This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Middle_Eye882 on 2026-08-18 20:23:14+00:00.

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For obvious reasons, including job security, I can’t tell you my real name or what state park I work at, but what I can tell you is that the land we’re on has seen some shit. The site itself has native history dating all the way back to the early 13th century, a Spanish mission by the 16th, a fort that mysteriously burned down in the 18th century, and a milling industry that came to a screeching halt in the 1920s after several men from the site started disappearing. The area it’s settled in is a no-name town on the Eastern coast of the US, and its roots go back to the 1730s.

The point is, its old and it’s seen a lot. From massacres to burnings, wars to local murders, blood has been spilled here more than a few times and continues to be. There are things here in this town that don’t make sense, and most of them seem to concentrate around my place of work.

I’d like to go ahead and say that despite that description, I love my job. I love history and I love teaching people about it. I used to be a teacher, and when I was younger I had hoped that profession would fulfill that itch. Safe to say, it didn’t. I quit after three years.  Middle schoolers suck and their parents are even worse. I was getting angry emails every other week about teaching topics that “weren’t appropriate” for their little Billy. I mean, God forbid I follow the state standards and teach a 13 year old about the horrors of slavery in the US. Meanwhile, little Billy is vaping in the bathroom during lunch and calling the special needs kids slurs.

Compared to all of that, working outdoors in the heat and changing air filters is a vacation enough. I get to have conversations with people here who are actually interested in history and I even reenact out here for special events. It’s honestly a dream come true in that regard, but the occasional bumps in the night sometimes leave me questioning whether or not I have the nerve to work in this town.

There have been small things here and there. Shapes in the corner of my vision, noises that could be owls but have the slightest uncanny element to them, that kind of stuff.  However, every once in a while, something dangerous or really messed up happens, and we’re all left scratching our heads.

A recent tragedy in the township resulted in the loss of a good friend of mine and has left me with a desire to record it all. He always told me to “write a book or something”, and I guess this is the “something,” I can muster.

This is for you, Lenny. I hope you’re better off, wherever you are, and safer than any of us in this quiet little town. I miss you.

It’s a big site with a lot of ground to cover and even more events, so I’ll start off small and try and work my way up from there.

Here’s one:

When I first started, I was cleaning the blacksmith display and went around the corner of the structure to get something. I distinctly remember hearing the sound of a hammer striking the anvil several times. I came back, ready to tell off the jackass teens who were more than likely screwing around, but found no one. There wasn’t time or room to hide before my arrival, but everything was empty nonetheless. The only thing I found was a piece of iron, struck flat on one end, and a small hammer resting on the anvil’s face. A hammer that I had put away in a locked tool box moments before. A box that, by all inspection, was still locked. I had the only key. I ended up blaming it on my heat-addled mind, and went about my day. I double checked with my co-worker at  the front desk of the welcome center and she firmly assured me that no one had come into the park yet, and that none of the other rangers were scheduled on site that day.

Things got much weirder after that.

My first full year in, we got a series of complaints, all stating that a “half-naked lunatic” was running around on the hiking trails, shouting and chasing travelers who were out alone. It happened on three separate occasions, and each time, we called the cops. It’s not the largest property in the world, but it’s large enough that it’s a pain in the ass to search. Every time the cops did a sweep, nothing turned up. The last time it happened, they took a boat up the river the site sat on, blaring sirens and using that stupid microphone speaker to try and spook something out of hiding along the river brush. Once again, they’d found nothing and finally lost their patience with us.

“Look,’ the sheriff told us, “clearly you got some pranksters out here trying to make some spooky video or something for the ‘youtubes’.” (I swear to God that’s how he said it.) “Unless someone ends up bleeding or- God forbid- if you see something yourself, please refrain from calling us.”

My boss gave them a curt response and let them head out, but he pulled me aside not long after they left.

“Have we had any reenactors out recently?” he asked.

“Not that I’m aware,” I said. “Why?”

My boss went quiet and replied with something I didn’t expect. “Read up on your local history and start doing some regular walks down the nature trails. Make sure your radio is on. Understood?” I nodded but I didn’t understand a word. If he sensed my confusion, I couldn’t tell. He only bit his lip and sighed. “Close off the paths to visitors, for the week. Still patrol, but make sure no one else goes out there.” He tucked his black hair into his ball cap. “I gotta call the Nation.”

I don’t know if I was supposed to hear that part, but regardless, I knew it was some serious shit. The “Nation” he was referring to was the center for native affairs and tribal government. The indigenous people of the site were the ancestors of the modern Muscogee tribe, though they long predated them. My boss, Henry, was a member of the tribe, though contact and collaboration was difficult. Due to that son of a bitch Andrew Jackson, they and several other tribes had long since marched the trail of tears and resettled in Oklahoma. We get ambassadors and native historians from time to time who work with the site to promote and preserve the indigenous culture of the site, but I had no idea why on earth Henry would contact them about this. Henry wouldn’t elaborate either, but I really didn’t want to pry.

Then came the dead gator.

A few days after that last incident with the man in the woods, a guest ran up to me screaming that something was wrong and I had to come quickly. I tried to calm them down, but they were near hysterical, saying:

“Sweet God they killed it! They killed a gator near the pond! They killed it!”

No matter what park you’re in- at least on the state level- this is a serious offense. A federal one, in fact, and one that could land you behind bars for a hot minute. All animals are protected from hunting and violence by law, so any intentional harming of a critter on state property is prosecuted. Sometimes we get cruel teenagers trying  to stomp a snake to death or we deal with some dumbass campers shooting at birds overhead. Satisfyingly, eight out of ten of those cases end up with a ride in a squad car. This case, however, ended up being much different.

The gator was lying belly up on the side of the hill overlooking the pond, red blood oozing from the several cuts and slashes on its belly. What I could only assume was a sharpened stick was speared right down the poor things open mouth, shish-kebobing it. Its guts were spilling out of it and there were so many cuts, I couldn’t even attempt a definite count of the wounds. I radioed in for Henry and he called the police, but while I waited, I noticed something in the cuts.

For some reason, little pieces of glittering stone were littered around the tissue in various places. They were very small, and thin, almost like slivers of glass. I tried to examine it more, but Henry pulled me away. We needed to wait for the cops and a DNR rep to respond before we could do anything about the body. He told me to close off the nearby walkway and redirect any nosy visitors.

As I was walking away, though, I could’ve sworn I heard him say something to himself.

“Just like they did it…” he muttered.

I didn’t get much out of him after the fact. To this day its still one of the most gruesome things I’ve ever seen happen to an animal. But, like all things, the grind of work makes even serious issues distant memories over time.

At the end of that month, we’d thankfully gone a week and a half without any further incident, and programming proceeded as normal. One of my favorite parts of the job is reenacting and living history, and thankfully, to take my mind off all the craziness, we had a small event planned. We set up an encampment and portrayed the Spanish and French explorers who traveled and settled through the region. I was dressed up like a renaissance explorer and got to demonstrate how matchlock guns fired. It was honestly a great program besides what happened after.

We were shutting down around four that day and I was walking my gear to my car when I saw a flash of movement in the treeline near a forking nature path. At first I thought my eyes were messing with me, but sure enough I was looking at the shape of a lean tall man running off into brush. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I radioed in that someone was still in the park and that I was investigating. Henry told me to wait, but curiosity had already taken hold of me. So off I went, carrying a 16th century replica gun, dressed like Shakespeare, and chasing down t...

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