This feature is from THE SELF-DESTRUCTION ISSUE of VICE magazine. Find it in a store near you, or get 4 issues each year sent straight to your door, by subscribing.

As I did when I attended meetings of the 12-step fellowships—and if you’re wondering which ones, the answer is: all of them—it’s necessary, in order to share what follows, to offer my own qualification for the task.

I think you, dear fucked-up reader, need my shining example of self-destruction, so that your own––quite likely feeble––attempts cohere. My worry is that otherwise what follows will be treated as an amusing listicle, rather than a genuine plan for action. Nominative determinism is, pretty obviously, my USP here. What’s more, I shortened my given name myself. So when I first began reading philosophy and psychology, thereby becoming, as it were, formally acquainted with myself in reflexive form; and then, a few short, self-destructive years later, when I was––pretty obviously––in rehab, and encountered the idea of “self-will run riot,” I knew they had me nailed. I’m your man—or possibly woman, or non-binary, given that the most strikingly unique physical characteristic of the male human is also its most evanescent. You might almost say the penile erection itself is the very instantiation of self-destruction. As to who “they” are, we’ll return to it anon, when you’re feeling suitably queasy.

Bodily Self-Destruction

The obvious route is suicide, although most prefer to do it slowly, through food and exercise, in inverse correlation. Certain chemical compounds, however, produce the same effect more quickly and more reliably. I favor speed, personally—velocity being the defining quality of our era. Nothing beats pastimes involving high velocity and a metabolism revved to breaking point. You might consider a combination of methamphetamine and Formula One motor racing, or, for a more subfusc version, poor-quality cocaine and go-karting. Personally, I’ve been known to stumble then fall, ambling to the ashtray, although also to drive from London to Oxford (46 miles) in 26 minutes in a turbo-charged sports coupé horning white lines off the dash fatter than the ones disappearing under the bumper.

That said, almost any pairing of intoxicant and velocity will suffice. Period pills and a garden tractor have been known to do the job. Even going nowhere in a K-hole can manage it. Nevertheless, stimulants and speed bring us closest, in their accenting of intense feeling, to the purely ephemeral—as with the failed erection, which obviously you already need to be reminded about. After all, it represents the high-velocity self-destruction of any one’s self-esteem who identifies too strongly as binary. Consider the Malaysian psychotic conditon latah, in which the victim believes malign spirits are causing his penis to invert and fuck his own body. Then reconsider it––in philosophy, we call this “reflection”––once you’ve taken… Ooh, I dunno, my speeding days were over by the early 1980s when Mama Coca sashayed in, bringing a deathly-cold draft with her. The accelerants I remember syncopating my teenage heartbeat so it felt as if rim-shots were being rapped out on my ribcage were quite different to those taken in later eras, let alone to the modish Ritalins and smart drugs of the current moment. Nonetheless: there were black bombers––the Rolls-Royce ride to penile dysfunction in my younger years. Time-release amphetamine that would keep you on the ceiling, vibrating, for 12 hours, especially if you dropped them together with a red microdot, and a Mogadon: the sleeper takes you under, then you come up… in colors.

As you do, reflect once more, on your anxiety that your penis may disappear inside your body. Or if you don’t have a penis, your clitoris may elongate and become a penis. I rest my case. 

Violent Self-Destruction

I have to cede territory here, which pains me, because my instinct is always to go mano a mano with anyone who tries to encroach on my patch. But here’s the problem: In my neck of the woods, you don’t go to see an armorer, get a strap, and go tooled unless you want to be taken out by the Met’s Finest. I was once summoned to the office of the then-Commissioner for grassing up some of the Met’s Finest for, how can I put it, shooting someone in cold blood. His point was that I should be grateful—and, for the most part, I am. In my experience, the quickest way of getting dead is to get shot, and the quickest way of getting shot is to either shoot yourself or at armed police. Gun crime in the UK is very low, so I can’t claim the annihilatory familiarity that even the averagely interested American has with this particular mode of self-destruction. Also, I’m a lousy shot—dominant left eye, right-handed, bad strabismus—so beyond target shooting, forget it.

