Tracks in the mud this morning — fresh, still holding the shape of the toes without the edges crumbling. Three toes, long and webbed, the skin impressions fine enough to see faint ridges where the webbing stretched between them. Too large for any frog or toad I know — each print nearly the size of my palm, pressed deep as though whatever made them was heavy.
I followed the trail along the bank, weaving through reeds and ducking under low branches. The prints were steady, purposeful — not the erratic pattern of a scavenger searching for food. Something about the stride felt… human. Or at least, humanoId.
Half a mile down, the tracks ended abruptly at the water’s edge, toes pointing outward toward the river. The mud there was churned, as if it had stood for a while before entering the water. I waited for hours in the shade of a leaning sycamore, my eyes fixed on the place where the ripples fanned out and faded. Nothing surfaced. The current moved on as if it had swallowed the trail whole.
That night, the river turned into a whispering presence beside the tent. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, and through it came the sounds — low croaks, slow and deliberate. These croaks had weight. Tone. Intention. I could almost imagine syllables hiding inside the noise, some language I wasn’t meant to understand.
Twice, I could swear the calls were answered from farther downstream — softer, but with the same strange cadence. I stayed awake far longer than I should have, staring into the dark, waiting for something to step out of the water.
The Hidden Ones 
Drop Your Cryptid Clues