Something happened to my family some years ago, when I was just a child — something that still perplexes me to this day. None of my family members want to talk about it, and when I do bring it up, the room gets quiet and they immediately change the subject. Sometimes, I doubt it really happened. But the looks on my parents’ faces tell me it was real, not a false memory — especially when I think about what my father went through. So, if my family won’t talk about it, maybe writing it down here will finally help me make sense of it.

My family moved when I was young, leaving the city for a smaller, more remote town where houses weren’t glued together and everyone had their privacy — exactly what my parents were looking for. My sister and I were very excited about the new house: it was bigger than we were used to, the backyard was enormous, and behind the house was a large, lush forest. The moment we arrived, my sister, my dog, and I went outside to explore while my parents and the movers finished bringing our things in.

When we were outside playing, we decided to take a look into the forest. We put our dog on a leash and wandered to the treeline. As I peered into the depths of the trees, an eerie feeling overcame me, settling like a weight on my shoulders as my eagerness to explore faded. There was something about those woods that made me hesitant to take a step inside. However, my sister didn’t seem bothered, so as her older brother, I decided to go in. Before I could, though, my dog yanked me back, tugging at his leash and growling, which was unusual behavior for him. I thought it strange and tried to coax him forward, but he resisted with all his might. Before I could understand why he was being so stubborn, our parents called us in for dinner.

Throughout that week, when playing outside, I kept my distance from the forest — I decided to trust my dog’s instincts. If a ball or toy got too close to the treeline, my dog wouldn’t go near it, forcing me to retrieve it for him. When I did get close to the forest, I would feel my chest tense up and my heart would beat faster and faster. Once, my sister threw the ball and it landed in some of the bushes. She began to run towards it, but I stopped and told her I would fetch it instead. I walked to the treeline and kept a safe distance, staying as far from the trees as I could while I searched for the ball. I finally found it, feeling relieved that it hadn’t rolled deep into the bushes and was easily reachable. I got on my knees and stretched out my hand for the ball. As I grasped it in my hand, something violently grabbed my arm with an iron grip. I started flailing, pulling, and yelling as whatever was holding me wouldn’t loosen its hold in the slightest. Then my mom bolted out of the house and towards me. As she neared, the thing gripping me let go and I tumbled backwards.

My mom bent over to help me, and through my sobs, I told her something had grabbed me. Her face went from confusion to fear as she examined the red marks on my forearm — shaped like a hand and fingers. She took hold of my hand and ordered all of us to go back inside. As we walked, she kept glancing back, as if checking whether something was following us. From that day, my parents prohibited us from going near the forest — I did not protest.

In the weeks that followed, we didn’t go near that forest. Every now and again, we’d hear twigs cracking or something rustling in the bushes. Each time, we’d stare, searching for whatever made the noise, but nothing ever showed itself. When I peered into the abyss that was the forest, I would feel like it was staring back. One day, as my sister, my dog, and I were outside, we heard a scream coming from the woods. We stopped what we were doing, my dog’s head cocked to the side, and we waited. Then, another yell blasted through the trees — a cry for help. And then terror flooded through me: it was my mom.

Without thinking, I leapt into the forest to find my mom. As I entered, I could hear my sister yelling and crying and my dog barking repeatedly and aggressively. I pushed through the bushes and trees as fast as I could, flicking branches out of my face. I ran blindly, calling out for my mom, until I realized — her screaming had stopped. I stood in place, listening to the noises of the forest: the rustling of the leaves, the snap of distant branches, and an unfamiliar hum. The hum started low, almost too faint to hear. But it grew in intensity as I listened, as if something was getting closer and closer.

Then something grabbed me from behind, lifting me into the air. I thrashed and screamed, trying to break free until I heard a familiar voice — it was my dad. Relieved, I realized he was trying to get me back home, but I told him we couldn’t leave without my mom. Yet my dad assured me that she was in the kitchen making lunch — she wasn’t in the forest. My stomach dropped. What had I heard if it wasn’t her? He took my arm and guided us out of the forest, where my sister and mom greeted us with frightened hugs.