Nevertheless, I’ve been around plenty of violent people, being myself inherently and violently self-destructive. I’ve known more than a few high-profile “chaps”—London arcana for armed robbers—“pavement artists,” “blaggers,” “wheelmen,” chaps who do indeed go to the armorer for a strap and then go tooled. I remember one night being driven through London to score an eightball by a mate who’d once been a bit of a “face” himself and was now doing a favor for an old associate: “You don’t mind if we take this geezer and his boy with us,” he said. They got in, and both had faces out of some grotesque carny fair—so freakishly wrong that, whatever one thinks about the folly of reading the inner from the outer, the deed seemed already written there.

“Willie Donaldson… once told me that promiscuity was the motorway to loneliness. We were on our way to score crack at the time, and Willie’s prostituée de ce jours-là was in the back seat”

As we drove on, I glanced the inchoate slaughter in the rear-view mirror: the old hitman had a firearm even uglier than his face resting on his lap—a “whippet,” a sawn-off shotgun—and he was wearing transparent rubber gloves like a surgeon. I turned to my mate Chris, himself once an armed blagger, and said, “Jesus, Chris, the guy in the back is tooled.”

Chris didn’t even look round. “Yeah, Will,” he said, with perfect sang-froid, “it only gets real when the guns come out.” And that’s the point: it’s only when you’re staring into the dead eight of the whippet’s barrels that you realize you’re going to die not at the moment of your choosing, that it was always waiting for you, this death, tinging the brightest days, and that others will walk happily through those days, wearing clean, airy clothing, and sparkling underwear, while you shit yourself in terror, die, then rot or burn. An authentically real death, as well as a self-destructive one.

Sexual Self-Destruction

Which brings me naturally to sexual self-destruction: the long goodbye that follows le petit mort. Willie Donaldson, the satirist and founder of Soho’s Establishment Club—which made the careers of so many British comedians—once told me that promiscuity was the motorway to loneliness. We were on our way to score crack at the time, and Willie’s prostituée de ce jours-là was in the back seat: the age difference was the same as that between Lot and his daughters, assuming Lot had a similar lifespan to others of the Biblical prophets. And, as everyone knows (although how, precisely?), loneliness is itself a potent form of self-destruction. The question is: How much promiscuity is required to get you feeling unutterably isolated and forlorn––so much so, you can feel your very individuality being abraded by time itself, leaving you peeled and quaking in another harsh, radioactive dawn? Levels as high as those claimed by Georges Simenon—who boasted of more than 10,000 encounters—will do, if you can organize it. Vice versa of course obtains: Bonnie Blue, who in 2025 allowed 1,025 men to perform sex acts on her body, is, I feel reasonably certain, a lonely and deeply self-destructive woman.

But multiplicity is not the only route. There is also the opposite condition: becoming so repellent to oneself that one would not permit even a loving, concerned partner or parent to offer bare, physical reassurance. A more efficient method of inducing this is not complicated seriality but facile compression: enact intimacy with at least two people within a 12-hour period—better still, within one or two. The result is the truly alienating experience of attempting arousal while treating both your own body and another’s as purely instrumental. Persist, and you will feel your body become a tool. Persist further by masturbating in between the two acts of coitus while simultaneously fantasizing about both, and the tool will break.

Spiritual Self-Destruction

Almost invariably, when people have physically and sexually destroyed themselves, and find themselves lonely and unable to endure their own reflection, they turn to God. The problem is that, within the Abrahamic traditions, God is already responsible for destruction. He has, in effect, taken over your role, leaving the self-destructive in a peculiar double bind: God may well want you dead––but what for? It may explain why missionary faiths such as Christianity and Islam—despite their irenic theologies—have historically been so warlike. Driven toward self-annihilation, but denied divine intervention, the faithful seek instead to get others to do it. With big knives. 

