Yee Naaldlooshii

Like many, I have been surrounded by the paranormal since my first breath on this plain. My grandmother introduced me at a noticeably young age to ghost stories, television shows, movies and everything of the like. My earliest memories were of watching the silent black and white Dracula, and ET was my first window to the idea of "something more". To give a brief yet accurate depiction of the household I grew up in, I was surrounded by neopagan culture and became a confirmed Methodist at 13 to rebel against the paganist lifestyle of my mother and sister. My older sister spent many years as an Eastern Religions professor and was one of the only white women in some odd years to participate (bites, blood, and all) in a traditional Haitian voodoo practice. I have been smacked upside the head for pronouncing "voo-doo" and not the correct Creole way "vah-due".

I attended a Montessori School early in my life, under the shadows of the Front Range Mountains and at 13 attended a birthday party where a well-renowned celestial medium read our cards. That very next day my mother took me to a store on Pearl Street Mall in Boulder, Colorado where I purchased my first of many decks of cards. According to the reading I received at that birthday party, my inner wise woman card was the first known Lilith Thenadirdre of the unspoken Christian testaments. More commonly known as Lilith, the first wife of Satan after being cast from the Garden of Eden. I learned many commonalities of religion growing up and even though I was confirmed by the church, I walk my own path and have found my niche in the modern witchy world.

I’m writing this short story to mention and bring light to the Skinwalker's of Native American Lore. I dare only write the name, choosing often never to utter it out loud, and make my story brief, because unbeknownst to many, the more attention given to this creature from the depths of Hell, the stronger the draw to invite them into your life. Part of attending this Montessori School was the privilege to participate in extravagant field trips. My most memorable being spent on the Hopi and Navajo (they prefer to be called Dine {deh-nay} because Navajo means “horse thief”) reservations in Arizona. I was of the first Wasichu (greedy person) to not only witness but also participate in the annual Kachina Dances. My grandmother collected Kachina Dolls, so I brought traditional hand made dolls home to her and still have them 19 years later, even after her departure. I dare not lose them or mistreat them because of the power that still remains within their hand carved statues.

While on the Dine reservation, we stayed in a Hogan. Being Montessori, our class was small. Seven 7th grade, and three 8th grade, I being in 7th at the time, and the youngest of my grade. We were instructed to enter the Hogan to the left, and only walk around the hut in a clockwise manner. Each one of us was smudged with sage before entering the Hogan for our stay. On our first night we sat in a circle that covered the circumference of the octagon, nothing but our bodies, sleeping bags, and the wood furnace in the center consuming space within the clay walls. We participated in the stereotypical go-around-the-circle-and-say-your-name style that is grade school introductions. By my turn, I didn’t even have the opportunity to open my mouth before my Native Host locked eyes with me and said, “you’re different. We’ll speak later.” To be honest, I do not believe he ever learned my name. And that encounter, is another story for another time.

On our last night, before leaving to return home early next morning, we were asked if we wanted to have “Ghost stories and S’mores”. Being the prepubescents we were, of course there was a static chatter and yelps of approval from my small crowd. The only story I remember, and the last he told, was of the “Yee Naaldlooshii”. I dare not emphasize pronunciation of this tongue because I would not wish the interaction of such a unpleasant experience on my worst enemy. Listening to similar stories told through podcasts and documentaries resulted in my most recent encounter, which I will share in a moment. When our host uttered the word, there was a certain omniscient cold that blanketed the Hogan that night, and the gentleman, who had been staying in his modern house across the property our entire stay, slept in his clothes, sitting with his back rested on the unused stove, facing the door that night. I do not remember the exact story he told, or its details, but I do remember the noise that crept into our naïve hearts halfway through his telling. Even thinking about it now, almost two decades later, my ears ring and my bones are cold. It was a noise that cannot be appropriately described to those who haven't heard it before. A noise so terrible, blood curdling, and adrenaline invoking that once experienced, it will lurk in your darkest nightmares, ebbing out of the shadows to induce night sweats and incontrollable trembling. To the untrained ear, one might describe it similar to a fox cry. Which if you have been lucky enough to not hear yourself, understand it is a unique and alarming noise all in itself. Like a child crying in tense intervals, loud at first, with the decibels dissolving into soft and distant shrieking. Also to be described as a house cat, in agonizing torture. Combined the noise is enough to make your hair stand on end. Now, add an inhuman heir. That haunting cadence that only can be recognized as unearthly. When a Walker calls out, it begins distant, like a basset hound bellowing in the still of creeping night, with a guttural tone that emerges deep from the corners of hell. The sound of active demonic death, bleeding from the vocal chords of a Hell Hound, with an apex predatory growl rumbling deep from an insatiable and never quenched thirst for fear and torture.

