sister and my father ever knew the window was open and it only because my idiot father left it in the story when he told us years later.

I asked my mother about it.

She confirmed it.

She confirmed they closed it before help arrived to make things look less irresponsible.

She asked me to never tell anyone, despite the major detail being left out of the official kind of things.

Other people had their suspicions too.

It's important that I tell you that because the white man was never my excuse for any of these things.

Like it was my father's.

It was just a spooky story he'd tell that I thought other people would enjoy.

My grandparents never believed the SIDS story entirely.

My father never went to bed without making sure all the windows were locked and we were safe in our beds.

Not until my sister and I were well past that age that an open window would kill us.

After that, it was the death of my grandmother father side that my father blamed on the white man.

My grandmother, never quite capable of taking care of herself, had wandered off into the woods near her trailer.

Yep, that's where she ended up and wasn't found for three days.

The official story was that her wood burning stove, Yep in a trailer, had run out of wood and she'd gone in to find more and had gotten lost.

To be honest, considering how my father got as he grew older and suffered a few last shocks, she may have simply been senile or incapable of handling a life without her husband of nearly 30 years.

The only time I met my grandmother was at her funeral when I was barely a year old.

There's a picture of us together, taken by my uncle Philly, with me sitting in the coffin next to her.

I came from real class on that side you know you're following.

It was my grandmother's other one, the one who is still alive.

Scottish terrier, which wandered out one cold evening and never came back.

A missing hunter the next year.

An Ant on my father's side.

Again, never met the year after the ants.

A bit of a fun story, I guess.

She just disappeared and to this day they never have found a body or even evidence of foul play.

The popular theory, IE not my father's, is that she got sick of her husband and kids and drove off and didn't come back.

Then my sister was born.

Another accident.

Even after my birth, my parents were told my mother was practically sterile and that I had been a fluke.

No need to worry.

Well, one accidental pregnancy is a fluke and another one is proof your uterus works fine.

After she was born, my mother opted to have her tubes tied and end the cycle once and for all.

She just really wasn't crazy about kids at all.

I'm actually not even sure she told my father that she did that.

Not that it matters anyway.

My sister was born in the summer and unlike with my brother and I, the white man made no effort to make a deal for her soul.

He never came for her either, perhaps because by time it became winter she was already an amazingly active baby and he didn't want to deal with her any more than my mother did.

The next few years list of collections I don't remember clearly.

I probably got a few of the ones prior out of order to be honest.

One year the black pizzoli ran off and another my sister's pet cat.

Overall though, the next few years of our childhood were relatively drama and monster free.

Although my father swore up and down that it was a scheme that I was all leading up to 1 big finale, there is no overly happy ending.

Just to warn, when my sister was 10 and I was almost 15, my mother began drinking heavily.

My mother had always liked to drink, had always shown more interest in partying and spending money than working or spending time with her family.

And to be honest, I didn't see this as an entirely negative trait.

I thought it was kind of cool having a mom who would give me a shot of vodka and talk to me about things only adults talked about.

Which is probably why I've referred my mother so much to my father.

She and I were good friends and I loved her dearly, but we didn't have a great relationship as family members.

Mom was who you went to if you needed permission to go out and party or wanted someone to buy you something.

Dad was who you went to if you actually needed something and had the time to listen to a boring story.

This drinking escalated over the course of the summer and by winter she was a full blown alcoholic.

I know none of this is really relevant to the story, or at least not spooky, but it's important to know because it's about the line between my father's imagination and probable delusion and reality.

My parents relationship was failing, at least on her end.

Her mental stability was failing too, but for a lot of different relationships and no one saw it.

I thought maybe they divorce or end up in therapy, although they didn't fight much so I don't know why that was the conclusion I drew.

And my father thought trying to get her to go to church more would help, but no one did much.

And so it didn't surprise us when one morning she didn't come home when she didn't show up from her drinking 1 cold January morning.

The police were called and an investigation begun.