Alternatively, one may adopt a more modern approach and simply kill God with an act of intellectual willing (get it?). This was the path taken by Friedrich Nietzsche. His philosophy is stimulating, original, and deeply influential upon our own incompetently and selfishly existential era; yet it is worth recalling that he was driven, in part, by failed intimacies—most notably his rupture with Richard Wagner, who reportedly circulated rumors of Nietzsche’s chronic addiction to self-abuse. Whether or not this was true prior to Wagner’s Getsomecuntwerke on him––Nietzsche didn’t, and so it became true, resulting in too much Alpine hiking, beastly headaches, and eventually deicide. Having killed God, Nietzsche was left with the law of self-will alone—like Ivan Karamazov or Aleister Crowley, or… moi. No wonder he ended by going mad while embracing a horse in Turin, the manuscript of Ecce Homo (“behold the man”: Herod’s words to the crowd baying for Christ’s pre-programmed auto-destruction) lying open in the tiny room of his pensione—which, in case you haven’t noticed, is an anagram of “one penis” Spooky.

Psychological Self-Destruction

The chief method here is brooding. To brood effectively, find a warm, comfortable place and a soft surface, then place upon it small objects of value—a wedding ring, perhaps, or something more absurd, like a single-use vape—and sit upon the objects, allowing their pressure to impress upon you the futility of acquisition. Then tip forward and fix your gaze upon your own navel, as though it were a keyhole into your psyche. Contemplate it as a mandala. It may begin to spin. This, combined with the migration of your sense of self into your gastrointestinal tract, will induce a profound nausea.

This is not a million miles from the nausea I recently experienced having an allogenic stem cell transplant for secondary myelofibrosis. This, together with all the conditioning drugs associated with what is still spooky science, induced in me, on and off, ooh… a couple of years of nausea, some of it so intense I was taking morphine bi-hourly, although this seems, um, a bit contra-indicated. Anyhoo, the point is, I know my brooding sickness, and immunotherapy has to be a strong contender––along with a lot of the behavior already mentioned––for achieving it. So: carry on with the carcinogens.

“Enact intimacy with at least two people within a 12-hour period—better still, within one or two”

But however you achieve this state, at this point, you may experience––in terms of your own psyche’s temporalization––what Henri Bergson’s philosophy explicated: the sensation of being both the flowing river and the observer of it. You/it are flowing inexorably, carving new channels, being fed by tributaries, chuckling over rocks, whispering between rushes, rushing over cataracts––but what’s this!? A vast slough of toxic waste, comprising, it would seem, all the tailings from all the child rare-metal miners in the Congo––a slough into which River You debouches, with dissolvent effects.

For the adept, enlightenment eventually arrives when one feels the head plunging inward through the navel, the body feeding into itself, such that rather than experiencing renaissance, one becomes instead a tightly-wound ball of flesh, like a balled sock.

Social Self-Destruction

In his great social novel, recounting all the dreadful parties, salons, and balls he felt compelled to attend, Marcel Proust observed that there is no place in polite society for those who tell the truth. This is explained by Proust’s aperçu having been coined once the invites stopped arriving. But it can be widened: there is no place in any society whatsoever for anyone who tells the truth consistently. The method, therefore, is simple. Tell her the dress is dreadful, her hair lank, and she’s either a lousy friend, a lousy fuck––or both. With him, it’s simpler: you simply imply he is poorly endowed, while he will never be able to afford to make an endowment. Tell them both their ideology will doom them, and substantiate this with well-chosen and meticulously researched examples of when it has doomed their forefathers and mothers in the past, or doomed other societies that have cleaved to it.

Speak plainly and persistently, and the result will be social death.

I know, because I have done––and with elegance, too––for 30 years, and can count the number of my friends on my leprous fingers. When I find them.

Once socially dead, or exiled to a lazaret, you will no longer find yourself at tedious gatherings eating stale crisps and drinking flat mineral water out of obligation, and because you, too, have en route attended a full alphabet of fellowships, all the way from AA to Zoophiles Anonymous. (I, too, bear those scars.) Instead, you will confront the more fundamental truth: people do not like you. Sigmund Freud noted that anyone who reaches adulthood believing otherwise is a fool. Social self-destruction thus becomes identical with truth-telling—directed not only outward, but inward. Sit there brooding (as above), and navel-gazing: can it really be true that no one likes you that much? After all, your mother/father/their criminally inappropriate friend loved you… didn’t they? No. They didn’t.

