“I Was Army Chemical Corps — What We Found at Skinwalker Ranch Still Hunts Me”

My name doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is what I saw in the high desert of Utah in October 2024 and why the Department of Defense paid me six figures to forget it. I was a chemical operations specialist with a 48 chemical brigade. CBRN Defense, chemical, biological, radiological, nuclear were the ones they send when something in the air can kill you before you know it’s there. The briefing came at 0300 hours.
No warning, no prep time. Captain Rooric stood at the front of the ready room, his face gray under the fluorescent lights. Behind him, a satellite image glowed on the screen. Barren land, rust colored earth, a few scattered buildings, skinwalker ranch. I’d heard the stories. Everyone had UFOs, cattle mutilations, poltergeist activity, the kind of thing you laugh about over beers. Except no one in that room was laughing. 72 hours ago, Ror said DARPA sensors detected a biological anomaly on the property. Airborne particulates with no known match in any database. The reading spike three nights in a row, then stopped. We don’t know what it is.
We don’t know if it’s still active, but if it’s a pathogen, we need to contain it before it spreads. He clicked to the next slide. A graph. Irregular peaks and valleys oscillating like a heartbeat.
Sampling equipment has been prepositioned. Your mission is to enter the site, collect environmental and soil samples, run field tests, and extract.
12 hours max roe is defensive only. You are not to engage local wildlife or personnel unless directly threatened.
Someone behind me muttered, “Wildlife.” Ror’s jaw tightened. There have been reports, “An animal behavior in the area has been erratic. Stay alert. Stay together. And if you see anything that doesn’t make sense, you document it and move on. Do not investigate. Do not deviate from a route. Understood. We nodded, but I saw it in his eyes. He didn’t believe we’d all come back. We flew in on a black hawk just after sunset. The ranch spread out below us like a wound in the earth. Dark red soil, pale grass, jagged rock formations that look like teeth. The helicopter didn’t land. It hovered 3 ft off the ground, just long enough for us to jump, then pulled up hard and fast. Rotor wash kicking dust into our faces. Six of us hit the dirt. Sergeant Hail, team leader, built like a tank. Two tours in Afghanistan. Corporal Voss, medic, quiet, competent, always watching.
Specialist, comms, and tech. Could hotwire anything. Private Langley, the youngest, fresh out of AIT, eager.
Private Ruiz marksman, calm under pressure, and me, chemical specialist, the one who’ tell them if the air was trying to kill them. We moved in a loose wedge toward the main compound. The sun had just dropped below the horizon, and the sky was bruising purple. No wind, no sound, not even insects. Hail’s voice crackled in my headset. Chun, give me a reading. I pulled the handheld detector from my pack and activated it. The screen flickered to life, scanning for vol organic compounds, radiation, particullet. Nothing. Air’s clean, I reported. Stay sharp, Hail said. We pass a rusted fence line. Beyond it, the land opened up flat and empty except for a few scattered trees that looked like they’d been burned from the inside out.
Then I saw the cattle, three of them, lying on their sides about 50 m north.
At first, I thought they were sleeping, but they weren’t moving, not even breathing. Hold, hail said. We approached slowly, weapons low, but ready. The smell hit me before I got close. Not rot, something sharper, chemical, like ozone and copper, and something else I couldn’t name. Vos knelt beside the nearest cow. He pulled back its eyelid. No trauma, no visible wounds. Ruiz circled the other two. Same here. They just dropped. I swept the area with my detector. The readings spiked. Unidentified organic compounds.
Concentration increasing near the carcasses. Something’s in the tissue, I said. Could be environmental. Could be infectious. We need to bag samples. Hail nodded. Do it fast. I’m moving with a collection kit. Pulling on double layer gloves. The cow’s hide was cold. Too cold for a recent death. I made an incision near the abdomen and the smell exploded. Not decay, not biological breakdown. Something alive. I staggered back, gagging. My detector screamed. The readings went vertical. Chun talk to me.
Hail barked. Unknown compound. High concentration airborne. Then I heard it.
A sound. Low, wet, like something breathing through a throat full of mud.
It was coming from inside the cow, but I stepped back. What the hell? The carcass moved. Not a twitch, not gas escaping.
It shifted like something underneath was trying to push out. Backup. Hell ordered. Now we retreated 10 m. My heart was slamming against my ribs. The detector was still screaming. The cow’s abdomen split open. Not torn, not cut.