It didn't take long for them to reach a probable conclusion.

Remember how many years ago an uncle had driven off a road and into a river.

That road was between our house and my grandparents house and had once been used frequently.

Now it was more of a side Rd.

used less frequently, especially in poor weather.

Investigation showed someone had driven off the road once more, but with bad weather rolling in again, they'd be unable to pursue much of an investigation for a bit.

Eventually though, they found my mother's car at the bottom of the river where her brothers had ended up close to 20 years before.

Again, there was no body, just a car.

But fish in the current can carry away a lot in just a few months.

Case closed investigation over funeral was an empty casket.

Motives.

Was in an accident intentional?

No one knew.

Everyone had their own theories.

To be honest I feel it was probably was an accident and she was simply a bad drunk driver.

My father of course knew what had really happened and told my sister and I once it was the interest for that year.

He'd seen the white man since then.

It was enough, though, and the contract was almost up, so we would not need to worry so much anymore.

After that, my father spoke much less of the white man, mentioning him only when prompted.

In general, that was how he behaved most of the time, though he spoke less, talking only when prompted.

He had spent close to 20 years taking care of my mother even when she didn't need it, and he had spent most of his life worrying about some boogeyman.

Now his children were almost adults, he was mostly alone, and he was less and less needed Without someone to take care of.

He couldn't take care of himself either, much like how his mother had.

It ended up until I left at 18, I drove him places and helped him with things he could no longer do.

It wasn't that he was senile exactly, for he wasn't old, it was just that he couldn't do it.

Something left him and he needed help.

Every year.

Winter still scared him and he still wouldn't go outside, but he was less nervous and almost bitter during those months.

His dad was paid.

I think he thought when I left, my sister began caring for him.

We weren't close, my sister and I, or my father and I, as I've said.

So I didn't check in much and I didn't visit at all.

My uncle Philly moved nearer to the area after his own lifetime of bad luck, which brought some pep back to my father, at least so I heard, and gave him a proper babysitter.

This, of course, all leads us back to the start.

On Sunday, he died.

I wish I could say it was something dramatic, like the house was torn up by a Yeti and they never found his body, but it wasn't.

My father did not drive well in the snow, and my sister wasn't home to drive him.

He went out to the store that night, slid off the road going too fast, and wasn't found until morning, by which time he had died from his injuries and shock.

We buried him fast and I saw my sister for the first time in four years.

My father looked much older than 54 in his coffin.

I remembered how old my grandmother looked from pictures when she was at his age, how old she looked in her coffin that I once laid inside.

My family doesn't age well I guess.

Is there some plot twist to this at all?

No.

But there's one more piece of information and I've been saving it for the dramatic end.

Philly saying things are looking in his windows that he's hearing someone stop around his house at night and catching glimpses of movement from outside, but when he goes out there he can't even find any footprints.

And then someone comments saying go to Texas and for the love of God never venture out in the snow.

How long has Philly been saying things are looking in his windows?

Maybe he's been denying it all these years.

And then the Opie responds to this commenter saying apparently since a few days before my father's death.

Although I didn't ask for any details nor did I imply it was the white man.

Seeing as Philly never appreciated the stories when my father was telling them, I didn't want to upset him.

After this semester is up, I was considering moving someplace warmer anyway, so I may do it.

Not because of a spooky ghost, but because I don't like shoveling my drive or falling on my ass because of ice.

And here is one last story.

Chronologically, it goes between my birth and my mother's death, although that should be pretty obvious.

It wasn't included previously because, well, it didn't happen to me and I never got the details.

But I've since talked to my sister.

Awkward process, I'll have you know.

And here it is.

Now everyone knows parents are not supposed to pick favorites, but generally they do.

I was clearly my mother's favorite, which looking back was kind of mean of her.

I got more expensive presents, I got away with more, she talked to me more, she always took my side.