Mass Self-Destruction

Finally, there is the simplest form: belonging to a self-destructive society. This requires no effort. Simply continue as you are. You already inhabit a nuclear-armed state whose leaders threaten you with annihilation, even as they threaten to rain it down on those pesky others. Moreover, they’re prepared to do so while ignoring the environmental catastrophe that approaches. Under such conditions, one may even choose to foreclose personal self-destruction altogether—for, like a terminally ill centenarian, there is, perhaps, little point in hastening what is already assured.

Will Self’s new novel, The Quantity Theory of Morality, is available now through Atlantic Books.

This feature is from THE SELF-DESTRUCTION ISSUE of VICE magazine. Find it in a store near you, or get 4 issues each year sent straight to your door, by subscribing.

The post The VICE Guide to Self-Destruction appeared first on VICE.

There is an unofficial history of the U.S. military that will never make it into an after-action report or a museum display case.

It gets passed round during the dead hours of staff duty (when military members pull guard) and radio watch, when the conversation has exhausted everything else. It is told inside fighting positions at 2AM, whispered in barracks rooms, repeated over cheap beer and cigarettes years after everyone involved has left the service.

The stories usually begin the same way.

“So no shit, there I was…”

The stories are as varied as they are unique to the person: A woman wandering through a live-fire range. A little girl standing in the woods where no child should be. Something enormous moving between trees. Lights in the sky that don’t behave like aircraft. A figure appearing on thermal imagery, yet invisible to the naked eye. Ghostly transmissions coming across the radio of battles long since fought.

Sometimes these stories elicit a laugh, or several rounds of “You’re bullshitting.” But sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they elicit a response from a wide-eyed soul.

“I saw that too…”

TALES FROM THE GRID SQUARE

For years, Tales From the Grid Square, a project devoted to anonymously documenting paranormal and unexplained experiences, has interviewed hundreds of service members, veterans, and their families. What started as an interest in fringe and folklore gradually became something larger: an archive of military personnel describing things they couldn’t explain.

Of course, some stories can be chalked up to exaggerations, misidentifications, phobias, superstition, and the ever-present sleep deprivation among the military. Some may be nothing more than legends that have grown stronger with each retelling.

But others come with details that are difficult to forget: times, distances, equipment, locations, terrain, weather, and documented units. The most compelling stories come with numerous other witnesses who raise their hands and say, “I have seen this too…”

The stories, part of secretive and shadowy military culture, tend to fall into three categories: incidents concerning places that universally have a reputation for the strange; incidents where multiple witnesses report the same thing; and stories from war—where superstition, exhaustion, technology, and violence bleed together, and the line between the normal and paranormal becomes a knife’s edge.

DUTY STATIONS FROM HELL

Every military installation has a reputation. Some are loved to the point where a cult starts to develop around them, while others carry a heavy reputation of absolute despair. But some duty stations acquire reputations for reasons that have nothing to do with the quality of the barracks or local nightlife.

Military installations are unusually good environments for folklore. They tend to be in the middle of nowhere, on forgotten land, and in use for decades. The names and buildings change, even the purpose. Tenant units rotate through, and thousands of people live and work in the same spaces. The legends of the post survive long after the people who first told them have left the service. A private hears a story from their sergeant. Ten years later, that private is the platoon sergeant telling it to their junior Soldiers.

Eventually the story becomes part of the installation.

FORT POLK: THE BOX WITCH

Fort Polk, Louisiana (formerly Fort Johnson), has long been associated with one of the Army’s most persistent legends. The Box Witch is the ghost of a woman who refused to leave her property when the Army acquired the land to use as a training area. Depending on who tells the story, she is either a practitioner of witchcraft, a voodoo priestess, a woman in white, or something less than human.

