Deadmen Valley — Local services in Northwest Territories

When I first heard the eerie legends surrounding Headless Valley, I thought they were nothing but tales meant to scare thrill-seekers and tourists. But standing at the valley's entrance under the dying light of dusk, I felt an unease creep up my spine that no ghost story could justify. I’d never believed in curses or vengeful spirits. But that day, something changed.

I started my hike just before nightfall, wanting the thrill of being surrounded by shadows. As the light disappeared behind the jagged peaks, the world became a twisted version of itself. Every rock seemed to watch me, and every gust of wind carried a strange whisper, words I couldn’t make out but sensed in my bones. I brushed it off as paranoia. After all, I was alone in a place people say should remain untouched.

An hour into the hike, a chill wind blew through the valley, cutting to the bone despite my thick clothing. My flashlight started flickering, but I pressed on. That’s when I saw the first skull. I almost stepped on it, the hollow sockets staring up at me from the tangled roots of a twisted tree. Its jaw was open wide, as if caught in a scream before death. Cold sweat dripped down my face as I tried to process what I was seeing, but before I could think, I noticed another one. And another. They littered the path, some still attached to fragments of spine or ribcage.

My breath turned shallow, and an almost primal panic settled in. The skulls were not old; they were clean, as if recently stripped. And in the moonlight, I saw deep claw marks along some of the bones, scratches that couldn't have been left by animals. No, these marks felt intentional.

The whispers grew louder, forming words this time. I couldn’t understand the language, but the tone was unmistakable—a warning, a threat. The smell of decay filled the air, even though the bodies were long gone. I felt a presence behind me, looming, watching with an intense hatred.

I couldn’t turn back; something wouldn’t let me. I tried to move my feet, to pull myself away from that cursed path, but it was like the valley itself had taken hold of me. I saw shadows slipping between the trees—things with elongated limbs, hollow eyes that glowed in the dark, faces twisted in impossible expressions of rage and agony.

Suddenly, my flashlight died completely, and I was plunged into blackness. All I could hear was my own frantic breathing and the faint scrape of something dragging along the rocks behind me.

I don’t remember how I got out of that valley. I don’t remember running or hearing anything else. All I know is that when I finally reached my car, I had dirt under my nails and dried blood on my hands that wasn’t mine. My clothes were torn, and something wet and foul clung to my skin.

Headless Valley is cursed. I don’t know what I saw that night, and I don’t care to know. All I can say is this: if you ever feel the urge to explore it for yourself, don’t. Some places are better left alone, forgotten to time, buried with the...

I went here to camp with my daughter and the sights were just incredible. However, it wasn’t all smooth sailing. We put our campsite near the river to stay overnight, while leaving our campfire lit as a nightlight, as my daughter gets unsettled easily when it’s dim. At around 1am, my daughter repeatedly tapped my shoulder. I thought she needed to pee, but she told me that the campfire had suddenly stopped burning. I asked her what she meant by that and she said “it just turned off like a light switch”. Apparently she was up all night since lights out as she had a feeling that something was off about the place. She was shaking, eyes wide, breathing heavily. Just when I was about to calm her down, footsteps suddenly came to our tent, circling around. Terrified, I called out “hello”; no response. The footsteps quickly scattered away. I told my daughter to pack her things because there was no chance on hell we were gonna spend the night here after that. As i opened the tent door, I peak out and two human feet were right in front of me. I slowly look up, and see a man, lumberjack shirt, thick brown moustache, hat backwards. Then it clicked, this was Mr Ballen. He happily greeted me and my 68 year old daughter and offered to tell us campfire stories for the night. We agreed and we had the most memorable time under the stars of...

Triable elders warn of this place where the spirits of the past still walk the forest and hunt the living.. Do not enter this valley... Terrible things have been happening for generations and an evil lurks along the river, the woods, and the meadows.. When the forest falls...