We were smudged again before leaving, and we were told with a deathly seriousness, to NEVER speak of these creatures in ill humor and to do our best to never bring our minds or hearts to their attention, for it would welcome them into our lives, and we certainly did not want that. As he circled me with a bushel of burning sage from his acres and acres of brush, he looked me in my eyes with the same piercing gaze and whispered, “forgive me”. Which, I do. He knew I had been exposed and had endured many other paranormal experiences in my life, and he knew I would continue to endure them until I take my last breath. on earth.

Shortly after this trip my parents, grandmother and I moved to south central Pennsylvania. Growing in a nontraditional lifestyle my mother and my grandmother were always receptive to my story telling of experiences I had and would often return similar encounters they had as well. We lived in a house for exactly one year on Fishing Creek Valley Road outside of Harrisburg, and it was one of the most intense paranormal years of my life. Again, another story for another time.

But, these Walkers were ever so prevalent on this property and was only a small variable in my mother’s actions of having our bags packed in a U-Haul before our lease was up. I hated being in that house alone. Tucked in a hillside of foliage, hidden from the highway that was only feet from the side of the house. I had two cats and a malamute at the time, and it was just expected behavior to see them follow lights around the inside of the house, and growl at unseen presences at all hours of the day and night.

We moved to a quaint little house that sat on top of a hill, miles from any other home or business in the middle of the woods. Not kidding, my walk on the driveway and road to the bus stop was a mile and a half, and if I chose to take the short cut through the corn field, it was still a half a mile. There was a well at the bottom of the hill where the driveway bent to lead to the road, and this residence happened during the era of “The Ring” movie and to say I hardly had company is an understatement. My very first time hearing a fox cry was living at this residence. At the time it had been the most terrifying natural noise I have ever been exposed to. And even in that, distinctly less terrifying than a Walker’s call.

My high school sweetheart lived on the other side of the corn field and his bus stop was directly in front of his house, so for years we were dropped off on his sidewalk and he courteously took me home. We were nearing the age of 16 and my parents had recently divorced, so I often had the house to myself since my mother worked tirelessly to keep us afloat. He came over one day after school to spend the night, and it was the only night he spent with me in my home. I’ve always been particular about my horror films and paranormal shows, because I’ve experienced enough in my life to know when something is a farce and am drawn to pieces like eerie podcasts and TV shows for their validity and factually based platforms. Unlike some who grow up with a sensitivity to the beyond, I am always afraid of these encounters. A bit of an adrenaline junky, you could say. But the psychic who read my cards at that birthday party taught me how to create a “shield” to protect my light from any negative affect these encounters might have. I have been physically hurt, mentally, emotionally and spiritually as well, but along with my protective energy bubble, I often call upon Archangel Michael to stand with me (thanks Grandma) and have been told countless times in my life that Michael is prominent in my life, hence my first-born child’s middle name. Again, another story for another time.