Some soldiers describe seeing her at the edge of their defensive positions. Others say she appears near idling vehicles; some even believe she taps on windows to get your attention and disappears into the night.

Other accounts describe a female figure moving through live-fire areas before vanishing. When training is stopped and the range is searched, not a trace can be found.

However, “the Box Witch” has also become a catch-all term for the strange things soldiers claim happen in the training area. From shadow figures to unexplained lights, strange screams, cold spots in suffocating Louisiana heat, missing time (although time loses all meaning during a JRTC rotation), and humanoid figures stalking the woods at night, leaving impossibly large footprints. Reported sightings of Bigfoot and the Rougouro, a werewolf-like creature, are also persistent in the isolated back country of Fort Polk. 

FORT CAMPBELL DOGMAN

Dogman is a persistent North American legend of a massive werewolf-like creature said to lurk where things go bump in the night. Famously associated with the “Michigan Dogman” and the “Beast of Land Between the Lakes”, Dogman is a legend that has gained major traction in recent paranormal history.

Fort Campbell, home of the 101st Airborne Division, contains a large training area commonly called the Back 40 (a nickname for the more remote parts of a training area). Soldiers have long traded stories about the Back 40. Strange voices, shadow figures, howling, an ever-present feeling of being watched, and something that could be described as a large bipedal canine. Dogman. The name sounds ridiculous. The stories do not.

One soldier assigned to a cavalry squadron described an encounter during a brigade field exercise near the Cassidy training site. His vehicle had stopped for orders. In front of it, several soldiers noticed something—a black mass.

The witness described it as “darker than the surrounding night.” Everyone inside the vehicle could see it. But when the gunner attempted to observe it through thermal optics and night vision, nothing appeared. The soldiers sat watching it for roughly 30 seconds. All of them felt as though something was watching them back.

Then it slinked away into the forest. 

Maybe it was an optical illusion. It might have been something entirely mundane like an optical artifact. But it establishes the larger atmosphere surrounding the Back 40. Soldiers already believed strange things happened there. Then came the more specific encounters.

A squad leader from 1-502 Infantry described being positioned in the woods near Cassidy during the same two-week field exercise as the soldier mentioned above. His men had established a defensive line. It was dark, and everyone was tired. The radio operator moved between positions every 20 or 30 minutes, swapping batteries and checking equipment. Eventually, the squad leader heard footsteps approaching again. He assumed it was the radioman. Then the footsteps slowed. He looked behind him.

Something was crouching approximately 20 meters away. The witness described hearing a low growl. Whatever he was looking at stood roughly five feet high even while crouched. For several seconds, he watched. His rifle could do nothing with blanks (simulated training rounds that have powder but no projectile). Desperately scared, he reached for his entrenching tool and peered into his PSQ-20 night-vision system. The creature ran. Through the thermal optics, he could briefly make out its outline—something like a massive wolf.

Other soldiers heard it crashing through the woods. Several soldiers smelled something resembling a wet dog. The coyotes had been howling and yipping deep into the night. An easy explanation. Then came a howl. The coyotes stopped.

Another team leader in the same area described hearing something approaching his position after the platoon’s radioman had already passed through. The footsteps sounded similar. The soldiers assumed their radio operator had returned. Nobody answered when they called out.

Then came the sniffing. The witness described it as sounding like a large hound only a few meters away. The sound moved closer. The soldiers dropped their night vision just as whatever it was crashed into a ditch and ran out of sight. What disturbed them was the rhythm. They thought it sounded like something massive running on two legs.

The events of that night would come to a dramatic conclusion. Two soldiers were pulling guard along a road. It was approximately two in the morning. Next to them, a drainage pipe ran beneath the road. Suddenly one soldier began yelling.

Something had grabbed him and tried to pull him into the culvert. His uniform had been torn open as if claws had raked it. His partner looked inside and heard grunting followed by what sounded like human feet running through the pipe. He moved to the other side of the road and looked toward the opposite opening through night vision. There was something in the tree line staring right into his eyes.