It opened like a mouth. and something crawled out. It was the size of a dog, but wrong. Its limbs bent in too many places. Its skin was wet and gray, like it had been skinned and then put back together inside out. No eyes, no face, just a smooth, glistening surface that pulsed with each breath. It stood there for 3 seconds. Then it turned toward us and it smiled. Not with a mouth. It didn’t have one, but I swear to God, I felt it smile. Open fire. Hail roared.
Ruiz shot first. Three round cinemass.
The creature jerked. Black fluid spraying from the impact points. But it didn’t fall. It ran. Not at us. Away into the dark. Hold fire. Hail shouted.
We stood there breathing hard. Weapons raised. Staring into the empty desert.
The detector in my hand went silent.
Langley’s voice was shaking. What? What was that? Hail didn’t answer because none of us knew. End of part one. Part two. Target. 1,000 words. We didn’t move for a full minute. The desert was silent again. No wind, no movement, just a faint hum of my detector, cooling down after the spike. Hail’s voice cut through the stillness. Tun. What the hell did we just see? I stared at the cow. The abdomen was still open, edges ragged and wet. The inside was hollow, not empty like scavengers had cleaned it out. Hollow like it had never had organs to begin with. I don’t know, I said, but that thing came out of it, and it’s still out there. Boss approached the carcass cautiously, medkit in hand. He shown his flashlight inside the cavity.
No blood, no tissue. It’s like like something made this. Made what? Ruiz asked. A shell. Hey, a host. Kim’s voice crackled over comms. Sarge. I’m picking up movement. Thermal showing something 200 m northwest. Moving fast. Hail raised his rifle. How many? Just one.
I’d think. You think. The signature keeps splitting then merging. I don’t wait. Now there’s three. Three targets.
Hail said. No. Three sources, same heat signature. It’s like it’s in multiple places at once. My stomach dropped. We need to abort. I said, “This isn’t a pathogen. This is something else.” Ho looked at me. For a moment, I thought he’d agree. Then his radio crackled.
Phantom 6, this is Overwatch. Continue mission. Collect samples and proceed to primary site. Do not deviate. Hail’s jaw clenched. Overwatch, we have visual confirmation of hostile biological entity. Request immediate extract.
Static then negative. Phantom 6. Entity is non-priority. Continue mission.
Non-priority. Ruiz hissed. That thing just crawled out a dead cow. Hail raised a hand. Shut it. He turned to me. Bagged the samples. Fast. We move in three. I wanted to argue. I wanted to throw down my kit and walked back to the LZ, but I didn’t. I knelt beside the carcass, pulled out a specimen bag, and scraped tissue from the inner wall. It came away in thick gray strips. No muscle fiber, no bone, just material like wet clay molded into the shape of anatomy. My hands were shaking. Done, I said. Move out, hail ordered. We move fast, staying tight. The primary site was a half mile east. A depression in the ground where the sensors had recorded the highest readings. The land sloped downward and the air grew colder. My breath missed it in front of my face. Then I smelled it again. That sharp chemical stink. Ozone and copper and decay. Langley gagged.
God, what is that? Mask up. Hail said.
We pulled on respirators. The smell doled but didn’t disappear. Ahead the ground changed. The red dirt gave way to something darker. Black wet. I stopped.
Hold. Hail turned. What? I knelt and touched the ground. My glove came away slick. I held it up to my flashlight.
Black liquid. Thick. Viscous. I ran a field test. The strip turned red, then purple, then dissolved. Chun. This isn’t blood, I said quietly. It’s not oil.
It’s not anything I’ve ever seen. Is it dangerous? I don’t know. He stared at me, then at the ground. The black liquid stretched ahead of us in a wide trail, disappearing into depression. We follow it, hail said. Sarge. That’s an order.
We descended into the depression. The walls rose around us. Smooth rock worn down like something carved them. The liquid pulled to the bottom, maybe an inch deep, and in the center, a structure, not natural, not man-made. It looked like ribs, massive curved bones jutting out of ground in a circle. Each one 10 ft tall. They were white, smooth, too clean, and they were humming. A low resin vibration that I felt in my teeth.
Vos stepped forward. What the hell is this? Stay back, I said. But he was already moving toward it. Vos, I said, “Stay back.” He reached out and touched one of the ribs. The humming stopped.
