The Oregon Files

Prologue: The Last Transmission

“If you go looking for monsters long enough, they start looking for you.”
—Cliff Barackman, final field recording, 2023

1. The Call

Matt Moneymaker had always laughed off fear. Fear was for the uninitiated, for those who’d never spent a night in the forest with nothing but a camera, a flashlight, and the endless possibility of the unknown. But as he stared at the anonymous email on his laptop—subject line: “You want proof?”—a cold knot twisted in his stomach.

He clicked the file. Grainy, infrared footage flickered to life. The camera swept across a fog-choked Oregon valley, then stopped on a shape, upright, impossibly tall, moving with a purpose that sent shivers down Matt’s spine. The footage ended with a guttural roar and static. Beneath, a single line of text:
“Come alone. Tamuk Forest. Midnight.”

He called Cliff Barackman, his oldest friend and the only person he trusted with the truth. “We have to go,” Matt said. “Tonight.”

2. Into the Deep

The team assembled at dusk. Cliff, Bobo, Roni, and Renee—each with their own scars from years of ridicule and obsession. They loaded their gear into the battered BFRO van: infrared cameras, drones, motion sensors, bait stations, and enough batteries to light a small town.

The drive was silent. Oregon’s forests closed around them, the trees arching overhead like ancient sentinels. By the time they reached the trailhead, fog had swallowed the moon, and every sound felt amplified: the crunch of boots on moss, the distant snap of a branch, the hush of their own breath.

They hiked in single file, flashlights cutting thin beams through the mist. After an hour, they reached the designated clearing. Matt checked his watch—11:57 p.m.

“Everyone ready?” he whispered.

Cliff nodded, setting up the first camera. Bobo grinned, but his hands trembled. Roni scanned the darkness, her skepticism wavering. Renee set up the thermal drone, her eyes fixed on the tree line.

The forest was silent. Too silent.

3. The Encounter

It began with a vibration—a deep, resonant hum that seemed to rise from the ground itself. The seismic sensors Matt had planted blinked to life. At 2:45 a.m., a howl shattered the silence, so deep and powerful it rattled their bones.

Cliff whispered into his recorder, “Whatever that was, it’s big.”

Then came the smell: thick, musky, foul, like wet fur and old blood. The air grew colder, breath visible in the beams of their flashlights. The team circled up, cameras pointed outward, lights flickering.

A branch snapped. Something massive moved just out of sight, heavy footsteps circling their camp. Bobo muttered, “That’s no bear.”

Suddenly, a low growl vibrated through their chests. Roni’s skepticism vanished. “The forest feels alive,” she whispered. “Like it’s breathing with us.”

The motion-triggered camera went off. On the feed—a faint outline, tall, upright, humanoid, slipping behind a cluster of trees and vanishing. The temperature dropped ten degrees in seconds.

Matt called out, “We mean no harm.”

No response. Only the heavy thud of footsteps retreating into the darkness.

Then, above them, a branch snapped. Something heavy crashed to the ground inches from Cliff’s feet. He aimed his flashlight upward.

Two glowing red eyes stared down from the canopy.

Before anyone could react, every camera went black.

4. Aftermath

Dawn crept over the forest, pale and thin. The team emerged shaken and silent. Their tents were ripped open, recording gear scattered, every battery dead. The metallic stench of the night before clung to their clothes.

They gathered what they could and retreated to the field station. Hours of footage yielded only static—until Cliff paused on a single frame. In the background, behind a row of trees, stood a figure. Its proportions were wrong: arms too long, shoulders too broad, head tilted as if studying them. Its eyes glowed amber, not from any external light, but from within.

When they tried to enhance the image, the software crashed. Renee whispered, “That’s biological. That’s heat. It’s alive.”

Then the hard drive began to smoke, shutting down. Every backup file vanished. Matt tried to call the network, but every line was dead.

A strange call came through—a monotone male voice: “You were not supposed to be there.” The line cut instantly.

Terrified, the team decided to leave. As they drove, Bobo noticed an unmarked black SUV in the rearview mirror. It followed them for over an hour, then peeled off onto an unpaved road.

At the station, their Animal Planet contact told them the footage would be confiscated for “legal and safety reasons.” The directive was clear:
Do not speak to the press.

Matt argued, but the producer’s final words chilled him:
“For your own protection, drop the story.”

5. The Return

Two days later, Matt and Cliff returned to the forest to recover the crashed drone. The air was heavy, the woods too quiet. They found the drone half-buried in mud, casing cracked, propeller missing, but the SD card intact.

Back at the safe house, they played the footage. For 23 seconds, the drone soared over treetops—then something massive broke through the canopy, sprinting upright, arm reaching for the drone. The shape was clear: dark fur, eight feet tall, impossibly fast. The final frame showed its hand inches from the lens before the feed cut to black.

Before they could back up the file, the laptop shut down. The footage was gone. Hours later, a black SUV was parked outside their cabin.

A message appeared on Matt’s phone:
Do not return to the forest.