"It never crosses the boundary, but it doesn’t have to. I don’t challenge it. Somehow, I know that would be my undoing. We share this land, me and whatever watches from the shadows."
I recently received the following account:
"Hello, Lon. I have been a long-time listener and immensely enjoy your podcast. However, I have never submitted any of my experiences. I have never told anyone about these events, but I finally got the courage to do so. Please narrate it if you find it interesting.
I live in a remote part of the Antelope Valley, California, nestled against the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, next to Devil’s Punchbowl Park.
My property stretches across 2.5 acres, fenced in but secluded enough that isolation has become its own companion. My nearest neighbor lives half a mile away, and their porch lights a distant star on the horizon. The nights are thick with silence and mystery. For the past ten years, this land has been home, but it’s never been entirely mine. Something else claims it too.
From the moment I moved in, I felt it - a strange and somewhat comforting energy that seeped into my bones, inside the house and out. The quality of the energy wasn't hostile but wasn't friendly either. This land sits at 4800 feet elevation. It is harsh, unforgiving, a high desert sitting directly on the San Andreas Fault Line. At times deep underground, subtle rumbles reach the surface, vibrating through my body as though it wants to remind me that it is alive. It is also immensely beautiful and it will reveal its beauty and mystery only to those who have the patience and can be silent outwardly and inwardly.
The previous owners were an elderly couple who owned the house as original owners and had lived there together for almost 25 years and operated a horse rescue business. Sadly the lady of the house had recently passed away, and he decided to sell the house and move on. I remember at the time when I felt this strange energy, I was having a conversation with the elderly gentleman So when I casually mentioned what I felt, his eyes welled with tears and I think I also saw longing, as if he already was missing it. I think all the horses that lived in the property left a kind presence there which still remains despite the experiences I'm about to describe.
In the first few months after I moved in, sleep was not a refuge but a battleground. Night after night, I found myself trapped in the clutches of vivid sleep paralysis. My body, heavy and unyielding, felt like it belonged to someone else as dark, shadowy shapes gathered above me. Their forms were amorphous, shifting like smoke, but their presence was unmistakably oppressive. They whispered in voices just barely audible, their hissing tones brushing against my ears like an invasive wind.
But the worst part wasn’t their whispers. It was the hand. Cold, unseen, and impossibly strong, it would wrap around my own, locking it in a crushing grip. No matter how much I strained, I couldn’t break free. My hand was immobilized, and I could feel a taunting pressure in its grasp as if the entity was mocking my helplessness. Every night, the terror grew worse. I felt violated, like a prisoner in my own bed, unable to defend myself against an enemy I couldn’t even see.
For weeks, I endured it, too afraid to fight back, unsure if I even could. But one night, the fear gave way to anger - pure, unfiltered anger. I’d had enough. Lying there, unable to move, I summoned every ounce of courage I had. My voice didn’t reach my lips, but it echoed in my mind, loud and defiant: “You’ve had your fun. You wanted to terrorize me, and you succeeded. But no more. Enough of this nonsense. Leave me. Kill me if you must, but you’ll never win.”
The room fell deathly silent, the kind of silence that feels alive, pressing against your ears. Then, as quickly as they had come, the shadows receded. The whispers stopped. The crushing grip on my hand released, leaving me trembling but free.
That was the last night they visited. I don’t know if it was my defiance or something else that drove them away, but they left. The house felt quieter after that, less heavy, though the memory of those nights still lingers like a scar. I won that battle, but I’ve never been certain of the war.
Although the house became quieter after that, outside, the feeling of being watched began to grow stronger, particularly at night. Every evening, when I arrive home and step out of my car to open the gate, I feel eyes on me, not human eyes, but something else, something heavy and deliberate.
I walk my 2.5-acre property at night with my three massive wolfhounds who always accompany me on my walks. The two Armenian Gamprs and Central Asian Alabai, each weighing over 150 pounds are fearless protectors and my sentinels, or so I thought.
Some nights, they stop dead in their tracks, refusing to move. Their hackles rise, and their gazes fix on the darkness. The first few times, panic gripped me. It was as if an invisible line had been drawn, one I dared not cross. My fear was a tangible thing, gripping me tighter with every step. Then I heard it, a voice in my mind, calm but commanding: “As long as you don’t actively look for me, you’ll be fine.”