Everything went silent. Then the rib opened, not broke, not cracked. It split like a cocoon, and something unfolded from inside. It was human- shaped, but it wasn’t human. The skin was pale and wet, like it had just been born. The limbs were too long. The joints bent backward. And the face. God, the face.
It had features. Eyes, a nose, a mouth.
But they were wrong. Slightly offc center. Slightly too wide. It looked at Voss and it spoke in his voice. “Stay back,” it said. Perfect mimicry, perfect tone. Voss screamed. He stumbled backward, tripping, falling into the black liquid. The creature stepped forward and smiled. Hail opened fire.
The rounds hit center mass. The creature jerked. Black fluid spraying from the wounds, but it didn’t stop. It lunged.
Hail dodged left. Ruiz fired. Three shots. Head and chest. The creature collapsed into liquid. Silence. Voss was hyperventilating. It It talked. It sounded like me. Everyone back to perimeter. Hail ordered. Now we pulled Vosta’s feet and started moving. That’s when I heard it behind us. A voice. My voice. Everyone back to perimeter. Now I froze. Hail turned. Standing at the edge of the ribs was me. Same height, same build, same uniform. It stared at me and tilted its head. Chun Hail said slowly.
I’m right here. I whispered. The thing smiled. Then it ran. Not at us. Into the dark. And from somewhere in the desert, I heard my own voice screaming. End of part two. Part three. Target. 1,000 words. We ran. No formation, no order, just pure survival instinct driving us up the slope. Boots slipping on the black liquid. breath ragged inside our masks. My own voice echoed to the desert behind us, screaming, laughing, calling our names. Hey, hail, wait for me. It sounded exactly like me. Every inflection, every breath hailed and looked back. Keep moving. We ced the ridge and hit flat ground. Kim was scanning frantically with the thermal optic. I’ve got movement everywhere, he gasped. 12. No. 15 signatures. They’re surrounding us. Where’s the LZ? Hail Bart. Three clicks north. We’ll never make it. Ruiz said from the darkness.
Another voice. Langley’s. We’ll never make it. Langley spun rifle raised.
That’s not me. I didn’t say that. But the voice came again closer. I didn’t say that. Then from the left, Vos’s voice. God, what is that? Voss went paleo. I’m not. I’m not. The voice repeated. Perfect mimicry. Perfect terror. They were learning, adapting, using our own voices to disorient us.
Hail fired a flare into the sky. Red light bathe the desert. And we saw them, dozens, standing in a loose circle around us. Human-shaped, pale, wet. Some were perfect copies, others were halfformed, limbs too long, faces incomplete, skin sliding off bone. They didn’t move, they just watched.
Overwatch, this is Phantom 6. Hail said into his radio, voice tight. We are under attack by unknown hostiles.
Request immediate air support and extract. How copy static overwatch. Do you copy? More static. Then Hail’s voice came through the radio. Phantom 6, this is Overwatch. Continue mission. Do not deviate. Hail ripped the radio off his vest and threw it into the dirt. They’re in the comms. Kim whispered. The creature stepped forward. All at once, synchronized. 10 ft away. Then five.
Light them up. Hail roared. We opened fire. Muzzle flashes lit the night.
Rounds tore through pale flesh. Black fluid sprayed, bodies collapsed. But for everyone that fell, two more stepped forward, and they started screaming, not in pain, in our voices, my voice, hails, Ruiz’s Langley’s. A chorus of our own terror, reflected back at us. Ruiz dropped his magazine, reloaded, fired again. One of the creatures lunged. He sidestepped and put three rounds through its skull. It fell, but another grabbed him from behind. He didn’t even have time to scream. It opened its mouth too wide, jaw dislocating like a snake and bend to the back of his neck, not tearing, absorbing. His skin went gray.
His body convulsed. Then he stopped moving and stood up. His face was slack, eyes empty. But when he looked at us, he smiled. “Run!” Hail shouted. We broke formation and sprinted north. Langley was screaming. Voss was praying. Kim was just trying to breathe. I didn’t look back. But I heard it. Footsteps. Dozens of them running behind us, matching our pace. And then Langley fell. He tripped over a rock, went down hard, rifle skittering away. Langley Vos turned back. No. Hail grabbed him. Keep moving.
But Langley was already surrounded. They knelt around him like mourners at a grave. Pale hands touching his face, his arms, his chest. He was sobbing. Please, please don’t. One of them leaned down and pressed its forehead against his.
