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Speaker 1: Now I have a dog man's story here, you guys

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may think is pretty interesting. It happens in California. Here's

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what the man writes. I live in a remote part

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of Antelope Valley in southern California, nestled against the foothills

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of the San Gabriel Mountains, next to Devil's Punch Bowl Park.

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My property stretches across two and a half acres, fenced

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in and secluded enough that isolation has become its own

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kind of companion. My nearest neighbor lives half a mile away.

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In their porch. Light is like a distant star on

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the horizon. The nights are thick with silence and mystery.

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For the past ten years, this land has been home,

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but it's never been entirely mine. Something else claims it too.

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From the moment I moved in, I felt it a

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strange energy that seeped into my bones, both inside the

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house and out. The quality of the energy wasn't hostile,

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but it wasn't exactly friendly either. Now this land is

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harsh and unforgiving, a high desert sitting directly on the

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San Andreas Fault. At times, deep underground subtle rumbles reached

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the surface, vibrating through my body as though it wants

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to remind me that it is alive. The previous owners

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were an elderly couple. They had lived there together for

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almost twenty five years and operated a horse rescue business. Sadly,

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the lady of the house had recently passed away, and

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the husband decided to sell the property and move on.

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I remember one time, while I was having a conversation

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with the man, I felt the strange energy come over me.

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I took a chance and casually mentioned it to him,

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then watched his eyes well with tears. I saw a

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hint of longing in his face, as if he knew

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exactly what I meant, and I was already missing it.

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I think all the horses that lived on the property

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left a con presence there which still remains. Despite the

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negative experiences that I had in the first few months

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after I moved in, sleep was not a refuge but

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a battleground. Night after night, I found myself trapped in

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the clutches of vivid sleep paralysis. My body was heavy

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and unyielding, and it felt like it belonged to someone else. Dark,

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shadowy shapes gathered above me, their forms amorphous and shifting

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like smoke. Their presence was unmistakably oppressive. They whispered in

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voices just barely audible, their hissing tones brushing against my

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ears like an invasive wind. But the worst part was

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the hand. It was cold and unseen and impossibly strong,

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and it would wrap around my own locking it in

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a crushing grip. No matter how much I strained, I

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couldn't break free. My hand was immobilized, and I could

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feel a taunting pressure in its grasp, as if the

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entity was mocking my helplessness. So every night the terror

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grew worse, and I felt violated, like a prisoner in

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my own bed, unable to defend myself against an enemy

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that I could not see. For weeks, I endured this, too,

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afraid to fight back, unsure if I even could. But

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one night the fear gave way to anger, pure unfiltered anger,

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and I had had enough. Lying there, unable to move,

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I summoned every ounce of courage I had. My voice

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didn't reach my lips, but it echoed in my mind,

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loud and defiant. Now you've had your fun, and you

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wanted to terrorize me, and you succeeded, But no more

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enough of this nonsense. Leave me, kill me if you must,

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but you will never win. The room fell deathly silent,

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the kind of silence that feels alive, pressing against your ears.

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And then, as quickly as they had come, the shadows receded,

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the whispers stopped, the crushing grip on my hand released,

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leaving me trembling but free. That was the last night

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they visited. I don't know if it was my defiance

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or something else that drove them away, but they left.

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The house felt quieter after that. It was less heavy,

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though the memory of those nights still lingered like a scar.

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I won that battle, but I've never been certain of

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the war. Although the house became quieter after that, outside,

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the feeling of being watched grew stronger, especially at night.

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Still today, every evening, even when I arrived home and

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step out of my car to open the gate, I

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feel the eyes on me. Not human eyes. There's something else,

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something heavy and deliberate. I walked my property at night

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with my three fearless massive wolfhounds, and on some nights

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they stopped dead in their tracks, refusing to move, their

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hackles rise and their gazes fixed on the darkness. The

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first few times panic gripped me. It was as if

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an invisible line had been drawn one I dared not cross.