He described it as eight or nine feet tall, broad-shouldered, with a canine head and the body of a large wolf standing upright. Its eyes reflected brightly through his optics. With no better option, the soldier fired simulation rounds in fear. The creature ran. According to him, it dropped onto four legs and disappeared into the woods, breaking smaller trees as it went.

Several nights later, soldiers in the same area heard another loud howl. The company’s commander even came over the radio asking what had made the sound. Later, the witness said soldiers were told not to discuss the incident. Reportedly, unit leadership acknowledged what happened and urged the soldiers never to speak of it.

Okinawa: An Island Full of Ghosts

Okinawa was the site of one of the bloodiest battles of the Second World War, and modern American military installations now occupy ground that witnessed enormous violence. Service members stationed there frequently connect their paranormal experiences to that history. The island’s many bases each have their own legends and ghost stories. Some, like Kadena Air Base, have the reputation for “the most haunted base in the U.S. military.”

One Marine described waking in a barracks room at Camp Hansen after feeling cold air against his face despite the heat and humidity outside. When he opened his eyes, he said the room was filled with dead American and Japanese service members. They stood around him silently, some horribly mangled by war. He closed his eyes and waited until morning. It is assumed the spirits stayed with him until then, too.

Elsewhere on Okinawa, service members report seeing women in white, ghostly children, and figures moving through barracks and former battlefield areas.

At Camp Schwab, stories circulate about a little girl who appears near buildings and disappears through fences, vehicles, or other solid objects. 

At Kadena Air Base, service members describe a woman in white who appears in rooms, corridors, and during lonely periods of duty. Some even managed to catch it on film.

Again, there are obvious explanations, such as sleep paralysis and the psychological effect of living and working on terrain where thousands of people died violently.

But that explanation does not make the stories disappear. It may help explain why they endure.

Camp Lejeune: The Girl in the Woods

Marines training around Camp Devil Dog and Camp Geiger describe seeing a phantom girl in the woods. Sometimes she stands at a distance or appears beside fighting positions. Other Marines say they hear crying or a young voice calling from the woodline. One described seeing the figure only a few feet away while sitting in a fighting hole in the early morning hours. He did not tell anyone until much later because he assumed nobody would believe him.

The girl came to be known as the “woman in white” or “the Camp Lejeune Witch”—a legend so deeply absorbed into camp lore that it’s become an unremarkable, day-to-day aspect of life there.

Some Marines describe cadre members acting as though they already know about her, as if she is just another part of the training area. But despite the casual nature of her presence they all say the same thing: Ignore it. Do not follow the crying. Do not leave your position. Ever. 

Bangor: The Jawless Girl

Naval Base Kitsap-Bangor in Washington has its own apparition. Security forces describe a teenage girl wearing a white dress stained with blood, with her lower jaw missing. She is often referred to simply as the JIG or Jawless Indian Girl.

Witnesses have described seeing her around guard towers, barracks, bunkers, armories, and wooded areas. Some report that she moves from one location to another with impossible speed. Rumors even circulate about an old painting supposedly kept inside a controlled area, showing the land before the military installation existed. In the distant tree line, according to the legend, is a white figure without a jaw. Whether the painting actually exists is another question, but that’s almost besides the point.

THE WAR STORIES

Afghanistan had earned a reputation as a strange and mythical place in military history. Published in 2009 in The New York Times and written by Tom Goghlan, the story of Observation Point Rock contained reports of ghostly Russians, voices in the night, and strange anomalies encountered on the lonely mud-and-rock mound in Helmand Province.  

Whether it’s giants, ghosts, djinns, impossible radio transmissions, unidentified objects, missing time, things seen through equipment specifically designed to help soldiers distinguish reality from darkness, some of the most unusual accounts submitted to Tales From the Grid Square have come out of Afghanistan.

GIANTS OF AFGHANISTAN

The Giant of Kandahar is a story that’s almost too perfect, too cinematic. The details sound like something someone might construct after watching too many movies about special operations.