My father, on the other hand, didn't seem to pick favorites, but he spent more time with my sister, I believe because my mother obviously liked her the least out of the two of us.

Over time, if nothing else, it became clear which of us preferred which parent.

I liked our mother more, and my sister adored our father.

Every moment they could spend together, they did.

And that probably sounds creepy when you're so used to hearing about creepy, fucked up relationships, but it really wasn't.

It was a very nice, normal storybook relationship.

My sister had few friends growing up.

If there was one thing we both got from our mother, it's a stick up the ass Jean.

Because I wasn't popular either and it was for the same reason we were pretentious smart ass shits.

We thought we were better than every other kid.

This is where my sister was lucky for my father most certainly wasn't a kid, but he wasn't quite an adult either.

He could enjoy the same shows, books, and topics she did while having the capabilities of behaving like an adult and not asking or doing stupid shit that pissed her off with the other kids.

The 2IN short were best friends.

This had obvious benefits for her because she never could get in trouble with him and had a parent she could tell anything to.

It also had one benefit for him.

He had someone he could finally talk to.

Although we had told Philly all the stories over the years, Philly had it never taken any of it seriously and made fun of him for it whenever he could get the chance.

And while he had told me the stories too, which gained him less ridicule, I eventually grew up and stopped believing his stories and just found them silly.

My sister never felt that way.

She ate his stories up.

She spent long nights talking to him about the white man, learning everything my father knew about him.

Really and truly, if anyone out there is qualified to talk about the white man, it's her.

Unfortunately, she's never wanted to tell anyone about the white man.

Her logic on it has been that some things are best not talked about unless they have to be, and that would be best if the white man stayed within our family.

This morning she finally responded to a text I sent her and we began talking.

Casual conversation at 1st and then the white man.

She of course thought I wanted to know to tease my father, but once I assured her I was just curious and suddenly a bit nostalgic for the stories, she let up a bit under the condition that I wasn't making fun of him somewhere online.

Well, I'm not making fun of him, so I didn't exactly lie to her.

Before I go on, I will mention that I did ask jokingly if there was a reason we didn't talk about the white man.

Would he appear if he thought about him?

Would it make him stronger or spread some curse?

No, she responded.

It's just, why would you want to talk about and share something evil like that?

So before anyone asks, I've not cursed you.

It's not some hello Molly shit where the white man is now inside your head.

Anyway, when my sister was about 6:00 or so, she had a cat named Boo.

It was a big, angry caramel colored tomcat and mostly contained inside.

He only got out when my mother would try and get him castrated occasionally.

Then like a sixth sense, he'd find a way out and be gone for a few days until the appointment was well past and she'd have to reschedule.

No matter what my mother did, she could never get booed to the vet.

If she put him in a dog crate for a few days before the appointment, he'd either get out the day before she went to put him in the cage, or he'd get out when she opened the door, biting and scratching if he had to.

Other times, she'd lock him in the guest bedroom's bathroom and then lock the guest bedroom too, giving her 2 doors to prevent any escape.

Even then, he'd find a way out somehow, slipping his fat self out the window, which he could open just a few inches.

Once he is outside, he was usually gone.

Like I said, sometimes he'd linger around the house in places where no one could reach him.

Once he did just that for two days, hiding on top of the shelf in the backyard and moving to the other side whenever my mother tried to get the ladder and grab them.

Eventually, frustrated, she asked my father to get a fishing net and get the cat.

She would have done it herself, but my mother was a tiny, angry woman and found it difficult to wield a net.

A cat.

My father refused, not wanting to get involved in a man's fight for his nuts.

And that'll lead to the biggest argument my parents probably ever had.

What caused it to get so heated?

I don't know.

I don't know why over the 20 years they were married, this was the one thing they really argued about, and this was the one thing my father stood his ground on.

I don't know why they were so passionate about Kitty Balls.

The argument lasted for days.

Some part of my sarcastic preteen mind was preparing how I tell people my parents divorced over this.