Langley went silent, his eyes rolled back, then forward again, but they weren’t his anymore. He stood, turned toward us, and in his voice, small, broken, childlike, why did you leave me?
Vas screamed. Hail dragged him forward.
Move now. We ran until our lungs burned.
Until the voices faded, until the footsteps stopped. Finally. Finally, we reached the LZ. A flat clearing marked with infrared strobes. Hail collapsed to his knees, gasping. Kim called in. Kim pulled out the backup radio. Hand shaking. Overwatch. This is Phantom 6 actual. We are at primary LZ. Request immediate extract. We have two KIA and static. Then a voice. Calm. Cold.
Phantom 6. Extraction denied. Return to sight and complete sample collection.
Kim stared at the radio. They’re not coming. They were never coming. I said quietly. Hail looked at me. What? This was never about samples. They knew what was here. They wanted to see what would do. He didn’t argue because deep down he knew I was right. Vas stood breathing hard. So what do we do? I look north.
The desert stretched out dark and endless. We walk. We walk for 3 hours.
No food, no water, just the weight of our gear and the knowledge that somewhere behind us. Things wearing our friends faces were still hunting. The voices came and went. Sometimes close, sometimes distant, always in the dark.
Just before dawn, we reached a service road. An old pickup truck sat idling at the edge. Driver window down. A man leaned out. Older weathered face, cowboy hat. You boys look lost, he said. Hail raise his rifle. Who are you? The man smiled. Someone who knows what you saw.
Get in before they catch up. We didn’t argue. We climbed into the bed of the truck. The man hit the gas and we sped away, dust kicking up behind us. I looked back, standing at the edge of the road. Three figures, Langley, Ruiz, and me. They waved. I didn’t wave back. and a part three. Part four, target 1,000 words. The man drove for an hour without saying a word. We sat in the truck bed, rifles across our laps, scanning the desert for movement. Nothing followed us, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were still being watched.
Finally, the truck pulled off the main road onto a dirt path that led to a small cabin, isolated. No power lines, no neighbors, just weatherwood and a rusted wind vein spinning slowly in the morning breeze. The man killed the engine and stepped out. Inside, he said, “You want to hear this?” Hail hesitated.
“We need to contact command.” The man laughed dry, humorless. “Son, your command knows exactly where you are, and they’re hoping you don’t come back.” That stopped us cold. We followed him inside. The cabin was sparse. A table, two chairs, a kerosene lamp, maps pinned to the walls covered in red markings and notes. Photos, dozens of them tacked up beside the maps. Cattle mutilations, strange lights, figures in the distance, and in the center, a map of Skinwalker Ranch with a red circle around the exact spot we’d been. The man poured himself a cup of coffee from a dented pot. Didn’t offer us any. You’re not the first team.
They’ve sent, he said. And you won’t be the last. Who are you? Hail demanded.
Name’s cold train. I work security on that ranch for 6 years. Back when was privately owned before the government bought it out in 16 and locked it down.
What’s out there? I asked. He looked at me. His eyes were tired. Haunted. a door,” he said simply. “And we’ve been knocking on it for decades.” Cold Train sat down and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled toward the ceiling. “The ranch has always been wrong,” he said. “Native tribes wouldn’t go near it, called it cursed ground, a place where the barrier between worlds is thin. Most people thought it was superstition, but the ranchers knew better. Cattle would disappear, not killed, disappeared.
tracks would just stop like something pulled them straight up into the sky.
Voss leaned forward. What about those things we saw? Cold Train nodded slowly.
The mimics, that’s what we called them, started showing up about 15 years ago.
At first, it was just animals, cows, dogs, coyotes, but wrong. Like something tried to build them from memory and got the details off. Then people started seeing themselves. Kim’s face went pale.
What do you mean? Doppelgangers. Copies.
You’d be walking property at night and see yourself standing 50 yard away just watching. Some folks said it was hallucinations, heat stroke, stress. But we all saw them. And after a while, people started going missing. What happened to them? Hail asked. Cold train took a long drag. They came back, but they weren’t themselves anymore. They forget things, get details wrong, say things that didn’t make sense. And their eyes, he trailed off. Their eyes were empty. I thought of Ruiz standing there smiling. What are they? I whispered, “I don’t know,” Cold Train said. “But I know what they want.” He stood and walked to the map, pointed to the circle. That site you found, the rib structure, that’s the door. It’s been there for a long time, buried, hidden.
