My name is Johannes Richter. I'm 45 years old and an investigative journalist in Germany. My specialty is exploring cold cases that have never been solved.
What I will report here is my personal experience investigating the case of the hinterkaifec murders, a brutal crime that occurred in 1922 on an isolated farm in Bavaria. This account is not in the official records. Because what I experienced was beyond understandable, an encounter with something that I cannot define as human.
In October 1982, 60 years after the crime, I decided to explore the farm where the massacre took place. 6 people, the Gruber and their employees, were brutally murdered with a pickaxe, a tool that to this day carries the weight of guilt. The police found the bodies, days after the crime, piled in the barn.
While the children were dead in the rooms of the main house, upon arriving in the region, I realized that the name hinterkaifek still caused discomfort among local residents. Nobody liked to talk about it, as if the mere mention of the place brought bad luck. You shouldn't go there, he told me.
Mr Miller, owner of a small inn near the farm, is in ruins, but still has something. I live there, I ignored the warning, taking with me only a camera, a recorder and a flashlight. It was late autumn, and the forest around the farm was silent except for the occasional sound of the wind rustling the trees.
The ruins of the farm appeared in the distance, almost swallowed by vegetation. Upon entering the land, the air seemed to become heavier. The barn was in better shape than I expected, with the wooden walls still standing, although marked by age.
The main house, however, was a shell of its former self. As I explored the barn, I felt a shiver run down my spine. Terra's floor still seemed to carry the energy of the massacre.
The flashlight light revealed it. Marks on the floor were not recent. But they felt deep, as if something had scratched the ground repeatedly.
It was then that I heard a low, almost imperceptible sound , like a whisper and I suddenly froze. There was no one there. I thought it was my mind playing tricks, but the sound repeated louder this time.
I followed the sound to a dark corner of the barn. Where I found an old rusty pickaxe. It was partially buried in the Earth, but when I touched it I felt something strange, like an electric shock that went through my arm.
I decided to spend the night at the farm, setting up a small tent inside the main house. During the first few hours, everything was relatively quiet, except for the constant sound of the wind, which seemed to howl through the ruins at around 3am. I woke up to a loud noise coming from the barn.
It sounded like the sound of something being dragged. I grabbed my flashlight and slowly walked towards the location. When I entered, see?
Impossible. The pickaxe I had found was now stuck in the middle of the barn, with marks of fresh blood all around it. A trail of blood led to the darkest corner of the place.
Who's there? My voice was weaker than I expected. The answer was a piercing scream that seemed to come from all sides at once.
The flashlight flickered, and for a moment I swore I saw a hooded figure holding the pickaxe. When the light stabilized, there was nothing there. I ran back to the main house , my heart racing.
I decided that I would leave at dawn, before leaving. I felt the need to record one last report, I turned on the recorder and started talking about what I had experienced. But something strange happened.
The tape reproduced voices that weren't mine Voices whispered words in an ancient dialect that I couldn't fully understand. But some sentences were clear, they will come again. There is no escape, despite the fear.
Something forced me to stay. I decided to explore the surroundings of the farm before leaving, looking for any physical evidence that could shed light on what was happening. It was then that I saw something that I will never forget.
In the woods nearby, I found one. There were bones inside the shallow grave , they weren't human, but something about them seemed off. Around the pit, symbols were carved into the trees.
Symbols I recognized from ancient pagan yohan rituals . This time, the voice wasn't whispered, it was loud and clear, coming directly from behind me as I turned around. I saw the hooded figure again, but now it was not alone.
5 other similar figures emerged from the shadows. They advanced and I ran. Adrenaline took over as I stumbled back to the main house.
Once inside, I tried to block the door with broken furniture, but the sounds outside indicated they wouldn't be contained for long. I picked up an iron bar I had found during my exploration and prepared to fight. The first figure broke down the door with a powerful blow and I attacked with everything I had.
The iron hit his face, but instead of recoiling, he simply stopped, as if he had felt no pain. The fight was chaotic. Every blow I threw seemed to have no effect, but something in me refused to give up.
When I landed a sharp blow on the neck of one of the figures, I saw that it was bleeding, but the blood was black as ink. It was then that I realized, they weren't human. I managed to escape through the window while they were still inside the house.
I ran through the forest without looking back. My only objective was to reach the nearest village. When I finally arrived, I collapsed in front of a small house and was rescued by locals.
They said I was covered in blood and had deep scratch marks . When I told what happened, I was greeted with looks of disbelief. I never returned to hinterkaifec, the pickaxe, the bones and the figures remain engraved in my memory like a nightmare.
I don't know what really happened on that farm in 1922, but I know something evil still resides there. If there is a lesson to be learned it is this. There are places that must be left behind , places where the secrets of the past still breathe and hunt.
