The Dark Watchers of California

Edwin Covarrubias (0:03)

If you have ever driven on California's Highway 1, you know exactly what I mean when I say it's better to be on the passenger seat. It's easily one of the most stunning drives on Earth, but it's also one of the most nerve-racking. To your right, there's nothing but endless Pacific Ocean, crashing against wave-dashed cliffs hundreds of feet below. To your left, the mountains rise almost vertically, climbing straight into the sky. It feels less like a highway and more like a tightrope, strung along the literal edge of the continent. But most people make this drive for the gram, for the iconic concrete arch of Bixby Bridge, the pristine turquoise waters of McWay Falls. But if you look away from the ocean for just a second, if you turn your head and look up at those towering peaks, you start to realize that this beautiful landscape has a much darker, much stranger side. Because for centuries, people have talked about strange beings that inhabit some of the Santa Lucia Mountains. Entities that watch your every move.

My name is Edwin, and here is a Horror Story.

This range is massive. It stretches for about 105 miles, runs from Monterrey County in the north all the way down to San Luis Obispo County in the south. Geologically, these mountains are made up of hard, granitic rock, part of what scientists call the Selinian Block, sharing the same ancient roots as the Sierra Nevada Range. Right in the middle of all this is Cone Peak, which stands at the highest coastal peak in the lower 48 states, shooting straight out of the sea like a giant stone monument. And then, there's the fog. Because these massive peaks are right next to the cold water of the Pacific, they act like a giant barrier for the marine layer. Thick, heavy moisture-laden fog rolls off into the ocean and gets trapped against steep west-facing walls. It coats the towering coast's redwoods and the twisted Monterey pines in a damp, perpetual mist. Now, it's an environment that feels alive. It moves and it's pretty atmospheric. So, of course, our eyes start to wonder. We start looking for these shadows. But in those shadows, something looks back.

For over 300 years, travelers, hikers, and locals have reported seeing figures standing on the highest, most inaccessible ridges of these mountains. Call them the Dark Watchers. Or as early Spanish settlers named them Los Vigilantes Oscuros.

Descriptions of these entities are pretty consistent. You see, if you happen to spot one, they say that you aren't looking at a blurry, half-formed shape. You instead look at this towering silhouette that stands anywhere from 7 to 10 feet tall. They're described as humanoid, but completely featureless, just flat, void-like shapes that seem to absorb the light around them. They're almost always seen wearing long, flowing black cloaks, capes, or heavy trench coats. Around their heads, they wear these wide-brimmed hats, sometimes described as looking like broad witch's hats. Sometimes, they're holding a long wooden staff or a walking stick, and they stand like ancient guards, taking care of the peaks. But they don't hunt or stalk or growl, and they don't attack. In fact, they do absolutely nothing. They stand completely motionless, silhouetted against the sky, staring out toward the open sea or the far horizon. It's as if they're waiting for something or someone in a state of eternal silent vigilance. They only appear during very specific times. Witnesses almost exclusively spot them during the golden hours. At that stage, that transition window of dawn and twilight, when the sun is low, the shadows are long, and right at that transition between day and night. But here's a real mystery. The Vanishing Phenomenon. You see if you're hiking in the backcountry and you look up across the canyon and you see one of these hatted figures standing there, your instinct is going to be to get a better look, right? At least from a safe distance. Maybe you take a step forward to close the distance, maybe you wave your arms or you yell out to your hiking partners, but the second you show any interest, the second you blink and turn your head to call out, the figure is gone. And it happens every time. They don't run away or duck behind a boulder, they dissolve into like a fog or melt directly into the twilight shadows. They leave absolutely no trace of their existence.

You won't find footprints in the dirt or campfires. There won't be any trash, physical evidence or anything whatsoever. It actually makes you wonder if they were ever there.

For three centuries, this has been the protocol of ridges. They watch us, but we are never under any circumstances allowed to watch them back.