Sometimes I heard them at night.

The sounds they made as they moved between the houses would wake me.

I would lie there, paralyzed, held under the weight of their presence until they were gone.

Then I would go back to sleep and forget about it as if it had never happened.

Sometimes I dreamt of a ringing phone.

It's called the Alaskan Triangle, a huge area of wilderness within the 3 points of Barrow, Anchorage and Juneau. The missing person rate is more than double the national average, with 17000 people going missing in the last 30 years.

When I went there I intended to stay less than a week.

I didn't come back for 10 years.

My family reported me missing but it was hopeless. I had been both arrogant and careless in my travel plans. I didn't stay in regular touch with anyone, didn't leave a detailed itinerary. I doubt they would have found me anyway, tucked away in a forest valley miles from any road.

A Canadian journalist is writing a novel about what happened in that place, including my time there. Her name is Lauren Roberts and the book is called "The Black River Cult."

I haven't read any of it yet but I can tell you one thing for certain. It's not the truth. Because I'm the only one who knows that.

I don't really want to talk about my life before, or my family. I will do so only if it's relevant. This all started for me in 1991. I was 22 and in college studying cinematography. In truth there was not enough studying and too much partying. Despite my mounting academic failures I did exhibit a genuine talent for photography. It was the one thing I could always find time for.

So, perhaps unsurprisingly, my finest achievement stemmed from it. Whilst taking pictures of birds in an abandoned factory, I had the idea for my first and only publication. It was a collection of photographs of American ghost towns. The shots of each location were accompanied by a brief history of the site and any particularly interesting local tales. It became a surprise hit and was successful enough to buy me time and expenses for a sequel.

I dropped out of college without a second thought to work on it full time. I decided to expand the scope to include both north and south america, featuring less locations with more detail on each. I was ambitious, full of ideas and energy. I was also stupid, selfish and ignorant.

Within a month I had been shot at in Columbia, hospitalized for illness in Brazil and failed to even find my target in Mexico. My fourth location was to be a site in Alaska.

I still lived in Seattle after going to school there, so I thought I'd take the scenic route and drive myself. I spent a beautiful couple of weeks passing through Vancouver and British Columbia on the way to Anchorage. Listening to music and watching those sunsets.

I was as happy as I'd ever been in my life but didn't realize it at the time. We never do, do we? That's when you're truly happy, I think. When you are chasing what you want.

So on I went. I was searching for an abandoned mining town in the south of the Brooks range, a site that should have been untouched by humans for 80 years.

Rather predictably, I got lost. I ended up driving in the dark, which I had promised myself I wouldn't do, trying to read a map by torchlight. What an idiot.

At daybreak, through binoculars, I spotted what I believed was my destination. I could see a gated up tunnel entrance and some old fencing on a distant mountainside. I set off full of relief and promptly managed to get lost again. Thankfully I was in no rush, at that time of year sunset wasn't until after 11pm.

In the end I never even made it there. Because I found something else.

There had been no sign of the place until I was almost on top of it. Exploring a sideroad (which was little more than a worn path) in hope of a shortcut I caught sight of something through the trees.

It was a church, surrounded by half a dozen smaller houses. It looked decades old but I couldn't give an age with any degree of certainty. Every building was badly weathered, paint stripped from rotting wood, doors and windows mostly gone. Two of the homes had collapsed completely. The church itself was a simple cross design, I'd estimate only 20 metres or so in length with a 10 metre tower. The entire area was flooded with dark, still water which averaged a foot or so depth around the buildings. Elsewhere it was impossible to tell. Past the town I could see a shallow river, the water strangely black from whatever it was carrying out of the hills. There were no signs of any people, vehicles or animals.

A piece of history, frozen in time, held still in an ink dark pool.

I was delighted. This was even better than what I had planned.

With a smile I exited the car and took a deep breath of the crisp air, marveling at my discovery. I remember thinking as I stood there, how many sites like this were there in the world? Afterimages of life, places that people never even lay eyes on for decades at a time. Who even founded this place? Where did they go?