One Army infantry team leader described an observation patrol in Kunar Province during a 2008-2009 deployment. He had been issued a thermal imaging system and spent part of the night experimenting with it. While scanning across the valley, he noticed a large heat signature. His first thought was that several Taliban fighters were gathered together. Then the heat signature rose into a single figure. The soldier estimated nearby trees were ten to 12 feet tall; what he was looking at appeared to be about the same height. It began walking; its movements seemed relaxed, but its stride allowed it to cover terrain at a speed that would have been impossible for a human.

An Air Force Reaper sensor operator provided another account. While scanning a remote settlement through infrared imagery, he said he saw multiple human figures near crude mud structures. They were not doing anything dramatic; they were not attacking a wayward American patrol. They were tending a fire, conducting chores, living as most people in the region do. But what stayed with him was the scale. The goats beside them looked tiny. Using the measurement tools available to him, he estimated them at roughly three to four meters tall.

A former Australian Army officer described another sighting in Uruzgan Province. While scanning with a thermal imager, he claimed to have seen a humanoid figure walking behind compounds. At first he estimated the structures were only several hundred meters away. Then he used a laser range finder. They were roughly 1,800 meters distant. Based on the apparent height of the figure behind the walls, he estimated it would have needed to be approximately twelve feet tall.

Depth perception through thermal systems can be deceptive, and terrain can distort scale. More importantly, people can make mistakes. But the repetition is difficult to ignore. Separate military observers, using different systems in different areas, described almost the same impossible category of thing—a human shape that was too large, in a region that carries warnings of giant humanoids that dwell in the mountains.

The One-Armed Man

An Air Force servicemember at Kandahar Airfield described the aftermath of a major attack. Among the dead was a man missing an arm. Days later, while supporting an ISR mission, the witness began seeing a one-armed man dressed in white repeatedly at intersections along the route of a suspected facilitator. The crew switched sensors. In the infrared, the man appeared colder than the people nearby.

Later, while walking across the base at night, the witness saw a one-armed figure standing inside a bunker.

He told people in his shop. Most laughed. His officer did not. The officer pulled him aside and said he had seen the same figure in another bunker on the opposite side of the installation.

Was it the same person? A coincidence? A misinterpretation reinforced by an already disturbing memory? Whatever the explanation, this is exactly the sort of account that lives on long after the deployment ends.

Djinn at the School

A group of Marines guarding a school near Amir Aghah were told by residents that teachers had been murdered there during Taliban rule. One night, the Marines saw movement near the wall. They cleared the compound.

Inside a classroom, they said a desk fell over and moved across the floor. A window shattered. Nothing obvious had caused it.

The next day, they spoke with a local mullah. His explanation was not a ghost.

It was a Djinn.

According to the Marines, the activity continued. Furniture moved. There were apparitions. Multiple service members reported having similar dreams where they were chased by a dark figure.

This is where military paranormal stories become inseparable from place. American service members arrive with their own ideas about ghosts. Local communities already have another language for the unexplained. A strange event becomes interpreted through both.

Maybe the Marines were experiencing stress and suggestion? Maybe the mullah’s explanation shaped what happened afterward?

Or maybe everyone involved used the cultural vocabulary available to describe something nobody understood.

Echoes

In 2012, an Army soldier working communications at a remote combat outpost received an unusual transmission in Russian. The unit reportedly recorded much of it. 

A warrant officer with Russian-language experience listened and gave them a rough translation.

It sounded like a distress call. A base was under attack. The people speaking were asking for help. The obvious theory was that the transmission came from an old Soviet-era recording, an abandoned system, or transmissions trapped in the upper atmosphere. After all, the Soviet military had left Afghanistan decades earlier.

Maybe the explanation was mundane. Maybe it was a prank or a psychological operation to undermine their resolve.

But the witness was never entirely satisfied. The voices, he said, did not sound recorded. He could feel the desperation in their voices.

