The desert night around Black Mesa was still too still. The kind of silence that presses against your ears and makes you aware of your own heartbeat. Officer Maria Yazzie of the Navajo Nation Police had driven these roads her entire life, first as a child beside her grandmother, then as a rookie learning the sprawling reservation’s hidden corners, and now as a veteran officer who knew every wash, every mesa, every unmarked turnoff by heart.
But that night, even the stars seemed to hold their breath.
A call had come in just before midnight, crackling through her radio as she finished paperwork at the station in Tuba City. A stranded car on Route 64, near the canyon rim where the land drops away into shadow and stone. Routine, she thought, grabbing her keys and her flashlight. Probably tourists who’d taken a wrong turn or locals with a dead battery.
Explore Native American beings, swamp creatures, and modern cryptid sightings across the country.
The drive took twenty minutes through darkness so complete it felt like moving through ink. Her headlights carved a narrow tunnel through the night, catching the occasional reflection of a jackrabbit’s eyes or the skeletal shape of a juniper tree twisted by wind and time.
When she arrived at the coordinates, her stomach tightened.
The car was there, all right, a dusty white sedan idling softly, its driver’s door hanging open like a broken wing. The keys were still in the ignition, the engine running, the headlights cutting two pale beams into the empty desert. But no one was inside. No blood, no signs of struggle. Just an abandoned vehicle humming to itself in the dark.
Maria stepped out of her patrol vehicle, her hand instinctively resting on her service weapon. The air smelled of creosote and dust, but underneath it was something else, something sharper, like burnt hair or scorched hide.
She circled the car slowly, her flashlight sweeping the ground. That’s when she found them: footprints leading away from the road, heading toward a cluster of sandstone formations about fifty yards out.
The footprints started human, clear boot treads, a man’s size ten or eleven. She followed them carefully, her beam tracing each impression in the soft sand. But after only a few yards, they began to change.
The stride lengthened. The toes grew longer, the spacing wider, the depth uneven. Within ten feet, they no longer looked like boots at all. They looked like paws, large, clawed, dragging slightly as if the walker moved on all fours.
Maria’s breath caught. Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her mind, words spoken by firelight when she was a girl: “There are things that walk these lands wearing skins that aren’t theirs. They are not to be named, not to be sought. If you see one, you turn away. You do not engage.”
But she was a police officer. Someone might be hurt. She kept walking.
The desert around her seemed to grow darker, the stars dimming as if a veil had been drawn across the sky. Somewhere ahead, beyond the reach of her flashlight, came the sound of breathing—slow, heavy, deliberate.
Then, cutting through the silence like a blade, came her name.
“Maria…”
She froze, every muscle in her body tensing. The voice was hers exact in pitch, tone, cadence. It was as if she were hearing a recording of herself calling out from the darkness.
Her grandmother’s words returned with fresh urgency: “When you hear your name in the dark, don’t answer. The one calling isn’t human. It’s trying to pull you closer, to make you respond, to claim a piece of your spirit.”
Maria’s flashlight flickered once, twice. In that stuttering light, she saw it.
A hunched shape crouched by the rocks, impossibly thin, all angles and shadows. It was wrapped in the ragged hide of a coyote, the fur matted and torn, the head lolling to one side like a grotesque mask. Beneath the pelt, she could see pale, emaciated limbs, too long, too bent. Its face was almost human, but wrong in ways that made her stomach turn. The features were stretched, the mouth too wide, the teeth too sharp.
And its eyes gleamed the color of old copper in the beam of her flashlight, reflecting light like an animal’s but holding an intelligence that was disturbingly aware.
“Stay where you are!” she shouted, her voice steady despite the terror clawing at her chest. She drew her weapon, the weight of it grounding her, reminding her she was still an officer, still in control.
The thing tilted its head slowly, almost curiously. Then it grinned, a horrible, stretching grin that showed too many teeth and repeated her words back to her in the exact tone of her voice.
“Stay where you are.”
Maria fired once. The crack of the gunshot shattered the silence, echoing across the canyon like thunder. The creature screamed, a sound that was neither human nor animal, but something caught between, something full of rage and pain and hunger. It twisted away, its movements jerky and unnatural, and vanished into the darkness beyond the rocks.
She stood there, her gun still raised, her breath coming in sharp gasps. The desert was silent again. Too silent.