But the government found it. And instead of sealing it off, they started experimenting. Experimenting? How? Hail asked. Electromagnetic pulses, radiation, sound frequencies. They wanted to open it wider, see what was on the other side. And about 3 months ago, he looked at us. They succeeded. The room went silent. The readings you detected, Cold Train continued. That wasn’t a pathogen. That was them coming through, testing the boundaries, learning how to exist here. And now, Voss asked quietly. Now they’re spreading slowly, carefully, replacing people one by one. And no one’s stopping them because the people in charge wanted to happen. That’s insane. Hail said, “Is it?” Cold Train crushed a cigarette under his boot. You saw what they can do. Perfect mimics. No way to tell them apart from the real thing. Imagine that capability in the hands of the military or intelligence agencies. You could replace anyone. Infiltrate anywhere. I felt sick. You’re saying they’re weaponizing them. Cold Train nodded.
That’s exactly what I’m saying. We sat in silence for a long time. Finally, Hail stood. We need to get this information out. Go to the press.
Congress. Someone. Cold train laughed bitterly. You think you’re first to try?
Three whistleblowers. Two journalists.
All of them dead or discredited within a month. You go public with this. You’ll disappear just like your friends did.
So, what do we do? Voss asked. You survive. Cold Train said. You take the money they offer you, sign the NDAs, and you forget you ever saw that place. And if we don’t, I asked. He looked at me for a long moment. Then you’ll end up like me, alone, paranoid, waiting for the day they come to finish the job. He walked to the door and opened it.
There’s a bus station 20 m south. I’ll drive you. After that, you’re on your own. The ride was silent. Cold Train dropped us at the station just afternoon. He handed hail a burner phone. “If you ever need to talk,” he said. “But don’t use it unless you’re sure you’re alone.” Then he drove away.
We stood there, three soldiers in torn uniforms covered in dust and blood, staring at a Greyhound bus, idling in the lot. “What now?” Kim asked. Hail looked at the phone in his hand. “Then at us. We go home,” he said quietly.
“And we don’t talk about this.” ever.
Voss nodded. Kim nodded. I didn’t ch Hail said. I looked back toward the desert, toward the ranch, toward the door we left open. Was there already here? I whispered. Hail didn’t answer because he didn’t know. None of us did.
End of part four. Part five. Target.
1,000 words. We took the bus to Denver.
Nobody talked. We sat in the back staring out the window watching the desert roll past. Hail kept the burner phone in his pocket. Kim checked his own phone every 10 minutes, then powered it down like he was afraid someone was listening. Vosta stared at his hands. I couldn’t stop thinking about the rib structure, the way it hummed, the way the creature had unfolded from inside it like a butterfly from a cocoon, and the way it had looked at me like it knew me.
When we reached Denver, a black SUV was waiting in the parking lot. No plates.
Two men in suit stepped out. Sergeant Hail, one of them said. Hail tensed.
Who’s asking? The man pulled out a badge. Department of Defense. Office of Special Access Programs. You and your team need to come with us. We’re not going anywhere. Hail said. The man smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. That wasn’t request. They took us to a facility outside Colorado Springs.
Underground, no windows, no signage, just endless white corridors and keycard lock doors. We were separated, debriefed individually. A woman in a gray suit set across from me in a windowless room. She had a tablet and a voice recorder. State your name and rank, she said. I did.
Describe what you saw at the site. I told her everything. The carcasses, the creature, the rib structure, the mimics.
She didn’t react, didn’t take notes, just listened. When I finished, she powered off recorder. What you experienced was a classified biological phenomenon. It’s been contained. The entities you encountered have been neutralized. There’s no ongoing threat.
I stared at her. That’s it. You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen. I’m going to offer you a choice, she said calmly. You sign a non-disclosure agreement. You accept a financial settlement and you never speak of this again to anyone. And if I refuse, she leaned forward. Then you’ll be placed under indefinite psychiatric observation for combat related delusional disorder.
You’ll lose your security clearance, your career, your credibility, and no one will believe a word you say. I felt my throat tighten. How much? I asked quietly. $200,000 tax-free? I thought about arguing, about refusing. But I saw it in her eyes. This wasn’t a negotiation. This was a threat.