I had a routine for work and got straight into it. As well as my camera equipment I had, for the first time in my life, a loaded gun. As unlikely as it was that I would encounter wolves, it was still a possibility. Buying and learning to use a gun was about the only sensible thing I actually done before leaving.

If I recall correctly, I began by taking some distance shots, working my way back in from the road. I wanted to record how I had discovered the place. Then several wide shots, taking in the entire site in a single frame.

The silence of the area struck me as much as anything. I was in the wilderness yet it was deathly quiet. I never saw an animal, not so much as a rabbit or a bird. There was barely a breeze and the water was still as black glass.

I photographed the river, then the surrounding valley. It was thickly forested on all sides, which kept the old buildings in almost constant shade. While taking these pictures I realized just how difficult this place would be to find, even from the air. No wonder I had never heard of it.

I worked for a couple of hours, trying to get the best angles with the changing light, even wading through the water for better spots. It was at least knee deep in most places and bitterly cold. On one occasion I actually had to break some ice to plant my feet.

I remember I was at the front of the church, a few feet out into the water, when I heard it.

Something moving. There was a crack like a piece of wood being snapped, then a splash. I saw ripples on the surface come out from behind the church.

I stood there, frozen to the spot. I even held my breath in the silence.

There was nothing more. No sound or sign of movement.

This was stupid, I told myself. It was an old building, things fall apart. Maybe a nesting bird knocking something over, though I hadn't seen any yet.

I waited, quiet and stationary, for another minute or so.

Nothing.

I took a long look around. Not a thing had changed except my car now looked uncomfortably far away. I had considered moving it in closer but was afraid of getting stuck in mud.

I shook myself, irritated by my own reaction. I was being a spineless fool, I thought. A bit of wood falls and suddenly I'm terrified? I had work to do.

More than anything I wanted to shoot inside the church. I could see only a little through the missing front doors which wasn't nearly enough. I couldn't help myself. I knew I would regret it forever if I didn't at least try. The pictures from outside were good but I wanted to capture peoples imaginations, and for that I needed to see inside.

So I moved forward again, one shuffled step at a time. The depth of the water stayed consistent and there were no ripples but the ones I made myself.

It took a few minutes but I reached the doorframe and hauled myself through.

It wasn't what I had expected. The floor of the main hall had been almost completely torn up, leaving only a few feet of floorboard around the edges. Where the floor had been was only black water, as still as it was outside. The remains of a pew floated on the surface. What had been the pulpit leaned broken over the pool, as if ready to tumble in itself.

What had happened here? An earthquake? I looked for a stable piece of flooring, then started to edge my way around against the wall.

The wood beneath me collapsed. It felt instantaneous, the water suddenly all around me, in my mouth, crushing me in its grasp as I sank. My feet never touched the bottom so I'll never know how deep it really was. It couldn't have lasted more than 30 seconds but it still shakes me to recall. The adrenaline, the stinging cold, that rush of panic that shuts out the world. I managed to kick and claw my way back to the surface then, gasping for air, drag myself onto the nearest piece of flooring.

I was soaked through and shaking uncontrollably. I had lost my gun, lost a boot and cut my forearm which was now dripping blood. To top it all the doorway was now out of reach on the other side of the hall, unless I wanted to go back in the water. At least my camera was waterproof.

I was furious with myself. In all honesty it makes me angry even now just writing it down. Stupid stupid stupid. What had I been thinking? What had possessed me to take such an idiotic and pointless risk? Now I only had a few hours till sunset and the temperature was plummeting.

But I was safe, I told myself, in an effort to calm down. No broken bones, no serious wounds, no ongoing danger. I just had to work my way back to the car and I would be fine. It was an accident, nothing more.

Eventually I managed to prise out a loose windowframe and clambered through. My prayers were answered and there was a shallower area leading to drier land, although not in the direction I wanted. Still, I had no choice.

I wanted away from that water and back to my car. The sun was going down. I was shivering with cold and despite my best efforts beginning to panic.