Now it's worth mentioning this all happened in very late fall, a little after Thanksgiving, which had come fairly early that year.

And of course, old man Winter in the Snow thought this was a fitting time to come by.

Right in the middle of my parents argument about booze protest atop the shed, snow hit hard and fast in another lovely East Coast freak storm.

And like a piece of paper, my dad's argument crumpled in the face of his greatest fear.

Unfortunately, my mother was not such a lightweight about arguments and kept it going even when he no longer wanted to.

The cat was no longer the issue.

No specific thing was the issue.

16 years of shit was coming out all at once while the white man stalked around the house.

Much like my mother, Boo did not back down from a fight, even in the face of snow or a supernatural white gumby.

And still he refused to come inside.

More importantly, my father now refused to go outside and get them at all for any reason which further heeded the argument.

While I had been amused by the fight almost, my sister was greatly distressed by it, at least partially because it involved her beloved cat who is now freezing outside.

On the first night of her snowstorm in the end of booze second day on the shed, she was just settling down to go to sleep when she heard loud, scared meowing outside her window.

Even at six, this surprised her because the shed was far from her room and this sounded like it was coming from directly below her.

But she loved the cat, and so she got up under the assumption that Boo had gone down and wanted inside.

She slipped to the back door and opened it, expecting Boo to be there or to come trotting around from the side of the building.

But even in the dark, in the snow, she could spot her cat on top of the shed outside, a light coating of snow dusting his fur and a rather displeased expression on his face.

So of course she called the cat.

He would not come down.

Begrudgingly, she came back in and head back to her room.

What a fickle creature, wanting in one moment and then jumping back up there and refusing.

No sooner had my sister gone back in bed and under her covers then the crime began again, loud and sad under her window.

Looking down this time she sure enough saw Boo so heavily covered in snow that he looked white instead of caramel in the poor lighting, but Boo none the less.

With a sigh she got back up again and went around to the back to let the cat in.

But yet again Boo was on the shed and refused to come in no matter how much she called.

So back to bed she went again.

Only two once more have Boo under her window, whining this time.

Fed up with his shed, she opened her window and called out to him, telling him to go around to the door.

Surprisingly, with an expression that seemed a little too smart for a cat too stupid to get off a shed and come inside, the cat turned and headed around towards the front door.

Not quite the one my sister had in mind, but it was a door at least.

So she headed down one last time to let the cat inside.

Little kids all seem to have one flaw they can't overcome until they're older.

Some kids can't pour a drink without making a mess.

Some can zip their coats.

Some can't fasten their seatbelts.

For my little sister, hers was putting on her shoes.

She couldn't do it until she was almost 7, which was a few months after the story.

With that in mind, my sister headed to the front door and found Boo covered so thickly in snow he looked solid white sitting just beyond our porch in the snow.

No amount of coaxing or calling could get him to actually come inside, and finally she decided to just head out into the snow and grab them and bring them back inside.

Once she was within an arm's reach, just close enough to reach out and try and grab them, he began to back away.

No hissing or running, just taking a step back for every once he took towards her, making a path back around the house.

Despite being fairly bright, my sister saw nothing wrong with this cats game, and likely would have been up to play it much longer than she did, except for her feet begin hurting due to being unprotected from the cold.

So she made one last attempt to grab them, getting just a handful of cold, cold fur before turning back around and headed back inside to try and put her shoes on.

Boo had always been a little odd, even for a cat, and she was certain trying to grab him like that would send him scurrying away.

But instead he headed back just one more step, and when she turned around, he followed her back to the house, making sure to be just a little bit farther from her the whole way.

Even then, at that age, that made her a little uncomfortable.

By the time she came back in, our mother had woken up from all the doors opening and closing.

Our mother was less than happy to learn she'd been out barefoot chasing the cat and refused to let her go back out again.

Instead she left her, insisting she not move from that very spot and went to wake my father so he could finally get that damn thing in.