My high school sweetheart and I were watching something delicately scary that night (it is hard to find like minded people, so to not discourage further time spent together, I soften the blow a bit with my preferred entertainment). Halfway through our show we heard the fox cry. Nathan (as I will call him here so as not to disrespect his privacy) jumped a little, but quickly realized what was happening and relaxed, for we shared neighboring woods and it was less uncommon for him growing up in this area. Fox cries are not only terrifying if you’re not familiar, but they are sporadic in intervals which makes them more unsettling because you never know when to expect the next, if it ever comes. The cry got closer and closer, which I discredited because their den was beneath the house, and said fox was debunked before calling out to her pups before retreating below our deck. However, as her cries grew closer, a new sound emerged in the distance. One I was familiar with, but Nathan was not. I silently prayed and called desperately upon Michael, while subconsciously surrounding myself, my house, and my boyfriend with white light. It was summer, warm, and I had left the sliding glass door open, with the screen shut to keep the June bugs and various other woodland critters from entering the house. The fox cry grew more frequent, and in a sense, more distressed as she approached the house. Then, as though a wet blanket had been cast over our property, it was dead silent. The absence of any sounds made my hair stand on end, and even Nathan had commented that he was “creeped out”. The next few moments of that night can only be described as the most horrible nightmare-like experience I have suffered through.

The howl. The long, unhuman, skin crawling howl will always be engrained unfavorably in my mind and soul. It started as a distant prolonged bark of a sick or wounded dog, and with heavy breathing and my heart beating in my ears, soon ended up on the other side of my house, opposite of the open sliding door and echoing in the hollow trees of my back yard.

“What is that?!” was the last thing I heard over the bone-crunching of a medium sized skull and dead thump of approximately thirty-pound animal on my deck as I flung my body weight to shut the door and simultaneously sweep the curtain closed. “Upstairs!” I barked and I believe the fear in my voice and my eyes was enough to convince Nathan to haul ass up to the bedroom without questioning me.

As some have described before, it was large, and heavy footed. Each press of the foot densely beating the wet east coast soil, one particular foot heavier than the other three. Pacing like an angry, trapped and threatened wild tiger below my bedroom window. I lit the candles, burned the sage to the nub, and neither of us slept that night. We broke up shortly after that for other reasons, but these sentient beings carry an omniscient curse of bad luck with them, which is why I have struggled for so long to share that particular encounter. I try awfully hard not to speak of these experiences and dread the events that have yet to unfold after sharing this with all of you.

Many moons and 8 years later I met my younger son’s father. We dated for about a year before I got pregnant, and he is of Native decent with a like mind to the paranormal. We shared many unnatural experiences together and had an unspoken understanding to not bring attention to the Walker. However, one Halloween night, we were headed to my mother’s house to pick up my oldest son before trick-or-treating. There is an avenue that is a straight shot from his house to my mother’s abode. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve driven/walked/and traveled this road, which resides beside a small creek and a lake in the middle of a public park. Late night, Dad was in the passenger seat and shouted, “watch it!". In my peripheral I saw a dog running toward the road. Once I locked eyes on this dog and hit my brakes, I noticed its gate was off, like it was injured. As this creature crossed into the streetlight, it morphed into an unearthly ape-like figure, that loped through the luminated spotlight, dragging one unusually longer limb, similar to Igor from the movie "Young Frankenstein", and then it crossed back into the shadow shrinking toward the ground and cantering off into the night with a limp. The car was stopped at this point, and we looked at each other silent, tears in my eyes. We never spoke of it except maybe once or twice in private only drawing attention to it by saying “do you remember?". Again, I have not shared this with many, and I dread the aftermath of this gaining attention through the curious endeavors of the readers. I just wanted to share it, get it out of my mind, and put it in the hands of fellow investigators to help contribute to the founding research of the ever-growing other worldly experiences. In fact, the reason I bring it up today, on the first day of the new year is because, just a little while ago my 8-year-old was dropped off for my shared-custody time and, out of the blue without any prompting, he approached me and my current partner abruptly asking, “do you remember the time you were driving with my dad and you guys saw the Skinwalker?”. To which I quickly educated him that we do not speak of them, think of them, or draw attention to them. Days later, on my drive to work I was listening to my new favorite podcast, and the show that was randomly selected was a Walker story. It gave me the courage and the validation I needed to share my story.

Please, with the utmost seriousness...do not go out looking for these ancient witches. I boldly advise you to not invest much time or research in them. They are evil. Evil in every sense of the word, with intention to strike fear in and torture the sound minds of the ill-informed. I'm telling you, just don't. If this story brings the presence of this entity into your life, seek spiritual solace. Pray for protection. Do not be brave, it's stupid when in the frequency of these demonic deities.

Stay safe.