When backup arrived twenty minutes later two officers from Kayenta who’d been patrolling nearby there were no tracks beyond where she’d stood. No blood, no torn hide, no evidence of anything. Just the lingering smell of burnt dust and the stranded car, still idling as if nothing had happened.
Officially, it was logged as “animal activity, possibly coyote.” The car’s owner was never found.
But Maria knew better.
The next morning, before dawn had fully broken, she drove to her grandmother’s hogan on the eastern edge of the reservation. She didn’t call ahead. She didn’t need to.
Her grandmother was already outside, standing on the wooden porch, burning cedar and sage in an abalone shell. The smoke rose in thin, fragrant spirals, carrying prayers to the four directions.
“You saw one,” the old woman said softly, not looking up. “A Yenaldlooshi. A Skinwalker.”
Maria nodded, her throat tight. She couldn’t speak.
Her grandmother turned to her, dark eyes full of ancient knowing. “Don’t speak its name again. It remembers who you are now. It heard your voice, saw your face. Cover your mirrors. Say the protection prayers. And stay out of the desert at night.”
Maria nodded again, silent. That night, she covered every reflective surface in her home mirrors, windows, even the screen of her phone. She whispered the prayers in Diné that her grandmother had taught her, words older than memory, words meant to keep the darkness at bay.
Far off in the desert, as the moon climbed high and cold, a coyote howled long, mournful, and alone.
Then another voice joined in, almost human, calling her name across the empty miles.
She did not answer.
Click to read all American Cryptids & Monsters — creatures of mystery and fear said to inhabit America’s wild landscapes.
The Moral of the Story
This story teaches the importance of respecting cultural warnings and the boundaries between the known and the unknown. Maria’s encounter with the Skinwalker reminds us that not every mystery needs to be solved, and not every darkness should be pursued. Some dangers are beyond the reach of modern tools and logic, requiring instead the wisdom of tradition, the protection of ritual, and the courage to acknowledge that there are forces in the world we cannot fully control or understand.
Knowledge Check
Q1: Who is Maria Yazzie in the story?
A: Maria Yazzie is a veteran officer with the Navajo Nation Police who patrols the roads around Black Mesa, Arizona. Raised by her grandmother with knowledge of traditional Navajo beliefs, she finds herself caught between her duty as a law enforcement officer and the ancient warnings about supernatural dangers.
Q2: What is a Skinwalker in Navajo culture?
A: A Skinwalker, or Yenaldlooshi in the Navajo language, is a malevolent witch or shape-shifter who wears the hide of an animal (often a coyote or wolf) and takes on its form. In Navajo tradition, these beings are considered deeply taboo and dangerous, capable of mimicking human voices and causing harm to those who encounter them.
Q3: What evidence suggests Maria encountered a Skinwalker?
A: The evidence includes the transformation of human footprints into animal paw prints, the creature’s ability to perfectly mimic Maria’s voice, its appearance wearing a coyote hide with an almost-human face, its copper-colored reflective eyes, and its unnatural scream when shot. The lack of tracks or blood afterward further suggests a supernatural encounter.
Q4: Why is it significant that the creature called Maria’s name?
A: In Navajo tradition, a Skinwalker calling your name is an attempt to gain power over you by drawing you closer and claiming part of your spirit. Maria’s grandmother had warned her never to answer when hearing her name in the dark, as responding gives the entity a connection to you.
Q5: What protective measures does Maria take after the encounter?
A: Following her grandmother’s guidance, Maria covers all mirrors and reflective surfaces in her home to prevent the Skinwalker from seeing or finding her through them. She also recites traditional Navajo protection prayers in the Diné language and avoids traveling alone in the desert at night.
Q6: Why doesn’t Maria officially report what she truly encountered?
A: The incident is logged as “animal activity” because supernatural encounters cannot be documented in official police reports. Additionally, Navajo cultural protocols discourage openly discussing or naming Skinwalkers, as speaking of them can attract their attention or give them power. Maria respects both professional constraints and cultural wisdom by remaining silent.
Cultural Origin: This story is rooted in the traditional beliefs of the Navajo (Diné) people of the American Southwest, particularly the Four Corners region including Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and Colorado. The Skinwalker legend is one of the most significant and respected taboos in Navajo culture, representing the dangers of witchcraft and the violation of natural and spiritual laws. Black Mesa and the surrounding reservation lands are actual locations