I finally made it out of the water but now I was on the opposite side from my vehicle. I was looking for a route back to it when I saw the path, clearly worn in the grass. It led into the foothills, following the river.

Animals maybe, I told myself. Maybe not.

I had started to cough, a strange taste in my mouth from the water I had swallowed. I went a little up the path, hoping it might fork off around the buildings. The coughing continued, so hard it made me dizzy. I walked further, getting out of sight of my car. I wasn't thinking clearly, I can see that now.

That's when I saw people, further up the hillside. Watching me.

I stumbled, trying to shout for help but I couldn't get the words out.

I was struggling for breath. Despite the cold I could feel myself sweating heavily, my chest burning and head spinning.

I must have passed out because that's the last thing I remember.

What followed will be incredibly difficult to explain.

In the 10 years after discovering the church my memories are both vague and sporadic. The order of events and time between is unclear, like trying to recall things from preschool age.

I was living in a village with approximately 30 others, an hours walk from the abandoned church. I have no recollection of travelling there, or agreeing to stay. In my last clear memory I am coughing, retching, desperate. In the next I am a villager in a concealed settlement in the hills. I have a daily routine I follow and I have no intention of ever leaving. I had become a completely different person but seemed unaware of the change.

It is more like remembering a film than my own life. The memories of those years are all surface, no layers or nuance to the thoughts. I was myself but not myself. As if parts of me were ... missing, or sealed away. The closest analogy would be sleepwalking, but in truth it wasn't like that at all.

There were rare clear images.

Occasionally something would upset me but the feelings would be quickly pushed away and I would return to passivity. These moments seemed to stay with me for some reason, as unpleasant as they were.

An example. I remember once watching the pigs we kept as they ate and slept in their pen. One was to be slaughtered that night. Watching them filled me with a sickening dread yet I had no idea why.

I should describe life there I think, before I go any further. How I spent the decade.

There were 6 homes in two rows of 3, well concealed in the thick forest. I'm using the term "homes" quite loosely here. I've seen tents that were more complex. Two doors (one front and one rear), two floors with no further segregation of rooms, no windows or running water. They would actually be better described as shelters.

One of them had 6 wooden cots downstairs but otherwise we slept on blankets on the floor.

There were some vehicles there of varying ages and conditions. I never saw any used for any purpose.

We had pigs the first few years I was there but they didn't last. We foraged for food, hunted and fished in the surrounding area. What we caught was cooked over an open fire.

The black river ran past us a few minutes walk away. Once a week, at daybreak, we went together down to the church. In silence we would line up and kneel at the waters edge. Usually this lasted only a minute or so.

I have no idea why we done this and I don't believe I knew then either. I only understood that it had to be done.

I witnessed what appeared to be panic attacks among the others, particularly at the waterside. They would calm quickly of course, as I would, then we all forgot about it as if nothing had happened.

I never thought about my family, or friends, or life before. Or perhaps I did and it was simply pushed down and forgotten before I could grasp it.

I know I still dreamt. I know this because the panic of waking from these dreams was the strongest emotion I felt. And it was always the same dream. A ringing phone.

I never saw anyone touch except at night when we huddled together for warmth.

I have very short memories of intensely painful migraines, always when I strayed too far from the river.

I have just received an advance copy of the book, which I wasn't expecting, since I declined to give Miss Roberts an interview. To be fair to her she didn't press the issue.

The first chapter covers what the police found on the site. It's a strange feeling to see these pictures after so many years. I don't quite know how to describe it.

There was no-one there when they first arrived, every house was empty.

After searching them the officers followed the river down to the church.

One of them found a piece of clothing floating on the water. When they pulled it out it was still attached to a broken collarbone.

The situation progressed quite dramatically after that. Teams of forensic specialists and investigators.

After further discoveries they decided to drain the water from the site.

And they found more bones. Thousands of bones.

At least 90 individuals dating back over 100 years.

Life in that place changed for me in June 2001, 10 years after I first arrived.

Five of us had been out hunting and, by the time we returned, three of us were vomiting and feverish. I don't know what caused it. Water we shared perhaps, but there could be any number of reasons.