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My fear was a tangible thing, gripping me tighter with

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every step. And then I heard it, a voice in

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my mind, calm but commanding. As long as you don't

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actively look for me, you'll be fine, it said. The

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voice was not a threat, but a warning, and the

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words lingered, and while they didn't erase the fear, they

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dulled its edge. Since that night, I stayed on my

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side of the line, keeping my walks brief and my

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gaze low, but the presence never left. The nights when

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the codes hauled were almost comforting, their halls familiar and alive.

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But then there were the silent nights when my dogs,

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usually very bold, stood frozen, ears flat, refusing to bark.

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Those were the nights I knew that it was near.

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Since then, I never sought it out, never tried to

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pierce the veil of darkness around me. But sometimes I

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can't help but wonder, as I stand under the vast,

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starless sky, what watches from the shadows, and why does

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it let me stay. I've seen it only in glimpses,

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the blackest of black shadows and low to the ground,

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with the unmistakable shape of a massive K nine. It

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never crosses the boundary, but it doesn't have to because

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I don't challenge it. Somehow, I know that would be

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my undoing. For ten years, I've called this place home.

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Yet every night reminds me that I'm not alone. The

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truth that I've struck with whatever claims this land has

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held steady, but the uneasy balance is not without its moments.

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Living here means accepting the inexplicable as part of life,

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like the black shadows of glimpsed in the corner of

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my eye, or the faint vibrations underfoot when the earth

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seems to breathe. One night, about two years ago, I

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experienced something I still struggled to make sense of. It

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was a quiet, moonless evening, the kind of night where

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the darkness felt heavier than usual. The air was colder

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than it should have been for the season. It was

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almost damp, and my dogs were restless. I stepped out

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to take them for a walk around the perimeter, but

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they wouldn't budge from the porch. Their bodies were stiff,

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their tails were low, and eyes were locked on the

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tree line at the edge of the property, and that's

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when I saw it, something massive, moving just beyond the fence.

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Its shape was indistinct, cloaked in the shadow, but its

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sheer size ruled out any ordinary predator. It wasn't a

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coyote or a mountain lion. It was something bigger, heavier,

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and utterly alien in the way it moved. At first,

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it seemed to glide without effort, but then its motion

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fragmented and shuddered, like an image caught in a flickering light.

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It was as if it existed in flashes, each appearance,

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momentarily bending the darkness around it like ripples in black water.

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The effect was hypnotic and deeply unsettling, as though the

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creature was not entirely bound to the same reality that

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I inhabited. I froze there and stood, my heart pounding

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in my chest like a drum. A low, rumbling growl

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rose from my dogs, and the sound reverberated through the

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still night air. But even then they did not move closer.

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The creature stopped abruptly, and the shifting light seemed to

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dissolve into stillness. That's when I saw them, two glowing

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orbs unmistakably eyes shining with a faint, other worldly luminescence.

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They reflected a light that wasn't there, as if pulling

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brightness from some unseen source. Those eyes locked on to me, unblinking, steady,

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and impossibly knowing. I couldn't move the weight of its

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gaze to pin me in place, and for a moment,

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the world seemed to hold its breath. Whatever it was,

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it wasn't just watching, It was evaluating. It didn't run,

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and I couldn't. Instead, I slowly backed into the house

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and my dogs followed close behind. The thing didn't follow,

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but its presence lingered like a weight on my chest.

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Another time, I came home late from work, and as usual,

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I stepped out of my car to open the gate.

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The air was still, but the feeling of being watched

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was so intense that it felt like a hand pressing

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on my shoulder. I hurried to the gate and fumbled

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with a lock, and then I heard it, a low growl,

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not far behind me. Spinning around, I saw nothing but

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the dark expanse of my yard. My dogs were inside

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the house, barking furiously, their voices muffled by the thick walls.

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The most unsettling experience happened last winter. I was in bed,

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drifting to sleep when I heard scratching at my bedroom window.

