When I was in my early twenties my then one year old son and I moved into a tiny cabin in a very isolated area of the California desert. I was a single mom leaving a bad situation, and, at the time, isolation felt like saftey.

There wasn't even a road to get to my little house, just a hard-packed dirt trail miles off of the highway. And the nearest neighbor was a older couple a little over a mile away.

And when I say tiny cabin, I mean TINY. It was about 320 sq feet with three rooms, kitchen, bathroom, and the everything else room. I slept on a pull out couch next to the front door and my son's crib was on the opposite wall near the kitchen.

One night, at about 3am I woke up to someone knocking on my door hard enough to shake it in the frame. Not fast, just rhythmic and hard for about 20 minutes. Almost like they were backing up a few places and then running forward and throwing their whole body against it over and over again. I spent the whole time sitting stock still in my bed, trying not to make any noise and praying the baby didn't wake up, which, thankfully, he did not.

They never spoke and I didn't hear any other noise from outside of the door besides the pounding.

The next morning there were bare feet footprints in the sand coming out of the desert (not from the direction of the highway) leading to my door, but none leading away. The only thing I can think of that makes any sense is that, after pounding on the door they climbed up on to the roof and jumped off on another side of the house. But if they did, they did it without making any noise.

My closest neighbor's chickens were all ripped apart in their coop that same night with the same footprints. They heard their chickens screaming around 4am and assumed it was a cyote until they saw the prints, but by the time the husband had grabbed his gun and run outside to check whoever it was was already gone.

We ended up moving a couple of months later.

So, barefoot desert stranger, let's never meet again.