I was one of those affected. The fever nearly killed me, leaving me delirious and hallucinating.

I don't recall it clearly of course, not at all. I would guess I was in and out of consciousness for almost a week.

I thought I could hear that ringing phone, the one from my dream. It was somewhere in the house, I was sure of it. If only I could get up I could find it. Why couldn't someone answer it?

Then I would slip back into unconsciousness.

And so it went.

Eventually the fever broke and I opened my eyes. I lay on one of the cots, my clothing soaked in sweat and blood running from my nose and down my chest. The room was bare other than the beds and a jug of water. I was alone and I could hear no-one else nearby.

Pain, exhaustion, fear. All these things are easy to understand as we have all felt them. But I don't think I can truly convey the confusion I experienced in any relatable way. I hardly knew who I was, never mind where or when.

Despite this there was a freshness to my thoughts, a new clarity. I felt changed, almost like sobering up.

I had to use the toilet so began to struggle to my feet. I knew the toilet was outside, though I couldn't have told you how I knew or when I had last used it. I called for help but there was no answer. Someone had clearly cleaned me and brought me water, so I was certain there were still people nearby. But who and where?

As I exited the rear door a terrible migraine struck me, a pressure like I have never experienced before or since. People use words like "unbearable" far too casually. This was truly unbearable. It is no exaggeration to say I would have chosen death over that pain if it had continued.

I staggered through the trees, almost blind with the pain, shaking, legs buckling under me. I may have cried out but I don't think I would even have known. I fell and lay on my side. A sudden flow of blood from my nose terrified me even through the pain. Something spasmed behind my eyes and I heard a crack. I must have been paralyzed by what was happening because I neither moved or made any sound. More cracks were followed by a fresh explosion of pain and I had the first seizure of my life. Then darkness.

I thought I was going to die, was certain of it in fact. I don't know how long I lay there. When I came fully around there was a foul taste in my mouth and I felt open wounds on my tongue and gums. I could hear breath rasping through my swollen throat. My eyes focused and mind cleared. In the mud beside me there was a bloodied lump of flesh. It was perhaps the size of a walnut, a smooth oval, red and black, with dozens of hair-like tendrils extending from the edges.

It moved.

Just a fraction of an inch, twitching, then stopped.

I tried to stand, to get back to the house, but the pain overwhelmed me again. My head swam and I collapsed within a few metres. This time I was out for several hours.

I was examined by a doctor when I escaped this place, several doctors in fact. The skull fracture between my eyes appeared to have been caused by internal pressure. They said they had never seen anything like it in a living patient.

My nose was broken. My sinuses and throat were massively inflamed and lined with deep tears. A CT scan revealed extensive scarring particularly in my frontal and prefrontal lobes.

Brain damage is the simple term. I have never and will never recover from these things. Headaches, tremors, confusion. I still have seizures. These things, among others, will accompany me until I die.

When I woke up again I had been carried back to bed and cleaned. I realized this was the extent of the care I could expect. There would be no real medical attention there, no medication. I heard people downstairs this time but I couldn't move, couldn't even open my swollen eyes. Pain. Then sleep.

A night passed. In the morning I could sit up and think clearly again. I examined myself in more detail. My hands were dirty, in fact all of me was. My clothing was a patchwork of poor repairs. I had long hair tied back and a graying beard.

What had happened to me? What had been the thing I had choked up in the grass? After several attempts I made it to the doorway and looked out. Some of the other villagers were gathering firewood.

I watched them in silence for several minutes. They moved slowly, pausing between each action. No-one spoke. There was no eye contact.

Where had these people come from? Had they arrived here like myself? Were they sick? There were both men and women of many ages and ethnicities, all severely underweight. The men had beards and long hair like I did. Many had visible wounds or sores on their skin. Dry lips and dead eyes. There were missing fingers, presumably from frostbite.

Something flickered in the back of my mind and I pulled off one of my battered shoes. I was missing two toes myself. I had no recollection of it happening.