The voice wasn’t a threat, but a warning. The words lingered, and while they didn’t erase the fear, they dulled its edge. Since that night, I stayed on my side of the line, keeping my walks brief and my gaze low. But the presence never left.
The nights when the coyotes howled were almost comforting, their calls familiar and alive. But then there were the silent nights, when my dogs, usually so bold, stood frozen, ears flat, refusing to bark. Those were the nights I knew it was near.
Since then I never sought it out, never tried to pierce the veil of darkness around me. But sometimes I can't help but wonder, as I stand under the vast, starless sky: What watches from the shadows, and why does it let me stay?
The nights when the coyotes' howls are almost comforting, their calls familiar and alive amplified by the response barks and howls of my dogs. But sometimes, there is only silence. Those nights, I know it is near.
I’ve seen it only in glimpses, the blackest of black shadows, low to the ground, with the unmistakable shape of a massive canine. It never crosses the boundary, but it doesn’t have to. I don’t challenge it. Somehow, I know that would be my undoing.
For ten years, I’ve called this place home, yet every night reminds me that I’m not alone. The truce I’ve struck with whatever claims this land has held steady, but the uneasy balance is not without its moments. Living here means accepting the inexplicable as part of life, like the black shadows I’ve glimpsed in the corner of my eye or the faint vibrations underfoot when the earth seems to breathe.
One night, about two years ago, I experienced something I still struggle to make sense of. It was a quiet, moonless evening, the kind of night where the darkness felt heavier than usual. The air was colder than it should have been for the season, almost damp, and my dogs were restless. I stepped out to take them for a walk around the perimeter, but they wouldn’t budge from the porch. Their bodies were stiff, tails low, and eyes locked on the tree line at the edge of the property.
That’s when I saw it, something massive, moving just beyond the fence. Its shape was indistinct, cloaked in shadow, but its sheer size ruled out any ordinary predator. It wasn’t a coyote or a mountain lion. It was something bigger, heavier, and utterly alien in the way it moved. At first, it seemed to glide effortlessly, but then its motion fragmented, stuttering like an image caught in a flickering light. It was as if it existed in flashes, each appearance momentarily bending the darkness around it like ripples in black water. The effect was hypnotic and deeply unsettling, as though the creature was not entirely bound to the same reality I inhabited.
I froze where I stood, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum. A low, rumbling growl rose from my Alabai, the sound reverberating through the still night air, but even he didn’t move closer. The creature stopped abruptly, and the shifting light seemed to dissolve into stillness. That’s when I saw them, two glowing orbs, unmistakably eyes, shining with a faint, otherworldly luminescence. They reflected a light that wasn’t there, as if pulling brightness from some unseen source. Those eyes locked onto me, unblinking, steady, and impossibly knowing.
I couldn’t move. The weight of its gaze pinned me in place, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Whatever it was, it wasn’t just watching, it was evaluating.
I didn’t run. I couldn’t. Instead, I slowly backed into the house, my dogs following close behind. The thing didn’t follow, but its presence lingered like a weight on my chest.
Another time, I came home late from work. As usual, I stepped out of my car to open the gate. The air was still, but the feeling of being watched was so intense it felt like a hand pressing on my shoulder. I hurried to the gate, fumbled with the lock, and then I heard it, a low, guttural growl, not far behind me. Spinning around, I saw nothing but the dark expanse of my yard. My dogs were inside the house, barking furiously, their voices muffled by the thick walls.
The most unsettling experience happened last winter. I was in bed, drifting to sleep, when I heard scratching at my bedroom window. My bedroom is on the second floor. I lay there, paralyzed, listening to the steady, deliberate sound. It wasn’t the wind or a tree branch. The scratches were too purposeful, too rhythmic. Gathering my courage, I peeked through the curtain, and there was nothing there, just the faint outline of the trees swaying in the wind. But as I turned away, I swore I saw a faint outline in the frost on the glass, like the shape of a massive paw.
Despite everything, I’ve come to respect this land deeply. I never push its boundaries and tread with humility. I think that’s why it lets me stay. We share this land, me and whatever watches from the shadows. And for now, that uneasy truce is enough. But even now, as I write this, I can feel it. Outside, in the dark, something waits. Watching. Always watching." EK
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PHANTOMS & MONSTERS VIDEO LIBRARY
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