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My bedroom is on the second floor. I lay there, paralyzed,

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listening to the steady, deliberate sound. It wasn't the wind

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or a tree branch. The scratches were too purposeful, too rhythmic,

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gathering my courage. I peeped through the curtain and there

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was nothing there, just the faint outline of the tree

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swaying in the wind. But as I turned away, I

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saw a faint outline and the frost on the glass,

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and the shape of a massive pall. Despite everything, I've

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come to respect this land deeply. I never puts the

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boundaries and tread with humility. I think that's why it

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lets me stay. We share this land, me and whatever

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watches from the shadows. And for now, that uneasy truce

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is enough. But even now, as I write this, I

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can feel it. It's outside in the dark, Something is

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waiting and watching. It's always watching. Oh oh, I read

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this story cold. I had not read it before I

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pulled it up. Rebecca, my editor just actually sent it

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to me today, and I thought, I'm just gonna knock

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out one story today in a podcast and get it

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out and then I'm gonna get to work. I'm so

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blown away by the way this guy can write, Holy smokes,

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and I think it's a guy. I'm almost sure it is.

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Doesn't give his name, so I don't know if it's

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a man or woman. It's written kind of in a

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masculine sense, and it has a masculine feel to it,

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but who knows what. More than the story, it's the writing.

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It really stood out to me on this. Did you

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guys like that? Hey, I am pretty busy these days,

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So what I may do is just do one story

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per podcast, or maybe two short stories. Just get some

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shorter podcasts out to keep things rolling. Man, if I

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go too many days without doing this podcast, I start

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jonesing for it. Know what I may? I start getting

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I don't know, antsy, and it feels like I kind

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of lose my It's like I open up a file

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to read and I can't read anymore. So I got

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to keep doing it to be able to keep doing this.

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So that's what I don't know what I'm talking about.

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I'm just blibering. I'm just blibering. That's what I do. Hey,

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thank y'all for listening. Hey, I wanted to say one

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more thing before I get off this podcast. I don't

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know if you guys watch TikTok, but there's a guy

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and I don't watch it much, only follow maybe I

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don't know, two or three dozen channels. I'm normally just

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it's usually while I'm in the bathroom, I'm just flipping

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through videos. But there's a guy from Kentucky. He's a

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truck driver. The name of his TikTok handle is Peterbilt

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seventy one. He does all kind of stuff. He first,

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he drives a big peter Bilt. It's an older model

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peter Bilt. But he pulled the camera out of his

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truck the other day and there's that big old peter

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Bilt with that big snout sticking out on the front

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and a sleeper behind it, and he's pulling a low

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boy with a big excavator on the back. I don't know,

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I just admire those guys. I wish I knew how

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to drive one of those trucks. I'd love to do

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that for a living. But he also does these little

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short one minute videos sitting in his truck eating lunch,

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and he Whenever I watch him eat, it reminds me

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of me and my grandfather and the stuff my grandfather

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would feed me. I can't tell you how many times

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my grandfather and I would sit on the back porch

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in the summer and he'd get a pack of hot dogs,

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cut him out and hand me just raw cold hot dog.

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We'd have a pack of crackers in a block of cheese,

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you know, sharp cheddar cheese, and we just sit there

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and eat hot dogs and crackers and cheese and any

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sausages and other kind of sausages you can get in

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a can. But he eats a lot of these canned

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meats and canned anyway. I can't do the sardines and

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some of the things he does. This guy will eat anything.

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But I know where he gets it from because he

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came up eating that way, and when you come up

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eating that way, you always eat that way. But I

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just love him, I love his personality. I don't know

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his name, Peter Bilt seventy one. Y'all look him up

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on TikTok. He may be on YouTube too, I don't know,

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but if you watch TikTok, I just love the guy,

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and I just wanted to give him a shout out.

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I doubt he's a truck driver. He may hear this,

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he may not. I don't know. But Peter Bilt seventy one,

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you the man. You make me hungry every time I

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watch your videos. Brother, all right, thank youall for watching

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the podcast or listening to the podcast, and we'll sing

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on the next one. Thanks,