Woke to the sound of something heavy moving just outside the tent. Not the shuffling, curious steps of a raccoon — this was slow, deliberate, and accompanied by the wet suction of feet pulling free from mud. By the time I unzipped the flap, the bank was empty, the only motion the rain dimpling the river.
But the mud told a different story. Three deep impressions led up from the water and stopped a few feet from where I slept. The prints faced the tent directly, toes splayed as if it had been standing there, watching.
Near the firepit, I found something else — a smear of thick, translucent slime clinging to the overturned skillet. It smelled faintly of algae and something metallic, almost like blood. I scraped a sample into a container, making a mental note to keep it sealed tight.
That night, I set the recorder outside with a fresh battery, its red light winking fAintly in the dark. I kept the tent light off, letting my eyes adjust until the outlines of the riverbank melted into the black. The rain fell in a steady, whispering curtain, masking smaller sounds, and the cold settled into my bones.
Hours passed in a slow, heavy crawl. I must have drifted toward sleep when it came — a low, bubbling croak that slid through the rain like something alive. It was close enough to raise the hairs along my arms, deep enough to vibrate in my chest.
And this time, it didn’t come from the river.
It came from the treeline behind my camp.
The sound pulsed again, louder, wet and guttural, as if the throat making it was thick with water. My hand found the flashlight, but I didn’t switch it on. I listened. The rain softened for a heartbeat, and I caught another sound under the croak — a dragging step, followed by the slow suck of mud pulling loose.
waited for it to move away.
It didn’t.
Finally, I clicked on the flashlight and swung the beam toward the sound. Nothing. Just the pale trunks of sycamores, slick with rain, their bark shining like bone. The beam cut through the mist in thin, wavering lines, catching only the slow drift of raindrops.
I was about to lower the light when something shifted in the farthest edge of its reach — not movement exactly, more like the suggestion of movement. A ripple across a shadow that shouldn’t have been there.
I swept the beam back, but the space was empty. No prints. No glint of eyes. Only the faint, rhythmic drip of water from the branches above.
And then… a single croak. Low, deliberate, from somewhere deeper in the trees. Followed by silence so complete the rain seemed to fade into the background.
I left the recorder running outside and didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
The Hidden Ones 
Drop Your Cryptid Clues