I realized I was seeing things there as they really were, for the first time since I had arrived.

I tried with increasing desperation to recall the last few years. Had I been like them? For all this time? The only memories I could conjure were disconnected snapshots, tiny fragments of the years. Through them all was a vague sensation of being prompted, urged to do things. A feeling of always being watched and guided.

Too weak to walk any further I returned to the cot. I figured whoever had been bringing me water would return eventually, then I could get some answers.

It was a woman who came just before sunset. She walked in with a fresh jug of water, eyes staring blankly. She saw that I was awake, replaced the water, then left without a word.

I called after her but she ignored me. That night others came to sleep in the house but never so much as looked at me and would not respond to any questions.

The next day hunger forced me outside. Some clearer memories had started to return but it was a slow process. I knew I usually helped with fishing and hunting, that was my duty in the village. Food was communally taken once in the afternoon. I got through that day, ate with the others and followed along with them as they went to sleep.

Small parts of my old life were also coming back to me. Flashes of my childhood. Names. Lyrics of songs.

I remembered my parents and cried like a baby. Were they looking for me? I wondered. At that point I didn't know how long I had been away. Did they even know I was still alive? Were they?

I remembered the front door of an apartment in Seattle. It was my home. Or at least, it had been.

Among these memories were flashes of terrible scenes, some half recalled nightmare filtering through. Images of people being torn apart, wide eyed and wide awake, staring into space as they died. As if they didn't feel a thing.

They were real memories, I was sure of it. I had seen these things happen. Over and over I would touch on the truth and my mind would recoil from it. Something I should be afraid of.

Something that came at night.

There are photographs of many of the villagers in Lauren Roberts book. Smiling pictures with family members from their lives before. Some faces I recognised.

There were names and backgrounds for each of them. When they went missing. What remains were found of them. Perhaps only a jawbone. Or a wedding ring.

Dozens of photos and not one of them made it back to those lives.

Miss Roberts has quite the theory about it all. She thinks these people went there to escape their own lives. That they were sucked up by just another cult, hidden away from modern life.

She thinks it was a twisted religion which lived and died out of sight in the cold.

She thinks these people killed each other one at a time and put the bodies in the water. Then the last few fled.

She thinks all the evil in the world comes from men and women.

She is wrong about all these things.

I had planned to leave the village as soon as I was strong enough. In the meantime I struggled to play along. It was like living and speaking with mute children, everything so basic, so simple. Anything out of the ordinary was pushed away and ignored. They would stare into space for hours on end.

So I planned and prepared, hoarding extra clothing and food. And trying to remember.

I had been dreaming again of the ringing phone when I woke. It was pitch black outside, maybe one am if I had to guess. I heard others in the house getting up and going downstairs. They seemed even more oblivious to their surroundings than usual.

I followed, no idea what was happening but wary of being singled out.

We filed out into the moonlit street. Everyone had gathered in front of their houses, shivering in the cold.

There was a sick feeling rising in my stomach, something trying to be remembered.

They all lined up on either side of the street, heads down, silent and waiting. I copied, taking my place with my eyes on the ground at my feet.

A memory was rising from the dark. It comes here from the water at night.

I heard something moving through the trees. No-one else seemed to have noticed.

Remember. It walks down the line between us.

I was too afraid to run at this point or even raise my head. There was movement at the edge of my vision, near the end of the street. Heavy footsteps. Long slow breathing and the smell of stagnant water.

It was coming closer. I could make out two thin legs but the feet had sunk into the wet ground. The skin was dark red and black like the parasite I had choked up onto the grass.

Closer.

The upper body towered over me and I could feel it there. Feel the heat from it.

It had come level with me, only a few feet away.

There was a pain in my chest and I thought, now was the time. Run or die. Now.

It passed by. I nearly bit through my tongue holding in my breath.

Then as relief had begun to wash through me the figure stopped, sniffing the air. It took a step back, leaning in toward me. A long skeletal hand touched my face and a nail scraped slowly down my cheek, leaving a line of red.

Now.

