The Umber Beast

I never thought I’d be writing this down, but after reading so many accounts on this site, I’ve realized that my own experience is worth sharing. It happened when I was seventeen, during the worst winter of my life. My name is Emily, and I grew up in a small town called Hollow Falls, nestled in a valley that seemed to swallow the sun by mid-afternoon. My family had just moved into an old farmhouse on the outskirts, a place with creaking floorboards and drafty windows. I was struggling with things I couldn’t tell anyone, and the isolation made it worse. My parents, in an attempt to cheer me up, got me a dog—a scruffy mutt from the shelter, black as coal, with eyes that seemed to understand everything. I called him Coal.

Coal was my constant companion. He slept on my bed, followed me around the house, and sat with me in the barn while I hid from the world. I told him all my secrets, pouring out my heart to him in the cold, dusty air. I think he knew more than I did. He’d rest his head on my knee and whine softly, as if trying to comfort me.

One evening, deep into February, a storm rolled in with no warning. The power flickered and died, leaving us in darkness. My parents were away for the night, visiting relatives, so I was alone with Coal. I lit candles and settled into the living room, trying to read by the weak light. Coal lay at my feet, ears twitching at every creak of the old house. I remember glancing at the window, seeing my own reflection staring back at me, pale and tired.

Then Coal started growling. It was a low, guttural sound, unlike anything I’d heard from him. His hackles rose, and his eyes fixed on the hallway that led to the back rooms. I froze, my heart thumping. ‘What is it, boy?’ I whispered. He didn’t respond, just kept staring, his body tense. I stood, holding up the candle, and peered into the hallway. Nothing. The yellow glow painted flickering shapes on the walls.

I dismissed it as a mouse or the wind, but Coal wouldn’t calm down. He paced, whining, his claws clicking on the hardwood. Then he suddenly bolted for the kitchen, barking fiercely. I ran after him, my candle nearly blowing out. The kitchen was dark, but the moon through the window cast a pale beam. Coal was at the back door, nose pressed against the crack, growling again. I thought I saw something move outside—a dark shape, large and low to the ground, like a great shadow stretching across the yard. It was there for a second, then gone.

I locked the door, my hands shaking, and tried to coax Coal back to the living room. But he wouldn’t leave the door. He lay down with his body facing it, chin on his paws, eyes wide. I spent the night on the kitchen floor beside him, wrapped in a blanket, listening to the wind howl. I told myself it was just a deer or a neighbor’s dog.

The next morning, the storm had passed, leaving a pristine blanket of snow. But there, in the fresh powder outside the kitchen door, were tracks. They weren’t like any animal I’d seen—large, with long, thin toes that left no claw marks, and they led from the edge of the forest to the door, then circled the house. I took a video on my phone, but it was just a blurry mess. I didn’t show anyone.

Over the following weeks, I noticed Coal changing. He became skittish at night, refusing to go outside after dark, whining at the back door as if begging me to stay inside. He also started staring at the corner of my room, at the ceiling, at places where there was nothing. Once, I woke at 3 a.m. to find him standing on my bed, facing the window, growling at something in the yard. I looked, but saw only darkness.

One night, I had a terrible nightmare. I was in the barn, surrounded by bales of hay, and a huge, black beast with red eyes was slinking between them, its breath like ice. I couldn’t move. I felt its gaze on me, and it spoke in a voice that rattled my bones: ‘You are not alone.’ I woke up screaming. Coal was there, licking my tears, but he was trembling.

I started to feel like I was being watched. Not by a person, but by something formless, always at the edge of my vision. In the mirror, I’d catch a dark blur behind my shoulder. In the corner of my eye, a shape would slide behind a door. It was worse when I was alone with my thoughts, sinking into the depression that had been my silent companion. I began to wonder if I was going crazy.

Then, one afternoon, I came home from school to find Coal dead. He was lying in the middle of the living room floor, perfectly still, but there was no blood, no sign of struggle. He looked peaceful, almost as if he’d fallen asleep, but his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. I fell to my knees and wept, clutching his limp body. I felt a cold presence in the room, and when I looked up, I saw it for the first time.

It was in the corner, a shadow that was deeper than the surrounding darkness. It had the shape of a tall, lanky creature with elongated limbs, and its head tilted as if observing me. It exuded a cold that seeped into my bones, and I felt a wave of despair wash over me, stronger than any I’d felt before. I knew without a doubt that it had taken Coal, and that it was feeding on my sadness.

With all the strength I had, I screamed at it. ‘Get out! Leave me alone!’ The shadow recoiled, as if surprised, and then it shifted, flowing into the hallway, and was gone. I was left with the body of my only friend, and a feeling that something had been permanently changed in me.

After that, I refused to be broken. I started talking to a therapist, telling my parents about my struggles, and slowly, the darkness began to lift. But I never forgot the shadow beast. I researched, not finding much, but I learned that such entities are rumored to attach themselves to those in emotional turmoil, feeding on their despair. They are like umbers, ancient and patient.

I now believe that Coal was my shield, and that he sacrificed himself to drive it away. I haven’t seen it since, but sometimes, on the coldest nights, when I’m walking alone and the wind whistles, I feel a prickle at the back of my neck, and I know it’s still out there, waiting for another opening. And I wonder, if I ever sink back into that misery, will it return for me? I guess that’s why I’m sharing this now. Maybe someone else has seen it too, and maybe we can warn each other. Keep your heart light, and your dog close.