3 Disturbing TRUE Hunting Horror Stories

This happened during late archery season in November 2021. There was already a light dusting of snow on the ground, which made tracking easy. I had permission to hunt a 70-acre piece of private land owned by an older guy my dad knew from work. It was thick woods with a small clearing and an old logging trail. Deep in the back was an abandoned hunting cabin with a collapsing roof that nobody used anymore. I’d been there four or five times before and never saw another soul.

I arrived around 5:15 a.m., still pitch dark, parked near the rusted gate, and walked in with my headlamp. The woods felt unnaturally quiet. Even before I reached my tree stand, I had that uneasy “being watched” feeling, but I chalked it up to the dark.

I climbed into my stand about twenty feet up and waited for first light. Roughly an hour after sunrise, something immediately felt wrong. About sixty yards away stood a ladder stand that definitely hadn’t been there the weekend before. It looked old and weathered, like it had sat outside for years, yet I knew every inch of this property. What bothered me more were the tracks in the snow: a single line of footprints leading straight from deep in the woods to the base of the stand—no other prints around it.

I watched it for a while, wondering if someone else had permission and just hadn’t mentioned it. Around 8:00 a.m., I saw movement. At first I thought it was a deer. Then a man stepped out from behind a tree. He wasn’t wearing camo—just a dirty gray hoodie and dark pants. He stood completely still, staring in my direction. After a moment he slowly raised his arm and waved. It wasn’t a friendly wave. It was the kind that said, “I see you.”

I gave a small wave back, trying to stay calm. A minute later he stepped behind the tree again… and never came out the other side. I never heard footsteps. He just vanished.

Around 10:00 I climbed down to stretch and still-hunt a bit. When I reached the tree where he’d been standing, the snow around it was completely undisturbed except for my own tracks. No footprints led away—only the same single trail heading to the ladder stand. I followed those prints. They stopped dead at the base. The stand was empty, and the seat had a thin, undisturbed layer of snow on it.

My chest tightened. Something was very wrong.

On the way back to my stand I started noticing strips of orange hunting vest material tied to branches at eye level. Then another, and another—at different heights, like someone was marking something very specific. That was the first time I seriously thought about leaving.

I went back to my truck around noon to eat and warm up, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on me from the treeline. I almost packed it in, but talked myself out of it and returned to my stand around 2:00 p.m.

About an hour before sunset I heard slow, heavy footsteps behind me—too deliberate for an animal. I turned. Thirty yards away stood the same man, closer now. His patchy beard looked filthy, his skin pale and sickly. He was smiling, but only barely showing his teeth. In his right hand he held a screwdriver, the yellow-and-black handle unmistakable.

He didn’t speak. He just stared with that half-smile. I asked if he had permission to be there. No answer. After ten long seconds of that silent stare-down, he slowly turned and walked back into the trees.

I should have left right then. Instead I stayed until legal shooting light ended.

Right after sunset I climbed down and started walking out fast, already regretting my decision to stay so late. Halfway to the truck I saw the orange strips again—this time some were tied to sticks pushed into the ground. One stick had a dead squirrel hanging from it by wire through its back legs. Below it, someone had drawn a rough circle in the snow with a boot. Then I noticed more: a rabbit, a crow—all hung the same way, like grotesque trail markers.

I started moving faster.

About a hundred yards from my truck I froze. My backpack—the one I’d left up in my tree stand—was leaning against a tree. It was unzipped, and all my gear (knife, flashlight, extra arrows) was laid out neatly in the snow like someone had taken inventory. Someone had climbed my stand while I was in it without me knowing.

I grabbed everything and jogged the rest of the way.

When I reached the clearing, my truck door was open. I always lock it. Nothing was stolen, but my registration papers had been moved from the glovebox to the passenger seat. I jumped in, locked the doors, and started the engine. In the rearview mirror I saw him again—standing just inside the treeline, maybe forty yards away, still smiling. He raised his hand and slowly dragged a finger across his throat.

I spun gravel all the way back to the main road.

I told the property owner what happened. He said no one else had permission. He called the game commission. Two weeks later he told my dad they’d found a makeshift shelter deep on the property—tarps and old wood, animal bones, and stolen hunting gear from other places. I never hunted that land again. I don’t hunt alone anymore, either.