Lights in the Sky

Modern service members spend an enormous amount of time looking at the sky. Pilots, drone crews, infantrymen standing guard. People wearing night-vision devices for hours at a time staring at a revealed kaleidoscope of stars. Eventually, somebody sees something unusual.

These are stories from a time before drones would cloud the sky in any significant numbers.

A Marine at Patrol Base Jaker in Helmand Province described watching three lights moving together. Initially, he assumed they were aircraft. Then the lights separated in different directions almost instantaneously. They moved independently, covering enormous distances and changing direction abruptly. Eventually they returned to formation. Then disappeared.

Another soldier in Logar Province described watching five lights moving in a V formation through night vision. They repeatedly changed positions while maintaining the shape. He handed his NVG to another soldier, who also watched them. The witnesses later checked with their Joint Tactical Air Controller (JTAC). According to the account, no military aircraft were operating in the immediate area.

In another mysterious account, a soldier participating in a battalion operation described equipment problems and a persistent feeling that his unit was in the wrong location. His navigation equipment insisted everything was correct. The terrain told him otherwise. Then his skin began to feel like it was humming. He looked up. Something enormous appeared to be passing overhead, blocking out the stars. He compared it to watching the roof close over a stadium. He reached for his radio. That’s where the memory ends.

When his awareness returned, it was daylight. He was sitting inside a mud hut. Several hours had passed. Everyone around him behaved as though the mission had unfolded normally. His navigation equipment showed them roughly a grid square away from where he believed they were supposed to be. Years later, an X-ray reportedly revealed a small metallic object in his forearm. The witness did not claim to know what happened. He only knew he could not account for several hours of his life.

WHAT THESE STORIES ACTUALLY MEAN

It would be easy to combine all of these stories into an argument that the military has proof that monsters exist. But that is not what the evidence supports. Instead, what the stories reveal is that the U.S. military has a rich folklore that lives alongside its official history.

Folklore adapts to the institution around it. Traditional haunted-house stories become haunted barracks, and the dark woods become a maneuver area. A mob of shadow figures is suddenly revealed under night vision, a giant is tracked through thermal optics across an Afghan mountain range, a UFO (or UAP) is checked against known military aircraft as an Apache’s targeting system tracks it, and ISR feeds reveal more than just the enemy.

The nature of these stories invokes a sense of conspiracy. Why don’t people come forward with these experiences? Is there an active cover-up by the government to hide a reality they don’t want the public to know? Maybe the stories are made up? 

Under the right conditions, the human mind is infinitely creative. There are obvious reasons why military personnel might report more strange experiences than the average person. They work in high-stress and busy conditions, often while exhausted. They spend hours staring at empty landscapes looking for threats, or tediously poring over every detail as if lives depend on it (which, often, they do). They are exposed to chemicals, concussive events, mold, poor nutrition, and uncertainty. Stress has a way of reshaping and altering the mind to perceive things that may or may not be there. But dismissing every witness as tired, confused, superstitious, or the classic “PTSD” misses the larger point.

The witnesses themselves often know how absurd their stories sound. That is why many keep quiet. Military culture is comfortable with certainty and familiarity. There is a vocabulary and response for enemy contact, equipment failure, injury. But there is no official language for seeing something eight feet tall standing in the wood line.

Official military history records battles, campaigns, commanders, and casualties. Unofficial history records what people saw while everyone else slept or scanned for danger. So these stories move underground. Into hushed whispers in the smoke pit, the late nights in the barracks, and into the unofficial unit folklore. They become conversations that begin years later, when somebody finally admits what happened:

“You’re going to think I’m full of shit.”

“I don’t, because I saw the same thing.”

Ultimately, these stories suggest that the reality of military culture can be more complex and enigmatic than what is commonly portrayed in official records or popular narratives. And the truth is often stranger than fiction.

Nick Orton is an active‑duty Soldier and writer best known for Tales From the Grid Square. He welcomes new submissions via Instagram @Tales_From_The_Gridsquare or email at TalesFromTheGridsquare@gmail.com.

The post The Terrifying Secret Ghost Stories of U.S. Military Folklore appeared first on VICE.