They held us for 3 days. Medical evaluations, psychological screenings, more debriefings. On the third day, they gave us our discharge papers. honorable medical separation due to acute stress reaction. We signed the NDAs. They transferred the money and then they let us go. We walked out into the sunlight together. Free, paid, silent. Hail looked at me. You good? I nodded. He didn’t believe me. Stay in touch, he said, but we all knew we wouldn’t. I went back to my apartment in North Carolina, unpacked, showered, slept for 16 hours. When I woke up, I tried to go back to normal. I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them pale, wet, smiling. I started avoiding mirrors. I catch movement in my peripheral vision and spin around, heart racing, but there was never anything there. I stopped going out at night. I stopped answering my phone. I started drinking. One night, 3 weeks after I got back, I was sitting in my apartment with the lights off, staring at the wall. My phone buzzed, unknown number. I almost didn’t answer, but I did. Chun. It was Kim. Yeah, I said. Have you Have you seen anything?
My blood went cold. What do you mean? I saw myself, he whispered. Two days ago, I was getting coffee and I looked out the window and I was standing across the street just standing there staring at me. I didn’t breathe. When I went outside, it was gone. But Chun, I think it’s still here. I think they followed us. Kim, I’m not crazy. I know what I saw. Where are you? I’m at a motel outside Tucson. I couldn’t stay home. I couldn’t. The line went dead. I called back. No answer. I tried again and again. Nothing. I never heard from Kim again. A month later, I got a call from Voss. He was slurring, drunk. They’re not real. He said, “None of them. I see them everywhere now. My neighbors, my family, they all look wrong. They talk wrong. I can tell. Vos listened to me. I went to the VA, told them what I saw.
They put me on medication. Said I have PTSD. But I know what I saw. And I know they’re here. Voss, where are you? It doesn’t matter. They’ll find me anyway.
They’re probably already here watching, waiting. Vas, do you ever wonder? He said quietly. If we made it out or if we’re still there in the desert, and this is just what they want us to see. I couldn’t answer. I’m tired, Chin, he whispered. I’m so tired. The line went dead. Two days later, I saw the news.
Former Army medic found dead in his apartment. Self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Matthew Voss. I didn’t go to the funeral. I tried to find Hail. His phone was disconnected. His address was a dead end. It was like he’d vanished. Maybe he got smart, went off-rid, changed his name. Or maybe they found him. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. It’s been 6 months now. I live alone. I don’t talk to anyone. I keep the lights on at night and I check every day. I check. I look at my reflection and I search for the details. The little things that would give it away because I know they’re still out there and I know they’re still learning. One day I’ll look in the mirror and I won’t be able to tell the difference. And when that happens, I won’t know if I’m me anymore or if I ever was. So before you laugh this off, before you tell yourself it’s just a story, ask yourself this. When was the last time you really looked at the people around you? I mean really looked, are you sure they’re who they say they are? Are you sure you are? Because somewhere in the desert, there’s a door and it’s still open and they’re still coming through one by one, wearing our faces, speaking our words, living our lives. and no one will ever know until it’s too late. If you’ve made it this far, subscribe. Not because you enjoyed it, but because you need to remember, you need to stay awake. And whatever you do, don’t go to Skinwalker Ranch. Some door should never be opened. And something should never be let in. End of part five. Part six. Target. 1,000 words. I need to tell you what happened last week because I think my time is running out. I was at a grocery store.
Middle of the afternoon, fluorescent lights, music playing overhead, normal.
I was reaching for a box of cereal when I felt it. That sensation, the one you get when someone’s staring at you. I turned at the end of the aisle. A man, mid30s, average height, average build, baseball cap. He was staring at me. Not aggressive, not threatening, just staring. I moved to the next aisle. He followed. I walked faster. He matched my pace. I turned a corner, ducked into the frozen section, and waited. He walked right past. Didn’t even glance in my direction. I exhaled, told myself I was being paranoid. That the isolation in the booze and the nightmares were finally getting to me. Then I want to check out. The cashier smiled at me.
Find everything okay? Yeah, I said. She scanned my items. I swiped my card. As I grabbed the receipt, she leaned in and in a voice that was hers but wrong. Too flat, too precise, she said. We’ve been looking for you, Chun. I froze. She smiled wider. See you soon. I ran.
