The "Thing" In the Woods

Location:

Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center, Bridgeport, California

Unit:

First Combat Engineer Battalion, Alpha 2 Platoon

Date:

Late September, Nighttime Operations

It Happened At Bridgeport

If the military is good at teaching us one thing, it is the gift of fear. Fear is how we evolved as a species, fear is what keeps you alive. Unfamiliar environments always feel hostile because you are not adapted to them: The mountain, The Dessert, The road at night. Fear is useful simply because it keeps one operational.

I had just arrived at Bridgeport, it was deftly cold. Cold in a way that numbed the senses. Wind crashed into sharp rock and jagged edges made by time, but it made no sound. Our platoon was drilled for order: tarps secured, weapons grounded, intervals maintained. Everything accounted for, no beats were skipped, even in altitude that made it seem like we could touch the heavens at LZ Owl landing zone.

The First Night

It was at 2200 hours, when a sound pierced through sleep.

Metal, friction, intent, Precise.

Every Marine who heard it, everyone concluded the same: the charging handle of an M4. No question. without doubt.

But the thing is no one had touched their rifle. Marines accounted for each of their weapons. One rifle lay bare at the side of a tree, it is there where the sound had its roots. The Marine assigned to that rifle denied its manipulation, his certainty and voice failing to waiver, made it all worse.

We did what we were trained to, took arms and scouted for a visitor, a lost local, a strange foe, or a practical jokester. But the vicinity laid undisturbed! No weighted footprints, no fallen belongings, no sign of presence outside our own.

It was then when the Staff sergeant approached, his walkie had fire watch distorted speaking amongst static “Fire Watch over, no confirmed sighting over”. We were directed to return to rest.

When The Sun Rose

It was 0600 hours when we awoke, The shelter was in dismay, tarps ripping from trees, all anchor rocks hung in grotesque formations, stakes configured in symbols that shattered optical illusion. No footprints, no drag marks, nothing that hinted at a person.

It was then when we found the Sargent, sitting, mumbling in ramble

“It hides so that we exist”.

Next to him was his journal.

The Journal Entry

It lay at the top rockface behind the shelter, looking down casting a shadow of demonic will. It was not an it but a they, a them, a multiple, and a singular. A deformity, and an evil joke of a human silhouette, it was Pale as if white took the meaning of night, they were human shaped, “them” where lights shining bright, multiple hairless skins, a singular deformity standing upright but crawling. It is then away from its view where this entry was made. To whoever may find this, my platoon, this entry must be burned, humanity must not hint at being its witness.

I wrote this whole incident summary report because Sargent never did.

Because last week on the news ... there was something on route 87 ... it’s the next state over, but there are odd similarities: To the Thing.

~End~

Thank you for reading and being part of The Tribe.

Source Credit:

Inspired by a story shared on a military‑themed YouTube channel: Wartime Stories. This retelling is a transformative cosmic‑horror adaptation for narrative and educational purposes.

13th Transmission

A narrated version of this story appears on the 13th Transmission YouTube channel.