My name is Victor kraftsov, I'm 32 years old and I'm Ukrainian. I have worked as an investigative journalist for over a decade, specializing in unsolved mysteries. I like to see myself as someone who seeks the truth, but some truths should remain buried.
This is the story of how an affair almost destroyed me. It all started with an anonymous email. The message was simple.
If you're really looking for the unexplainable, go to room 713 in an old hotel in Budapest, but be prepared for what you'll find. At first I thought it was a joke or maybe a clue to something bigger. I researched the hotel and discovered that it had a sinister reputation.
Local legends spoke of unexplained disappearances and guests who went crazy after spending a single night in room 713. Still, curiosity got the better of me and I booked a room for that very week. I arrived at the hotel at the end of a gray afternoon.
The building was an imposing but decaying structure with tall windows and an oppressive air that seemed to weigh heavily on my shoulders. The smell of damp and old wood permeated the room, the receptionist, an elderly man with tired eyes. He handed me the key to room 311.
It's the best we have at the moment, he said, avoiding meeting my gaze. Is room 713 by any chance available? I asked.
Trying to sound casual, he hesitated, that room is unavailable, please enjoy your stay. His reaction only increased my curiosity. After leaving my luggage in room 311, I decided to explore the seventh floor.
The hallways were dimly lit, with lamps flickering intermittently , and the air there felt colder. When I arrived at room 713, I noticed that the number was worn, as if time had erased it. I tried to turn the handle, but it was locked.
As I wondered how to get in, I heard a muffled sound coming from inside the room. Footsteps and a light murmur like a voice whispering incomprehensible words, I decided to return later, armed with a staple I brought to try to open the lock. At midnight, when the hotel was silent, I returned to the seventh floor.
My heart was racing as I forced the lock. After a few minutes, the door opened with a soft click. The air inside the room was heavy, almost suffocating.
With a metallic smell that I immediately recognized as blood, the walls were covered in marks, symbols carved with something sharp that I couldn't identify. In the center of the room there was a fallen wooden chair and, next to it, an old tape recorder. I pressed the play button and a female voice began to speak, full of despair.
If you are listening to this, please leave now. They come when it gets dark. I tried to resist, but they always find a way.
Before I could process those words, there were footsteps in the hallway, I looked through the crack in the door and saw a hooded figure slowly walking towards me. Who is there? My voice came out louder than I planned.
The figure stopped for a moment and, in a sudden movement, broke down the door. He was a tall man, with a grotesque mask made of leather and metal. Holding a long, rusty knife without thinking, I picked up the fallen chair and threw it at him, but he dodged it nimbly.
He advanced with the blade and I only had time to pick up a broken piece of wood on the ground to defend myself. The fight was fierce, he was fast, but desperation gave me strength. I managed to disarm him momentarily, but he pushed me against the wall.
Drpping the recorder in the process. That's when I realized we weren't alone. A second figure entered the room, another masked man, this time holding a chain.
They surrounded me and I felt panic rising as I tried to think of a way to escape. A strange sound filled the air. It was a low hum, almost like a collective whisper all of a sudden.
The lamps began to flicker frantically and the temperature in the room plummeted. The 2 masked figures stopped. Looking around, with obvious nervousness.
It was then that I saw it. A dense, pulsing shadow appeared in a dark corner of the room. She moved like living smoke, swallowing everything in her path.
The masked men tried to escape, but it was too late. Shadow enveloped them and their screams were cut off abruptly. I was paralyzed, unable to move.
Or look away. The shadow seemed to be watching me as if assessing my presence. Slowly, she retreated to the corner of the room and disappeared, leaving only silence and darkness.
I took advantage of the moment to run. I went down the stairs running, with his heart hammering in his chest. When I arrived at reception, the receptionist was waiting for me with a serious expression.
I warned him not to go there, he said, his voice firm but not hostile, who were those men and what was that thing in the room, I asked, trying to catch my breath, he shook his head. Some mysteries are not meant to be unraveled, they just go away. I left the hotel that night, but the experience left me uneasy.
The next day, I went to the local police, but they didn't pay much attention to my story when I returned to the hotel with them. Room 7 and 13 looked untouched. There were no signs of a struggle, no bodies or symbols on the walls.
The only evidence that remained was the recorder I kept with me. When I played the tape again, there was no voice, just silence. Since then, I have obsessively researched the hotel and room 713, but all the information seems to disappear as if erased sometimes.
In my dreams, I see the shadow again watching me from a distance. I don't know what she wanted or why she let me live, but one thing is certain, rooms 7 and 13 hold secrets, which will never be fully revealed. My name is Ivan Socoloff.