Someone opposite panicked and ran. Their feet splashed in the mud as they raced for the treeline, stumbling and crying out in the dark.

The thing lunged away from me toward the runner. It was frighteningly fast, covering the distance before I even realized what was happening. I didn't dare raise my head so saw only part of what happened. The man who had fled was pinned face down, helpless. It held him there, apparently without effort, as he fought to free himself. And it began to eat him. Beginning with the back of the head, neck and shoulders. A second one rushed forward out of the darkness and snatched at a leg, pulling it free.

The man was screaming, a desperate incoherent howl, begging for anyone to help him. For God to help him. We all stood there as it happened, still and quiet.

Here it was. The truth behind my nightmares.

When it was over we faded back into the houses, no sign of what had happened on anyones face but mine.

I recognised the man who had ran, who had saved my life in doing so. He was one of the others who had been hunting and got sick, like me. Had he been through what I had since then? Surviving the fever then playing along as he planned an escape? We had sat together at meal the day before. Side by side in silence.

I could remember all the other times now. All those taken from the line and eaten alive in the dirt. They never cried out, never fought or ran.

They never made a sound.

At daybreak I stole a motorcycle and all the gasoline I could. The three other vehicles I had tried didn't even start. The bike was from a more recent addition to the camp but I couldn't remember who. I waited till no-one was nearby then set off, heading the opposite way from the water. I thought my old car might still be there but the thought of going near that church was too much. I didn't look back. I would drive until I ran out of gasoline.

I figured I would rather die alone in the wild than face another night there.

It was luck more than anything that saved me. When the gas ran out I walked for two days. Nearly died of cold both nights, despite my preparations. If it had been any other time of the year I wouldn't have made it, not even close.

A trucker found me on the Dalton highway, lying unconscious at the side of a road. I don't even remember it. He took me straight to the nearest town, saved my life. His name is Kyle and he became a grandfather last year (we still message each other from time to time).

When I woke in a hospital bed I asked for the police. Then I called my mom and dad. It wasn't an easy conversation as my memory still had more gaps than pieces. At first I don't think they even believed it was me.

Details came back slowly, over many months. Faces, names, places, feelings. Eventually my parents took me home and I stayed with them until I had recovered, physically at least.

One day in the hospital I heard a phone ringing in the hall. And the memory finally returned. Here it was at last.

I had a girlfriend, Abby.

Her face, her voice. It all came back. A wash of images and emotions. We had been seeing each other for six months, the longest relationship I had ever had. I thought I loved her. I told her I did.

Something else. The last thing I done before leaving for Anchorage, ten years earlier. That day I had called her to say goodbye and tell her I would be back in a few weeks.

She was quiet for a moment, then said she was pregnant. She sounded scared.

And how did I respond? I hung up the phone in a fit of temper. Angry, selfish, young and stupid. I didn't want a baby. I felt like she had done this to try and steal my future. I was an idiot. A 22 year old boy who didn't want to deal with real life, who could look at the world and see only himself.

She tried to phone back but I walked away, leaving it ringing.

So I lost them both. My daughter, who I never met, died in an accident age 4. Her mother left the country after that. I asked my parents and friends about her but she had never told them the truth. Eventually I managed to track down her brother. He was the one who explained what had happened but he didn't know where she was. No-one had heard from her in years, he said. Eventually I stopped trying. All it could do was hurt us both.

The police went to the Black River site while I was still in hospital, somehow finding it even with my laughable directions. I never told them the whole truth of what happened, of course. They would have thought I had lost my mind and understandably so. I don't think they even believed my edited version until they found those first bones.

I had lived a lie for 10 years. That time was lost. Stolen from me.

Since I came back I've just lived a different lie, a pieced together impression of the man I was before. I would like to say I've recovered but it would be a lie. I think about that place every day.

It's difficult to be a part of things now, to feel things as I used to. I've never married or had children. Never rebuilt old friendships. Even now, decades later, I'm afraid to have anything. Wondering when another phone will ring and everything will change again.

Truth is I don't know.