With Boo following my sister, you would imagine my mother had spotted him outside.

But she didn't, for the cat only returned around to the front of the house once she'd left again.

It was then that he resumed his miserable yelling, begging to be let in but refusing to come up the deck.

Momentarily, my sister considered going against my mother's wishes and heading out once again to try and get him, for he sounded just so miserable.

But some part of her was reluctant.

After all, Dad would be up soon and surely he could take care of it.

A few moments later, our father came around and asked where he was so he could go grab the cat.

My sister pointed outside, only to find that the cat was gone again.

Despite it, my dad headed outside to see if he was anywhere to be found in the front or side yard, but he simply wasn't.

The footprints went under our deck but didn't come back out, and there wasn't a cat under our deck.

My father eventually checked the backyard, only to find that Boo was up there on the shed again, miserable but silent.

Expecting him to maybe be more willing to come in, our father went out to try and grab the cat, but that's when something stopped him, something he didn't tell my sister for a few days.

There were no cat footprints in the snow back there, no evidence he'd ever left the shed's roof.

Furthermore, there weren't even any footprints on the shed, which meant to my father that the cat hadn't moved in some time, much less gone up and down a few times.

Nothing indicated Boo had moved at all.

He came back inside and my sister marked.

He looked visibly shaken.

He wouldn't say what happened, not then, but he crouched down to look at my sister, eye to eye, and spoke slowly, practically talking down to her, something he never did.

He wanted to make sure she listened to him this time.

He told her to not go back outside no matter how much Boo whined, to not try and follow him, to not even open the door for him.

She was to stay up in a room no matter what.

She whined a bit but he wouldn't relent and she eventually gave in and went back to her room where she had a sleepless night due to the crying of Boo below her window.

My father also had a sleepless night.

He trusted my sister but was afraid she'd try and go outside anyway.

And so he sat up all night on the sofa, getting up only to check if Boo, the Boo on the shed, wanded in every so often.

Eventually, just as it was about to get light outs, he went to check on Boo one last time and saw something that didn't entirely surprise him.

Boo was gone, but there were no footprints.

He hadn't jumped off the shed or walked off.

There was 1 patch free of snow where he had been laying, and other than that there was no evidence of cats had ever been on the shed.

Of course, we never saw Boo again, but perhaps mockingly, my sister would hear a cat yelling outside her window, one that looked an awful lot like Boo for the rest of the storm.

Once the storm was gone, so was the cat.

That's the only other big event my sister could remember, and it was 1 I remembered only small parts of.

I remember the argument, the cat's disappearance, but I was never told of anything else that happened.

She knows there were a few other stories, things my father only told Philly and never us, but she just knows of them, not what they were.

Before anyone asks, I know Philly would refuse to tell me even now.

Any secret between my father and uncle stay between them.

My sister may remember some things I don't.

So I guess if anyone has some questions and I can't answer them I can ask her.

And then some commenter says did she ever see the not footprints?

Someone else says thanks for the read OP.

Someone else says oh also does she believe this stuff is real?

Broach this carefully because well, she might think you're insulting him.

Does she think the contract will end with your uncle?

Someone else says this is weird.

I'm the guy that was talking to you about demons.

What is weird to me is that it has shown itself to everyone but you.

I don't remember that well, but your mom saw it when they were chasing the dog, didn't she?

This thing is apparently now bothering Philly and your sister came face to face with it in cat form.

What if when it's done with Philly it goes to your sister?

Then it shows itself to you but you just don't know it.

Watch out OP.

And then the OP answers these questions saying texted her she believes she's seen them but not for some time.

And then he also says it Glad you enjoyed.

The OP then says she believes it's real and has since we were kids.

And finally the OP says I suppose that's true.

I've never seen it but my sister and mother both did, although not in its regular form and Philly may be getting stalked by now.

Hopefully if it does exist, the contract ends with Philly and not with us.

And wow, what a great 4 Chan thread with that one.