I'm 34 years old and Russian. For over a decade, I have worked as an expedition guide helping adventurers explore Siberia. What will I report here?
My darkest experience, a journey that challenged my understanding of the real and the Supernatural. I was hired by a group obsessed with unraveling the mystery of Paso de Atlov, a place shrouded in tragedy and secrets for over 60 years. It was the end of February and the group was made up of Amélia Carter, 32 years old, American, a researcher fascinated by paranormal phenomena , Lars Birk, 40 years old, Swedish and ex- military, and David Hargraves, 35 years old, British.
An independent cameraman who wanted to document everything. When they contacted me, they said they wanted to do more than explore the place. They wanted answers.
I hesitated to accept. I knew the stories. They say those who return from the atlove pasture are never the same, but the amount offered was generous and my curiosity got the better of me.
We left at dawn on a freezing day. The journey to the base of the Mountain was arduous, the wind was sharp and the snow reflected a lusopaque. That seemed to come from nowhere.
Even with modern equipment, the cold penetrated to the bone. We arrived at the pass in the afternoon of the second day. The spot where the 9 students met their deaths was marked by makeshift crosses planted in the snow as a grim reminder.
An oppressive silence enveloped us, broken only by the sound of the wind. Something there felt wrong. An invisible weight that squeezed my chest.
We set up our camp 200 m from the site of the crosses. As we organized the equipment, Lars noticed something. There are footprints there, he said, pointing to the fresh snow.
I followed his gaze and saw marks that seemed to go nowhere, disappearing abruptly, as if whoever made them had simply disappeared. Amélia was visibly agitated. Do you feel this?
It's like we're being watched, he muttered. David, always skeptical, shrugged , it's probably the wind, it messes with the mind. At midnight, something happened.
I was awake, watching the fire, when I heard a strange sound coming from the direction of the crosses. It was a low, humming noise that seemed to be everywhere at once. I grabbed my flashlight and moved closer to the light, revealing a figure in the distance, still and motionless.
Who is there? I shouted, but there was no response. As I approached, the figure disappeared as if it had been swallowed by the night.
I returned to camp feeling my heart racing. I told the group. But David sneered, are you letting the legends get to you?
Lars, however, looked worried. He decided to stand guard by walking in circles around the camp with his knife in hand. At 2 am, a sharp scream woke us up, it was Amélia.
I ran out of the tent, finding the one standing pale, pointing towards the edge of the camp. I saw something huge. She whispered shakily.
Lars and David followed closely behind. Lars, with his military instinct, grabbed a knife and a flashlight. Stay here, he ordered, before disappearing into the darkness.
David, against my advice, decided. Follow him, taking your Camera. The next few minutes were an eternity.
I heard sounds of fighting in the distance, grunts, screams. And the sound of something being cut, then a final scream cut through the air, I ran towards the sound, with Amélia behind me. We found David on the ground bloodied, holding his shoulder.
It's a trap, he muttered before passing out. There was no sign of Lars, but marks in the snow indicated he had been dragged away. It was then that we saw it, a creature emerged from the shadows.
It was tall. With grayish skin and eyes that glowed like embers, its hands ended in long, sharp claws, stained with blood. I turned on the emergency ax carrying Amélia, take David back to camp.
I shouted and the creature advanced, moving with impossible speed. I managed to avoid her claws and hit her in the shoulder. The blow caused him to let out a scream that was not human.
It sounded like the echo of overlapping voices. We fled to the camp, but we knew she would follow us. We barricaded the tents with everything we could find and tried to take care of David.
He was in shock, muttering nonsensical words. We need to get out of here, Amélia, he said. But before we could formulate a plan, the creature was back.
She tore down one of the tents with ease, I took the Ax and moved forward, trying to protect Amélia and David. The confrontation was brutal, the creature was strong. But he seemed hesitant as he approached the fire.
I used this to my advantage, swinging a torch towards him and, even though he was injured, he managed to grab Lars' knife, which was lying on the ground in one movement. Desperately, she plunged the blade into the creature's chest. The creature let out an agonizing scream and retreated, disappearing into the darkness.
At dawn, we realized the extent of the tragedy. Lars was dead. His body was found 300 m from the camp, with deep cuts that could not have been made by the claws of ordinary animals.
David succumbed to his injuries and his last words were, don't let this get away. Amélia and I managed to climb down the Mountain and alert the authorities, but our story was met with skepticism. They said Lars and David.
They were attacked by a bear, but I know what I saw to this day. I avoid thinking about the atlove pasture. Sometimes I even hear a low hum in my dreams and remember the creature's eyes as if it were still watching us.
Perhaps atlove's step will never reveal its secrets completely. And maybe it's better that way.
