"It Came Through the Fence"
I never used to believe in any of that supernatural stuff — spirits, witches, skinwalkers. Grew up in Flagstaff, Arizona, just outside the Navajo reservation. My dad worked construction, my mom taught at the elementary school. Life was normal. That changed the summer I spent with my cousin Danny on his family's ranch near Kayenta.
It was remote — red sand for miles, broken fences, cattle that wandered too far sometimes. No cell reception. Nights so black, you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.
One night, we were out back fixing a section of barbed wire fence that the wind had blown down. The sun had just dipped behind the buttes and we were about to head in when Danny froze. His eyes locked on something by the treeline — a coyote, at first glance.
But it wasn’t right.
Its legs were too long. Its shoulders stuck out weird, like they were dislocated. And it wasn’t walking, it was limping, dragging one leg like it had been hit by a truck. Then it stood up. On two legs. Straight. Like a man.
I laughed — nervously — thinking it was a prank, maybe someone from town messing with us. But Danny didn’t laugh. He grabbed my arm hard and whispered, “Don’t run. Don’t speak.”
The thing started moving toward us, fast but jerky, like it didn’t understand how to move its body. Then it spoke. In my voice. “Danny,” it rasped. “It’s me. I’m scared.” Then it repeated the same line, in Danny’s voice. Over and over, switching between us, like it was cycling through options.
We backed away slowly. Danny pulled a pouch from his jacket — crushed cedar and ash, I think. He tossed it into the air and muttered something under his breath. The thing shrieked — not a coyote, not a human — something in-between. It dropped to all fours and vanished into the brush.
We didn’t sleep that night. We didn’t even go inside. We sat in the truck with the engine running until the sun came up.
The next morning, we found the fence ripped apart. Tracks in the dirt circled the house — human footprints that morphed into animal paws halfway through. No one else had been there. We never spoke of it again. Not to family. Not to friends.
But a week later, Danny left the ranch. Sold everything. Moved to Phoenix and never looked back.
And me? I still don’t believe in monsters.
But I do believe in things that wear your face — and call your name in the dark.
