Yagodnoye — a remote village buried deep in the Karelia woods — had always been known for its silence. No crime, no strangers, and each day was nearly identical to the last. Life moved at its own sleepy pace, unchanged for generations. Until one frozen February morning, when the silence broke — and nothing would ever be the same again.
A Stranger on the Edge of the Woods
It started quietly. In January, a man moved into the old hunting cabin on the edge of the forest. He was in his fifties, lean, silver hair at the temples, sharp eyes, silent demeanor. He came into town every two weeks for supplies — canned meat, grains, matches — and spoke only when necessary. No one knew his name. Locals called him “the city man.”
Strangers weren’t unusual. But this one was different.
The Silence No One Noticed
By mid-January, something began to shift. Seasoned hunters noticed fewer birds. Foxes and rabbits disappeared. Even the wolves, usually heard howling through the winter nights, had gone quiet.
Old-timers grumbled about the change, blaming the weather, or disease, or a coming storm. But deep down, they all felt it — the forest was watching.
The Shot That Started Everything
On February 17th, at exactly 5:12 AM, a single shot echoed through the woods. It was heard by three people: an old woman named Shevchenko, a schoolboy, and a tractor driver named Igor. All three said the sound came from the direction of the stranger’s cabin.
By sunrise, Igor was at the site. The door was open. The cabin was empty. The stove was still warm, a half-drunk cup of tea sat on the table, and an open magazine had a page ripped out. No sign of the man. No bags, no gun. Only a trail of footprints leading into the forest.
And that’s when things got strange.
Tracks That Shouldn’t Exist
At first, the footprints were normal. One man, steady steps. But 300 meters in, something changed. A second set of prints appeared alongside them — enormous, at least twice the size of a human foot. No hooves, no paws. Just… impressions. Long, fingerlike, charred-looking.
Igor followed them another 50 meters — until he saw the tree.
A birch, scarred by something unnatural. A pitch-black mark, not painted, but seemingly grown into the bark: a perfect circle, intersected by three jagged lines. When he touched it, the bark crumbled under his fingers like burnt paper.
He turned back.
The Village Council Meets for the First Time in a Decade
Two days later, a local hunter named Pavel disappeared. An expert woodsman. He’d gone out to track hares. Never came back. His dog returned after two days — ears torn, patches of fur white with shock.
A local vet said: “I’ve never seen trauma like this on a living animal.”
Panic spread. Families locked their doors. Children stayed home. Some whispered about “The Call of the Thicket,” an old legend about a creature that emerges once every 40 years to “claim the land.”
The village elder, a retired forester, confirmed something similar happened in 1983. Animals vanished, three people went missing, and then — silence. For three months. None of the missing were found.
The Camera No One Was Meant to See
Five men arrived quietly. No uniforms, no explanations, but with military-grade gear. They placed cameras in the woods and refused to speak to anyone.
Five days later, one of the cameras sent back footage. Grainy, black and white. A figure — at least eight feet tall, with long, twisted arms. No visible face. Holding something that resembled a bear skull.
The technician who reviewed the footage had a breakdown. Hallucinations. Memory loss. Committed within 48 hours.
The image briefly appeared online. Removed within minutes. But those who downloaded it swear the creature didn’t move — time around it did.
The Last Night Before the Silence
March 1st. Midnight. The howl returned — but this time it wasn’t animal. It vibrated through walls. Deep, like something crying from underwater. It echoed three times… and then the forest fell silent again.
At dawn, a young boy found a scorched bundle in a clearing. Inside: the city man’s clothes, a shattered camera, and a notebook.
The notebook contained a single phrase, written over and over:
“It’s here.”
What Now?
The forest is back to normal. Birds sing. Deer graze. Hunters return without fear.
But on that same birch tree, where the strange mark once was, there’s now a hole. Blackened around the edges. And every Friday, precisely at 5:12 AM, a faint clicking noise is heard from the woods.
As if someone is… opening a door. Or closing one.