The white man the O PS father owes the white man.

That is the classic 4 Chan story.

Hopefully a lot of you haven't heard it before but I did read that a long long time ago on the channel.

But I just wanted to reread it here and give it the justice it deserves.

And yes, a lot of you guys are saying why is this in a true 4 Chan threads video?

Well, I don't know.

I I feel like I just believe the OP and what I do believe that happened here was the O PS father was mentally unwell.

Like the OP did mention a few times saying his father may have been crazy and that very well could have been.

And you, you may be asking well, what happened with all the misfortunes that happened?

Well, that's a great question.

But maybe the the father and the O PS father just experienced so much hardship and bad luck throughout his life that his brain created some creature, something to put the blame on, that he had this contract with his imaginary thing.

Whether the O PS father had some sort of mental issue or this was some sort of weird coping mechanism, could it be true?

Yes, because only the really the father saw it.

At the end they kind of talked about it, saying everyone's seen it but the OP, but no one's really seen it except with the father.

So is this some sort of weird coping mechanism for the father to cope with all of the horrible misfortunes his family has been through?

Or is it truly a thing out there watching and waiting for the OP?

In the snow has a contract and it will fulfill that contract no matter what.

What are your thoughts?

I thought this story was a masterpiece.

I think it is amazing story.

Rest in peace, the O PS father and hopefully the O PS doing all right.

Hopefully the wet man didn't come out of the woods and is stalking him now.

But yeah, that's just a great, great thread.

Hopefully enjoyed that.

India.

Just a masterpiece.

I, I love that story.

I just got back from a job I had in Alaska about two months ago.

I figure it makes a good story even though it scared the shit out of me at the time.

Be me working as a radio technician moving across the country semi regularly to fill jobs.

Get a contract to work at a undermanned radio station in Alaska.

The flight was paid for and their supplies on site.

There was a room for lodging, otherwise I'd have to pay for a hotel in the nearby town, which was a few miles away.

I already didn't like the sound of a radio station in the Alaskan wilderness, miles away from any civilization with less than enough workers.

Despite this, I accepted the contract because it paid more than any job I'd taken before, and not having to pay for a hotel and for food was a plus.

I have been instructed to take my gun with me on the trip, preferably a rifle that shot a large caliber.

I ended up taking my Marlin 336 W in 3030 Winchester and taking an old shitty 22 I had with me for plinking.

For your sake as a reader and to shorten the story by about 3000 words, I won't go into boarding the plane, getting the guns registered for travel, or establishing residency in Alaska.

We land in Fairbanks.

The radio station itself was in the middle of nowhere.

They greatly underplayed how isolated this place was.

It's southeast of Fairbanks, tucked in between the lower part of Donnelly Dome and the Macabre Plateau.

The landscape is very hilly, mountainous, and rough.

Most of all, though, it's cold as hell.

Drive just over 2 hours and 107 miles from Fairbanks to Fort Greely.

Charter AAS 350 Airbus helicopter to take me and my luggage to the closest inhabited area to the radio station.

Hike with a local guide about 10 miles across tough and snowy terrain to the radio station.

Guide stays there for the evening because a storm is setting in.

Well, I got situated there.

The guide, other staff and I got acquainted.

There was Kevin, the groundskeeper slash janitor who had grown up nearby and Delta Junction.

He was 17 and was going off to college soon.

Apparently this was one reason the place was under manned.

The pay was over minimum wage and beside from the technicians all the jobs were entry level.

Kids would work there during the summer and leave when they went to college.

There was the guide whose name I didn't catch but a few of the others seem to be familiar with.

He was 30 ish and was one of eight or so local mountaineering slash hiking guides.

There was also Nathan, a 20 year old guy saving up to move to Anchorage with his girlfriend.

He was the other radio technician.

There was supposed to be another employee, but they stopped showing up about a month prior to my arrival.

I put my stuff in the lodging room, go out to talk with the others and get a bite to eat.

