The jungle breathed. Hot, humid air, thick with the scent of decaying vegetation and something indefinably feral, clung to me like a sticky web. Every rustle, every snap of a twig under the weight of some unseen creature sent my heart hammering against my ribs. I trudged on, sinking into the swampy ground, hacking through thorny vines, driven by a single, obsessive goal – to find them. The monsters whispered about around campfires, the creatures whose names are spoken with trembling voices, the stuff of myth and legend.
The mountains, cold and unforgiving, were my next ordeal. Icy winds lashed at my face, and the crunch of age-old snow echoed beneath my boots. It was at night, when the temperature plummeted and a deathly silence descended, that the true horror began. From the inky blackness came unearthly sounds – a long, drawn-out howl, the scrape of claws on rock, a heavy, ragged breathing. My blood ran cold. Several times I thought I saw them – two burning red eyes staring back at me from the impenetrable darkness. In those moments, I was paralyzed with terror, unable to move, unable even to scream. Fear, cold and viscous, choked the will out of me, constricting my throat in an iron grip.
This was no scientific expedition. It was a descent into the abyss, a journey to the darkest corners of the planet and of the human psyche. I searched for monsters without, but I found them within. This journal is a chronicle of my descent into madness, a testament to the fact that reality is far more terrifying than any fiction. If you dare to read on, be prepared for the line between myth and reality to blur, and for something to stare back at you from the darkness… the eyes… the eyes of things best left unspoken.
The wind, sharp with the scent of pine and the icy breath of Elbrus, whispered ancient tales. It rustled through the gorges, tumbled down the rocky slopes, reaching the ears of shepherds, hunters, and all who dared to listen to the voice of the mountains. One of the most unsettling narratives is the story of the Agach-kishi, the forest people, whose existence is shrouded in a veil of mystery and fear.
They are children of the twilight, born of the age-old forests where sunlight is a rare visitor. Their bodies are covered in thick, matted hair, the color of dried leaves and moss. Their faces, contorted in a grimace of perpetual hunger, vaguely resemble human features, but their bestial nature is evident in their low, sloping foreheads and deep-set eyes, burning with an unsettling fire. A sharp, animalistic odor emanates from them, a smell of wild beast and decaying earth, a smell that, once encountered, is never forgotten.
By day, the Agach-kishi hide in the impenetrable thickets, in the hollows of giant trees, in dark caves where even echoes fear to whisper. But with the onset of night, when the moon carves a silver sickle through the inky blackness, they emerge from their lairs. Hunger drives them towards human settlements. Under cover of darkness, silent as shadows, they steal towards gardens and orchards. And here, a strange, disturbing peculiarity of these creatures manifests itself: they don discarded human clothing. Tattered shirts, worn trousers, hole-ridden shoes – everything that humans have rejected becomes for the Agach-kishi a semblance of a mask, a pathetic parody of humanity. This contrast – the wild, animalistic essence hidden beneath the rags of civilization – evokes a primal terror, chilling the blood in the veins.
The elders say that an encounter with the Agach-kishi is a bad omen. They are the embodiment of wild nature, hostile to humans, a reminder of the ancient, dark forces that lurk in the depths of the mountains. And while no one can say for certain whether these creatures are real or merely a figment of the imagination, the fear of them lives in the hearts of the mountain people, passed down from generation to generation, whispered in hushed tones, accompanied by the howling wind in the mountain gorges. Every rustle in the night’s stillness, every indistinct silhouette in the moonlight, serves as a reminder of them – the Agach-kishi, the forest people, lost between the world of beasts and the world of men.
*****
The wind whipped viciously at my face, carrying shards of icy rain. Mount Elbrus, shrouded in a misty veil, loomed silently above me, like an ancient god indifferent to my paltry search. I had been in these cursed mountains for a week, chasing the phantom hope of finding the Agach-Kishi – a legendary creature, half-man, half-ape, rumored to roam these woods, clad in the tattered remnants of human clothing.
Night fell swiftly, like a predator stalking its prey. I made a small camp at the foot of the mountain, near the edge of the forest. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the tree trunks, transforming them into grotesque monsters. Suddenly, through the crackling flames, I heard it – a low growl that made my hair stand on end. My heart hammered in my chest like a trapped bird. Grabbing my flashlight, I plunged into the woods, the source of the sound drawing me deeper into the trees.
