Do you not know where you are right now? Because neither do I.
The teller and their partner like to hike at night in a big historic park of dense woods and creeks, about 3,500 acres spread across the corner where Pennsylvania, Maryland and Delaware meet. They usually park by an old church with a Revolutionary War cemetery and walk the same half-mile loop. They've done it thousands of times and never felt anything odd. The teller describes themselves as a skeptic.
One Wednesday in August 2023 they decided on a spontaneous night hike and left home at about 10:45. For once they took a narrow gravel road to the parking spot instead of the paved access road. Halfway along, rounding a bend, an animal shot across the road through their headlights.
Neither of them could identify it. It was somewhere between a dog and a person in size and so fast it almost seemed to fly, a black blur with hazy details and bright silver eyes. They talked themselves out of it and agreed not to dwell on it.
On the trail the frogs and cicadas were deafening, louder than they had ever heard them, so loud they had to raise their voices. As they went on, though, the insects grew quieter and quieter. Without saying anything, the partner had started hearing what sounded like very distant voices.
About a quarter of a mile in, a sharp, crackling sound cut through the air, like a glitching microphone or megaphone somewhere far off. The partner later pointed out there was nothing out there for an echo to bounce off. The teller stopped dead and asked if he'd heard it. He had, and he admitted he'd been telling himself he was imagining the voices all along. They turned without a word and walked fast back to the car, sure that something was following them all the way.
Driving out, the urgency didn't fade. At the first turn on a road they'd driven thousands of times, the teller suddenly had no idea which way to go. The partner said, "Do you not know where you are right now? Because neither do I." The teller guessed right. The next road ran along the edge of the park, and it was now full of fog that hadn't been there an hour before.
Just as they passed the stretch where they had turned back on the trail, the animal crossed in front of them again. It was closer this time and clearer: the same silver eyes, and what looked like ears or horns, impossibly fast, "a blur or a wraith."
The teller sketched it as soon as they got home. They say that even talking about it gives them a burning feeling in their sinuses, watering eyes and a tingle at the back of the skull.