The Night a Stranger Watched Us from the Woods… скачать в хорошем качестве

The Night a Stranger Watched Us from the Woods…

This story’s been stuck in my head for years, and I still get chills thinking about it. Growing up in a tiny farming town in central Washington in the 80s, life was quiet—cattle, church, and gossip that spread faster than wildfire. But in the summer of ’84, things got weird. Folks started whispering about a guy we called “Bruce”—always in a white shirt, red hat, and jeans, just standing places he shouldn’t. At first, I thought it was just a story to scare kids like me into behaving. But then I saw him. The video tells a couple of moments that still haunt me: finding snowy footprints in our living room one winter night, way too close to where me and my brothers were watching Indiana Jones, with no explanation for how they got there. Our front door was just a plastic tarp back then, flapping in the storm, and I swear I checked the locks twice. Then there was that bonfire party the next summer, where I spotted that same red hat in the tree line, watching us. My buddy saw it too, but when we blinked, he was gone. Like he melted into the fog. What I didn’t mention in the Short is how the town changed after those sightings. My mom, who never believed in ghost stories, started locking every window at night, even in the heat. My brothers, who’d laugh off anything, stopped joking about Bruce. Old Mr. Davies, our neighbor, swore he saw him standing in his barley field one dawn, holding something shiny—maybe a knife, maybe just a trick of the light. Nobody ever found out who Bruce was. Some said he was a drifter passing through, others thought he was something else, something that didn’t belong in our world. The sheriff’s office never found a trace, not even footprints after that night at Johnny’s place. I still wonder about those footprints in our house. They were big, like work boots, and the snow hadn’t melted, like whoever left them had just stepped inside. My dad blamed us, but I saw the look in his eyes—he didn’t believe his own words. And at that bonfire, the air felt wrong, like the forest was holding its breath. I remember the smell of pine and smoke, the way the firelight didn’t reach far enough into the dark. My friend swore he heard a twig snap right after Bruce vanished, but we didn’t dare check. I’m no storyteller, but I wanted to share this because it’s real to me. If you’ve got a creepy small-town story, drop it in the comments—I’d love to hear I’m not the only one with memories like this. Thanks for watching, and maybe keep your blinds closed tonight.