Enter the main room.

Notice that the guide is gone.

Hey, where did the guide go?

Nathan looked over to me.

Oh, he decided to leave since it was getting late.

You just let him go during the storm?

He insisted, said something about having to get home as soon as he could.

I'm sure he's fine.

He's a guy.

He knows his mountains better than the bears do.

I wasn't totally OK with this, but I decided Nathan was right and did not make an argument out of it.

It bugged me from the beginning that a guide, as knowledgeable as he was to just up and leave in a hurry during a storm.

The bad news came about a week later.

I have been doing my job as I normally would anywhere else, just with heavier clothing and occasional trips outside to restart the heater located in a mini shed near the station.

The bad news, as you might guess, was about the guide.

He had been found half a mile from the start of the trail leading up to the station.

He had been partially eaten, but it was unclear by what or how exactly he died.

This book does enough that Kevin asked me and Nathan to teach him how to load, fire and maintain a gun just in case.

We spent a few evenings going over basics.

I let him carry around my shitty 22 as well.

We all started carrying guns with us when we went outside and just around the station in general.

Nathan had brought his 20 gauge M to Benelli.

It didn't completely ease the tension, but it made us feel safer.

We got faxed a document saying that an officer would come up to talk with us about the guy's death.

A week passed, then another, then another, repeating this process.

It had eventually been 4 weeks and some days since the officer was supposed to be here.

We weren't supposed to use the radio equipment for anything besides broadcasting the intended content, but we figured this was important enough to bend the rules.

We got in contact with the local police station.

Apparently they couldn't locate a guy to assist an officer up to the station.

They had sent to one officer, but he had to report it back.

They said that a Blizzard was moving in and would be here within days.

We told them what we knew about the guide before his death.

Over the radio.

They instructed us to stay put and wait out the storm.

They told us to keep an open channel with them for as long as possible.

Two days pass and around 2:30 in the morning we lose contact with the police station.

I work until 10 AM trying to get in contact with them.

No luck.

Kevin uses his ancient Nokia brick to call a local towns municipal center.

His reception is shit.

Every other call results in the call cannot be completed as dialed.

Message.

Get in contact with local government workers.

Ask them to get into contact with the police station and let them know we're fine.

Also ask them to get into contact with the contracting company.

Nathan was ready to jump ship, and to be honest, I was too.

For about 3 days we were stuck like that, not able to broadcast little contact with the outside world.

I remember the day that we got the message like it was mere hours ago.

To this day, I've been trying to get some sleep during the storm since we couldn't do our normal duties.

Anyway.

I was shaken awake by Nathan, who told me to get up and come with him.

When I finally came to my senses, I saw why he was so worried.

The power is off.

Not just the heat, the power.

I get up and come into the main room where Kevin is sitting, wrapped in two heavy blankets and a puffy jacket.

He has the 22 on the table and visibly loaded.

What's going on?

I asked.

Power went out a few minutes ago.

We heard something outside too.

I loaded your rifle for you.

My Marlin was sitting on the table next to a box of 3030.

What did he hear?

Scraping.

It sounded like something was trying to claw itself inside.

Probably just an animal, but I'll go out and get the heater running.

I went to the door with my rifle in hand.

Open door, snow falls into the doorway and the door is slammed back closed by the wind.

Fuck.

We decided to wait out the storm the best we could, but we had to get warmer.

Nathan and Kevin tried to start a fire while I gathered blankets, jackets, and any cloth or tarp I could find.

I found about 5 blankets in total, as well as a few towels and a tarp.

We huddled around the small fire, and about four hours later the power returned.

We assumed that this meant the storm died down a little, so once again I made my way to the door with my rifle.

I opened it and a bit of snow fell in, but the door wasn't blown shut.

Immediately I walked out, trudging through multiple feet of snow.

By the time I got to the shed, I was out of breath.

I swung open the door to find the heater already running.

Fuck all that for nothing.