After that incident, my parents forbade us to go in the forest for any reason. If there were any need to go in, we had to get one of them. I had never seen my parents so worried. A couple of nights later, we were having one of our family movie nights — popcorn, snacks, the four of us on the couch — when we heard a knock on the back door. We all looked at each other, fear emanating from all four of us. Not knowing how to react, we paused the movie and waited in silence. Then a louder knock echoed through the house — someone was in our backyard. My dad shushed us and whispered to stay where we were. My mom gathered us in her arms as we watched my dad quietly grab a knife from the kitchen and peer out the window. He looked around, then went to the back door, and with one swift motion, flung it open. We all saw it — there was nothing there.

My dad turned on all the lights outside but there was still nothing to be seen. He came back inside, locked the back door, then checked that every other door and window in the house was secure. He eventually returned to the living room, where we stood in silence, with the occasional whisper from my parents. I think we were waiting for another knock — which never came. Finally, my parents sent us off to bed without finishing the movie; we were no longer in the mood.

I had trouble falling asleep that night, and when I did, I soon woke to the dog’s loud, frantic barking. I eased my door open and watched my dad in his pyjamas run by my bedroom frantically. He darted down the stairs and out to the backyard. I crept into my parents’ bedroom, where my mom stood staring out the window, hands over her mouth, her eyes fixed on the forest. When I reached her, I tugged on her shorts, and she jolted at my unexpected presence. She apologized and held me. I asked her what was happening, and she told me my sister had walked into the woods. Apparently, my dog started barking at the window, and when my dad got up to check, he saw my sister walk into the forest. Terrified, I asked my mom how my sister opened the door as it was child-locked — even I had issues opening it. My mom shrugged and told me she didn’t know.

Then we saw my sister walk out of the forest. My mom instinctively ran downstairs and outside to get her, and I followed right behind. Once we made it outside, she grabbed my crying sister and asked if she was all right. My sister just kept sobbing. When she finally calmed enough to speak, she told us she’d woken up in the woods as my dad was shaking her awake. She didn’t remember how she got the door open, she didn’t remember walking out of the house and into the forest, and she didn’t know where our dad was. We stared at the treeline, the dark swallowing everything past the first row of trunks. My dad was somewhere inside it.

We backed away from the forest, getting closer to the house — a place of safety if needed. As we were giving up hope, my dad rushed out of the forest and yelled at us to get inside the house. We all ran in, with my dad locking the door behind us. Wide-eyed and breathing heavily, he hurried to the garage, grabbed one of my baseball bats, and ordered us upstairs. My mom told my sister and me to wait in their room while she talked to my dad. As we were waiting in their bedroom, my sister still sobbing, we could hear faint whispers coming from downstairs — I could feel the panic. I walked over to the window and stared at the forest. I don’t know what I was looking at, but my eyes refused to look elsewhere, as if hypnotized.

I broke from my trance as my mom gasped at the sight of me. She pulled me from the window and drew the blinds. She told us that we should stay away from the windows and that we’d sleep in her room that night, while my dad took the couch downstairs. Believe it or not, I fell asleep quickly, most likely due to the comfort of lying beside her and being in their bedroom. However, I woke up early in the morning, and my sister and mom were still asleep. I got out of bed and made my way downstairs.

When I reached the main floor, I could see my dad sitting on one of our dining chairs, bat in hand, staring at the back door. As I walked behind him, the floor creaked under me, and my dad turned around with the bat cocked back, face filled with terror and fury. When he saw it was me, his expression shifted from fury to worry; he dropped the bat and hugged me. We went to the couch, sat down, and I fell back asleep on his lap.

I woke up to my parents talking, and I pretended to still be sleeping because I wanted to eavesdrop on their conversation. I caught enough to understand he’d witnessed something awful in the woods — and that he’d seen the same thing outside during the night. My dad wept as he told his story — I’d never seen him cry. When they realized I was awake, they acted as if everything was fine, my dad wiping his tears.

That day, we packed up and stayed with some relatives as my parents sold the house and we moved back into the city. My family hasn’t talked about those weeks at that house since. As I already said, when I bring it up, my parents refuse to speak of it and cut the conversation short. But what bothers me the most is what happened to my dad. He knows more about what grabbed my arm, what screamed in my mom’s voice, and what lured my sister into the forest. Whatever it was, it made my dad the most terrified I’ve ever seen, enough to bring him to tears.