From the Shadows to the Signal

[tellmethesecrets]

Welcome Red sun

Wow!! I have a desperate desire to hear more from you, I want to know everything about your experiences...in great depth!!

Hope to be hearing lots more from you in the future!

[Redsun2025]

Thank you for the welcome—appreciate the thoughtful response. You clearly get it.
As for the weird stuff… yeah, most of what I’ve seen isn’t something you can prove with a photo or a lab report. It lives in that in-between space—somewhere between memory and myth, and you just know it’s real because you were there. That night in Bald Eagle State Forest still clings to me. A figure with a deer’s head and a man’s body, moving like it knew the land better than I ever could. I didn’t hallucinate it. I didn’t dream it. But trying to explain it? That’s where you lose people. That’s why spaces like this matter—even if all we have is shared language and a willingness to listen.
What you said about ATS rings true. You saw the writing—I walked in while the paint was still drying, then the walls disappeared. I wasn’t there long, but I could tell it was a space in flux. Like the soul had drifted out of the room, and folks were just arguing over what to do with the body. You mentioning a political component? I wouldn’t rule it out. Some doors get shut quietly, with a nod and a handshake behind the curtain.
You're also not alone in getting called a "sheeple" for asking actual questions. There’s something ironic about how the loudest voices in conspiracy circles will turn on you the second you don’t blindly follow their narrative. Questioning the questions? Suddenly you’re the enemy. It's like we swapped critical thinking for tribal performance.
And yeah, the era of wild, unmoderated digital campfires where people spun the weird and wonderful without filters—that might be ending. Algorithms kill nuance. Monetization kills intent. Political pressure ties it all in a bow and calls it “safety.” Meanwhile, real discussion starts to feel like contraband.
But I’m still here. You are too. And if even a few of us stick around and keep telling our stories, maybe the signal doesn’t die. It just changes frequency.



 

Firstly, welcome.

Secondly, please tell us more about your experience. Weird stuff like that often leaves little evidence save in the mind of the experiencer, and without these reports, we can make believe that we understand a universe that we barely even perceive.

Thirdly, with ATS, I saw the writing on the wall, and left voluntarily. I'm also a bit of a cynic and often try to look for alternatives or reasons, and cross check facts for inconsistencies and illogic. It has often left me thinking along the lines of the 'official' narratives rather than falling for what I believe are 'conspirationally gullible' views. This seemed to mark me as a 'sheeple' to those who fall for the emotive appeals and woo woo. LOL. Talk about inversion of reality!

Anyway, I have previously suggested that ATS going offline when it did, might have had a 'politic' component. Definitely, I think that the rise of unmoderated social and conspiracist media is over, and now it is in decline after we have come to realize that people can fictionalize anything there. While there will be social enthusiasts who will carry on with things, I think that the average person won't bother anymore. And definitely, there are political pressures to limit dialogues to those that can be controlled.

[Redsun2025]

Welcome Red sun

Wow!! I have a desperate desire to hear more from you, I want to know everything about your experiences...in great depth!!

Hope to be hearing lots more from you in the future!

One summer, I was camping deep in Bald Eagle State Forest, Pennsylvania. It was a full moon night, the kind that lights up the trees in silver and makes shadows stretch like they’ve got something to say. Around 2 AM, I woke up starving. Got out of my tent, restarted the fire, and sat down in my camping chair with that weird middle-of-the-night quiet all around me.
That’s when I heard it—a soft crunching sound out in the brush. I figured it was a deer, maybe a raccoon, something small moving through the woods. But then I saw it.
It looked like a deer at first, but wrong. It was walking on two legs. Upright. Like a man. The body—torso, arms, legs—it was human. But the head… it was all deer. Massive antlers. Long face. Its eyes had this fiery, unnatural glow. And the way it moved—slow, deliberate—it felt like it knew I was there. Like it had come for me.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. I felt like something had frozen me to the ground. I don’t even remember it getting closer. I just remember the world going dark.
Next thing I knew, the sun was up. I was lying on the cold ground. My coat and pants soaked with morning dew. The fire was out. The chair had toppled over. Everything was quiet again—but not in a peaceful way. It felt like something had passed through.
Back then, I didn’t know what to make of it. I just knew what I saw. But later, talking to others and digging through folklore, I came across the word—Wendigo. A creature from Algonquian legend. A spirit of hunger, isolation, cannibalism, and winter. Tall, emaciated, part-man, part-beast. Antlers. Fire in the eyes. A presence that drains the life out of the woods around it.
I don’t know what it wanted. I don’t even know if it wanted anything. But I know I saw it. And if it wasn’t the Wendigo, then it was something close enough to shake your soul just the same.

[Redsun2025]

Welcome Red sun

Wow!! I have a desperate desire to hear more from you, I want to know everything about your experiences...in great depth!!

Hope to be hearing lots more from you in the future!

 

It was sometime during the COVID years—I couldn’t tell you exactly when. Days blurred together back then, and I wasn’t much for calendars. I was somewhere near Bridgeport, West Virginia, riding a freight train. Not a passenger train, mind you—this was the real deal. A flatcar. Illegally hopped. Wind in my face, steel and iron underneath me, the kind of movement that makes you feel like you're slipping between cracks in the world.
We were moving fast, but not too fast—one of those stretches where the train slows a bit as it passes through the outer edges of town. To my left, maybe 25 or 30 feet away, there was a narrow strip of grass and then a road running parallel to the tracks. I glanced over and saw an old green car. Real vintage. Fins on the back. My first thought was, "Huh, cool classic." Then I saw another. And another. Every car on that road looked like it had been plucked straight out of the 1950s. Chrome, whitewalls, pastel paint jobs.
We started passing behind some houses—small ones with clotheslines and backyards. People were out there, barbecuing, talking, doing normal things. But their clothes didn’t match the world I knew. Women in long dresses, aprons. Men in white T-shirts and slacks, hair slicked back. Kids with wooden toys, not a screen in sight.
Then we passed behind what looked like an old diner. One of those roadside ones with the checkerboard tile and the red stools. And the cars parked out front? All still stuck in the same decade. The people coming and going were dressed to match. Dresses, hats, high-waisted pants. It was like the entire scene had been frozen in time—or maybe time had just never caught up to that stretch of track.
As we crept through the area, I saw a set of red lights flashing at a nearby road crossing. One of those old-school crossbucks with the swinging arm and bell. The cars were stopped, waiting for us to pass. And every single one of them belonged to that same era. Not a single modern vehicle in sight. And the way the people in those cars looked at me… it wasn’t curiosity. It was more like confusion. Like I didn’t belong there. Like they were looking at something out of place, out of time.
Then we hit a patch of trees, and everything changed. The light dimmed a little. The air got thicker. When we came out on the other side, the world felt heavier—chemically, like something industrial was hanging in the wind. I looked to the road again, and this time I saw a modern car—a brand new Toyota—with a woman inside, staring at her phone like she was trying to find something that wasn’t there. Just like that, we were back. The 1950s were gone.
I don’t know what happened. Don’t know how it happened. But I swear, that train rolled through a pocket in time—just a sliver of the past still hanging on, waiting to be seen. And for a minute, I saw it. Or maybe it saw me.