I'm halfway back to the station when I I feel it, that horrible sensation of being watched.

I ran towards the station.

As I neared the station I picked up on a horrible smell, a musky smell like a dog's hot breath.

I bumbled in the door.

What the fuck is that smell?

I asked.

I slammed the door shut.

I don't smell anything.

I open the door.

It must be out here then.

Come smell it dude, close the door, it's cold.

The smell drafted in the station and cut off a sentence.

Nathan and Kevin began coughing and gagging.

I closed the door thinking it could help.

The air felt thick, like physically heavier than air is supposed to be.

I began gagging uncontrollably.

After about a minute of hell, it finally subsided as the ventilation system filtered it out.

It lingered for days and never really went away entirely.

We checked back with the people Kevin had called.

No luck getting in contact with the contracting company.

They did help us establish a connection with the police station.

They said that the officer they sent up was still not back and presumed lost in the storm.

We requested help to get out of there.

We still had enough food and water for about two months.

We asked about the possibility of a search and rescue team coming to get us.

We only received a one word response.

Unlikely.

We had packed our stuff by the door and got ready to sleep for the night.

That night I woke up here with a harsh chill going through my body.

I opened my eyes to see that there was snow everywhere.

On the floor, on my bed, on me, all over the room.

The door of the room was open, which I distinctly remember closing.

I got up and ran out into the main room.

The front door was wide open and I noticed that one of our packs was gone.

I knew it was Kevin's because his was the closest to the door.

My pack, which was next to Kevin's, had a large tear down the middle.

It was a rough and uneven tear about the size of a bear's paw.

There was some sticky black residue on the bag as well, which smelled like rotten Musk combined in a horrible Symphony of odors.

I slammed the door shut and turned on the lights.

I went to wake up Nathan and Kevin.

Nathan woke up instantly when I shook him awake, but Kevin's eyes were frozen shut.

We spent the morning putting hot water on his eyes and eventually got them open.

He could see for the most part, but he complained of his eyes being freezing cold to the point of pain, despite the rest of his body being warm even hours after they've been open and warmed up.

The next few days were pretty uneventful.

Eventually, A-Team consisting of a police officer and two local mountaineering specialist came to pick us up.

We were hesitant to tell them about the weird things that had happened to us, but eventually they inquired about our time there and then we told them.

They said that they got reports like that from people working at the station fairly often.

They told us that they'd never really had any reason to go up there and that was just some kids getting spooked by their own shadow, but that this was the worst it had ever been.

Even after we left that place, the whole ordeal wasn't entirely over.

We of course had to speak to the police about everything, mostly about the missing people, but they wanted to know everything else as well.

We ended up staying there for another month because of the police investigation and because we had technically breached our contract with the contracting company and the broadcasting company.

The contractors dropped all charges and we in the broadcasting company settled out of court.

Even after coming home.

Some weird things go on that are directly related to this whole thing.

If I ever tell the story, whether that be online or in person, my dogs always act up if they are with me, even when I'm not home.

My neighbors without fail tell me that my dogs made a ton of noise that could be a coincidence or them trying to spook me, but I guess anything is possible and all right guys that wraps up some unnerving true 4 Chan threads.

Hopefully enjoyed this video and to be honest, I'm kind of running out of 4 Chan threads.

I've read almost every single 4 Chan story out there.

I've gone into every single 4 Chan thread out there that's of notes.

So please comment down below if you know of any good stories I can get into or point me in the right direction.

e-mail me some good threads or stories if you know of any because yeah, I'm kind of running out.

So maybe this is the last in the series for a while.

But I hope you enjoyed today's video and if you did it, please like the video, subscribe to the channel, follow me on Instagram, follow me on Spotify, rate me 5 stars on Spotify and all that jazz.

Thank you so much for watching to the end of the video.

If you enjoyed it, do all the things I just said and thank you so much for watching.

It means the world.

This was Snook and I'll see you next time.

Bye.