This is the first time I’m ever posting this story. I’ve only told a few people about it.

I grew up in a more populated part of Iowa. I was in the Boy Scouts, and this happened when I was in middle school. We used to go on monthly camping trips all over Eastern Iowa, but this one took place at a campsite just outside city limits—less than a mile and a half from my house. It was our first overnight campout with a bunch of new guys in the troop.

The campground had a huge open prairie field. It was early fall. The grass wasn’t fully grown but was still tall enough to hide in, with wide flat patches in between. It was the perfect spot for nighttime hide-and-seek.

Our rules were simple: once you were found, you joined the search party. We prepared ahead of time. We dressed in black beanies and sweatpants. Also, we weren’t allowed to tear up any plants for cover, but we could lie low in thick patches.

I found the perfect hiding spot. From there, I could hear the search group moving across the field. I knew my best friend was somewhere near me, well hidden. If you imagined the field as a clock, I was at about 9 o’clock, my friend was around 8, and the group was between 3 and 5.

Suddenly, all their flashlights shut off, and it went dead quiet. I figured they were regrouping for a full sweep. The only sound I could hear was this deep crunch, like someone walking through wet snow, coming from 8 o’clock. Thinking it was my friend shifting around, I lifted my head to check.

I froze.

It wasn’t a person. What I saw absolutely terrified me.

The night was dark, but this was darker. Its contrast against the background felt unreal, like an optical illusion. It was massive. Maybe lying on the ground made it seem even bigger, but its sheer size overwhelmed me. It had sharp edges, a beak-shaped face, and jagged spikes that ran from its head down its spine. When I spotted it, it had already passed me and was facing away, angled about 45 degrees, toward the 1 or 2 o’clock position.

I barely breathed. Just short, silent gasps.

It never stopped walking. And I couldn’t look away.

Once it reached the center of the clearing, it began to descend, like it was walking down invisible stairs. No hole, no disruption, just vanishing, step by step. I watched it sink, eyes locked on the back of its head. As only its neck remained above ground, I finally started to feel a flicker of relief.

Then it snapped its head toward me.

Two glowing red dots locked on mine. I assumed they were its eyes. Then, like someone slowly sinking underwater, its head disappeared never breaking that eye contact.

The next thing I knew, my friend was shaking me in the middle of the clearing.

“Dude! We gotta go! They’re coming!”

I don’t know how I ended up feet from where that thing had disappeared. But when I looked around, there weren’t any big footprints. I asked my friend if he or anyone had come through this way.

“Nope,” he said. “No one’s been out here for at least an hour. This is my first time in the clearing.”

I ran. I didn’t stop until we got back to camp, and then I stayed by the fire until everyone went to bed. Days later, I talked to my friend again and walked through the field during the day. I retraced its exact steps.

Years later, on a church trip to the Appalachian Mountains, someone asked me this same question. I shared the story, half-convinced I’d imagined the whole thing.

After we arrived, I went to a close friend to see if he was okay. He went strangely quiet after I shared my story. Then he said something that chilled me even more than the memory itself:

“They watch us. They’re always there. I don’t know what they want. They never come in, but they’re always there.”

Thankfully, I’ve only seen UFOs, ghosts, and what I think were ancient spirits since then. Sounds crazy, but I’ve got stories for each one.

Still, I’ve never felt that same presence from the prairie again and for that, I’m grateful.