The second incident happened last November on a hunting trip with my grandpa to Crockett, Texas. I don’t see him often because he runs his own company, so when he invited me I jumped at the chance—even though I’m not really into hunting. I do love camping and exploring new places, so I took a few days off and went.

The “lease” was actually family land. We drove through an iron gate off the freeway and followed a long dirt road to an old house my great-grandfather had built. It sat in a peaceful clearing deep in the woods. We unpacked, cooked dinner, and went to bed early.

That first night I heard scratching at one of the screened windows but fell asleep anyway.

The next morning we sat in a blind. After a couple quiet hours I spotted someone—or something—peeking around a tree at the far treeline, about a mile and a half away. I woke Grandpa. Right then a herd of deer stepped out. He chuckled and told me it was just wildlife. I knew what I’d seen, but I let it go.

He shot a deer. We took it back, gutted it, and hung it before heading into town for supplies. When we returned, the carcass was covered in fresh claw and bite marks. Grandpa decided we were going on a night hunt. He thought coyotes. I wasn’t so sure.

We grabbed ARs and flashlights and headed out. Near the treeline I saw it again—something peeking out. I whistled for Grandpa. He told me to watch his back and slipped into the woods. Ten minutes later I heard a gunshot. I ran in and found him standing over a dead coyote next to what was left of a deer.

We caught our breath—then heard rustling and the most horrifying scream I’ve ever heard. It wasn’t human, and it wasn’t any animal I recognized. Heavy footsteps and heavy breathing came crashing toward us. We ran for the house as fast as we could. Whatever it was stayed right behind us.

We slammed the door and locked everything. It was right outside—screeching, breathing hard, then slamming against the door. Grandpa got fed up and fired several rounds through it. The thing let out another terrible screech and finally ran off.

We called the police. The deputy who showed up looked pretty unsettled by everything we showed him, but nothing ever came of the report. We never went back to that house.

The third time was with my friends Kyle and Connor. Kyle had been begging us for two years to go hunting with him. Neither of us knew what we were doing, and hunting wasn’t our thing, but Kyle was the real deal—he could gut a deer, split wood, start a fire from nothing, and actually enjoy sleeping on the ground. Connor and I mostly liked the idea of drinking beer in the mountains and having a story to tell later.

Kyle finally wore us down one November during rifle season. He knew a remote spot in the mountains where he almost never saw other hunters. The promise of good food and cold beer sealed it.

We drove up early Friday, hiked several miles in, and set up camp near a creek. That first night was perfect—fire crackling, beers flowing, old stories, laughing at how useless Connor and I were in the woods.

Then the scream came from deep in the forest. It sounded exactly like a woman being murdered. Kyle said it might be a fox. We tried to believe him. A few minutes later it came again—much closer. No one was laughing anymore.

We killed the fire and got into our tents with our rifles.

The next morning our camp was trashed: chairs tipped, cooler moved, snacks dragged out, Kyle’s backpack relocated. Not much was missing. Kyle said a bear probably came through. We moved camp deeper into thicker woods.

That day Kyle shot a nice buck. We helped drag it back and field-dress it. I felt sick the whole time, but Kyle was in his element. We cooked fresh backstrap over the fire that night and actually enjoyed it for a while.

Then the scream returned—closer, moving toward us. Kyle fired warning shots into the air and yelled into the darkness like a maniac. For a second Connor and I laughed at how ridiculous he looked. Then the scream answered from just beyond the firelight.

We killed the fire and hid in the tents again.

Later that night something ran full-speed around the campsite. I heard footsteps, then something dragged across the side of my tent. Silence fell… and then the scream exploded right in the middle of camp—so loud and unnatural it didn’t sound human anymore. Connor screamed. I yelled. Kyle fired a shot through the roof of his tent.

Whatever it was tore off into the woods.

We spent the rest of the night crammed together in Kyle’s biggest tent, rifles ready, jumping at every sound.

At dawn we packed up without another word about hunting and hiked out. On the drive home the fear turned into shaky, nervous laughter. Connor did impressions of Kyle yelling and shooting. We debated calling the sheriff but never did.

We still don’t know what was out there. Maybe a crazy person messing with hunters. Maybe someone on drugs trying to lure us. Or maybe someone who really needed help and we hid from her.

I still wake up sometimes from the dream where I’m standing frozen while a blood-covered woman screams at me from between the trees.

All three of these trips taught me the same hard lesson: the woods can feel empty, but you’re rarely ever truly alone out there