Something… tall, shifting, almost fluid. Like a silhouette made of smoke but wrapped in tendrils of light.
The cameraman whispered shakily:
“It waits for the ones who hesitate…”
The same words the stranger had said.
The video cut abruptly. A black screen. Then the final frame appeared:
“URGENT MESSAGES SAVE TEAMS.
SILENCE DESTROYS THEM.”
It was impossible to connect this directly to the Cowboys—but impossible to dismiss, either. Who sent it? Why to me? And why now, just as Dallas was rediscovering itself?
I downloaded the video, replayed it twice, then did something I never thought I would: I called the Cowboys’ PR director.
“Is this some early April Fool’s thing? A marketing viral?” I asked.
A long pause.
“No,” he said, voice tightening. “And don’t show it to any players.”
I asked why.
He hung up.
II. THE PRACTICE FIELD INCIDENT
Two days later, during an open practice, a sudden gust of wind slammed into the field—so powerful it knocked down a Gatorade banner and sent papers flying off media tables. The players paused for a moment, confused. Prescott shielded his eyes, looking up at a sky that moments earlier had been cloudless.
Lamb jogged toward the sideline, placing a hand on the metal railing to steady himself.
“That wind came out of nowhere,” he muttered. “Felt… heavy.”
“Storm front?” I asked a nearby staffer.
He shook his head. “Radar’s clear.”
But here’s what unsettled me:
The gust came from the north, the direction of the forest where the stranger appeared.
Just a coincidence, surely.
Except I didn’t believe in coincidence anymore.
III. DAK PRESCOTT SEES SOMETHING
I didn’t plan to bring any of this up to Dak. I intended to keep my professional life and my bizarre forest experience separate. But fate intervened.
I arrived early at the facility one morning—earlier than most reporters. The practice field was empty except for Prescott, who was seated alone on the bench, staring toward the tree line behind the indoor training center.
I approached quietly.
He didn’t look away.
“You ever feel like something’s watching you?” he asked, without turning his head.
My chest tightened.
“Watching?” I repeated carefully. “Like fans? Media? Critics?”
He shook his head slowly.
“No. Not that.”
A pause.
“Something else. I see it when the pressure builds. Like it’s waiting to see if I’ll fold.”
I said nothing.
Dak finally turned to me, expression unreadable.
“You ever feel that?”
A moment too long passed before I lied: “No.”
Prescott nodded, accepting the answer but not believing it.
Before I could walk away, he added:
“I’m not scared of it. Pressure’s part of this job. But if something out there wants to test us… good. Let it.”
He said “something,” not “someone.”
He felt it too.
IV. THE MESSAGE INSIDE THE LOCKER ROOM
After a statement win that pushed the Cowboys back into playoff contention, something strange happened inside the locker room. Reporters were gathering quotes; players were celebrating; music was thumping.
Then the lights flickered.
Just once.
Barely noticeable.
But enough that several players looked up.
A few seconds later, the lights flickered again—this time longer. The music cut out. The room dimmed, then brightened.
A rookie linebacker muttered, “Nah, no way. Not again.”
“Again?” I asked.
He looked around nervously, then whispered:
“Lights been acting weird every time tension gets high. Coach says it’s wiring. I say it ain’t wiring.”
“What do you think it is?”
He swallowed.
“Something that shows up when we hesitate.”
The exact words from the stranger. The video. Prescott. The rookie.
This wasn’t one man’s hallucination.
It was a pattern.
V. I SHOW LAMB THE VIDEO
I broke the rule.
I showed CeeDee Lamb the forest video.
We sat in a quiet media room after practice. He watched the footage in complete stillness, elbows on knees, face blank except for a subtle tightening around his jaw.
When the creature-like silhouette appeared, Lamb leaned closer.
When the whisper came—*“It waits for the ones who hesitate”—*he exhaled sharply.
And when the final text flashed—“Urgent messages save teams. Silence destroys them”—Lamb closed his eyes for a long moment.
Finally, he said, “That’s exactly why I spoke up.”
“You believe this is real?” I asked.
He turned to me.
“I don’t know what’s in that forest. But I know what’s hunting teams in this league. It’s hesitation. It’s fear. It’s waiting too long to act. If that thing is real, then it’s a metaphor made physical.”
Then he added, voice low:
“And metaphors don’t scare me.”
“What does?”
“Wasted potential.”
I remembered the carved words on the tree:
DON’T WAIT.
VI. THE STRANGER RETURNS
It was close to midnight when I received a text from an unknown number:
“Come to the trail. Alone.”
No GPS, no details, just instinctive dread.
I considered ignoring it.
I considered going to police.
But I went.
The forest air was thick and cold. The moonlight struggled through the canopy, the same way it had on the night of the first encounter.
He stepped out from behind a tree—the stranger. His clothes were different, but his eyes still carried that tremor of someone who had seen too much.
“You didn’t listen,” he said.
“I listened,” I protested. “But your message—why me? Why the Cowboys?”
He shook his head.
“It wasn’t my message. I’m just the messenger. It watches teams. It feeds on hesitation. It grows when leaders stay silent.”
A chill crawled down my spine.
“What is it?”
His voice cracked:
“A reminder. A warning. A thing that exists wherever pressure gathers.”
“Is it dangerous?”
He looked past me, toward the deeper part of the woods.
“Only to those who deny it.”
Before I could ask more, he pressed something into my hand—a small metal device, cold and jagged, almost like a broken compass but with symbols instead of numbers.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“When the time comes,” he said, “you’ll point it toward the truth. And you’ll see it clearly.”
The trees behind him began to sway again—without wind.
He backed away.
“Tell Prescott: His window is closing. The creature knows. And it’s moving.”
Then he vanished into the dark.