Didn’t look back. Didn’t stop. I got in my car and drove for 3 hours. Pulled into a rest stop outside Asheville. Sat in the parking lot. Engine running, hand shaking. I checked my mirrors. No one. I checked again. Still no one. But I could feel it. They know where I am. That night, I call the number Cold Train gave me. It rang four times. Then, yeah, it’s John from the ranch. Silence. You still there? I asked. I told you not to call unless you were sure you were alone. I am. Are you? I looked around the empty rest stop. A single street light flickered overhead. No cars, no movement. I think they found me, I said.
They found you weeks ago, Cold Train said quietly. They’ve been watching, waiting, seeing if you’d break, seeing if you talk. I didn’t. I haven’t said anything. Doesn’t matter. You’re a loose end, and they don’t leave loose ends.
So, what do I do? You disappear.
Tonight, right now, ditch your phone, ditch your car, use cash only, change your name, and you never stop moving.
For how long? He laughed bitterly. For the rest of your life, or until they catch you, whichever comes first. What about you? I’ve been running for 8 years, he said. And I can feel them getting closer. The line went dead. I didn’t ditch my phone. I know I should have, but it’s the only thing tethering me to the world I used to know. Instead, I drove. I stayed off major highways, paid cash motels, used fake names. I kept moving, but everywhere I went, I saw them. A woman at a gas station who stared too long. A man in a diner who ordered the same thing I did. A kid on a bike who followed me for three blocks before turning away. They were testing me, watching, learning. And I realized something. They don’t need to replace everyone. They just need to replace enough. Enough people in positions of power. Enough people in critical infrastructure. Enough people that when the time comes, no one will be able to stop them. And that time is coming. I can feel it. Two days ago, I saw the news. A report out of Utah. A wildfire near Skinwalker Ranch. 300 acres burned.
Containment efforts ongoing. But I read between the lines, they’re trying to sterilize the site, burn it out, cover it up. It won’t work because the door isn’t just at the ranch anymore. It’s everywhere they’ve been. And they’ve been everywhere. I’m writing this from a motel outside Billings, Montana. I don’t know how much longer I have. Yesterday, I saw him. Hey, standing in the parking lot, uniform crisp, face blank. He looked right at me and smiled. I didn’t go outside. I locked the door, closed the blinds, sat on the bed with my sidearm in my lap. He knocked once, then left. But I know he’ll be back. They always come back. If you’re listening to this, if you’ve made it this far, I need you to understand something. This isn’t a campfire story. This isn’t entertainment. This is a warning.
They’re already here in your cities, in your towns, maybe in your home, and you won’t know until it’s too late. So, I’m asking you to do something. Pay attention. Look at the people around you. Really look. Do they blink at the wrong times? Do they pause too long before answering simple questions? Do they smile when they shouldn’t? Do they feel off? Because those little details, those tiny inconsistencies, that’s all you have. That’s the only way to tell.
And if you see it, run. Don’t confront them. Don’t ask questions. Don’t try to expose them. Just run. And don’t stop running. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. Maybe I’ll keep moving, keep surviving. Or maybe one morning I’ll look in the mirror and realize I’m not me anymore. That the thing staring back is wearing my face, but thinking with a mind that isn’t human. And the worst part, I won’t even know. None of us will because that’s how they win. Not with violence, not with invasion, but with replacement. Slow, methodical, invisible. Until one day, humanity wakes up and realizes it’s already extinct.
And the things walking around in our skin are living our lives, raising our children, running our world. I’m out of time. Someone’s knocking. I can hear them outside the door whispering in my voice. Tun, let us in. We just want to talk. I’m not opening that door. I’m not going with them. But I need you to know if you see me after this on the news, in a video, in person, it won’t be me.
It’ll be them. And they’ll say everything is fine. That I was just confused, traumatized, delusional.
They’ll make me disappear. and no one will ask questions because that’s what they do. So this is it. My last message, my last warning. The door is open.
They’re through and they’re not going back. All we can do now is survive and hope that when the end comes, we’ll still be human enough to care. Don’t forget to subscribe. Not for me, but for yourself. Because one day, you’re going to need to remember this. You’re going to need to remember that you were warned. And when you look in a mirror and can’t recognize a face staring back, you’ll understand. Some doors should never be opened. Some things should never be let in. And some places, like Skinw Walker Ranch, should be left alone forever. The knocking’s getting louder.
I’m putting the gun down. I’m opening the door because I’m tired. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll let me