The Garden and the Teeth: How We Survived a “Little Nasty” in Oregon
By Loui Crow
They don’t knock. They ooze.
They flatter. They interrupt. They offer.
And they watch.
This one—we named him Mountain Liar.
But in private, we just call him Little Nasty.
Some believe beings like this may be tied to the Chinookan-rooted archetype known as N’thl’q—pronounced in fragments now, if at all. Cougar tricksters. Mountain spirits. "Those who walk in two skins and hunt with no pack."
Some tribes say they sniff souls. That they come for artists, psychics, and the spiritually raw. Especially during liminal times—moves, deaths, births, breakups. Especially around the womb.
We met one. And we made it out.
THE INVITE
We had just moved. Isolated. Raw. Pregnant. No friends, no family.
My husband was tattooing. This thing showed up pretending to be a client.
He had a busted old tattoo he wanted covered. Said he trusted my husband’s work.
He never saw my husband’s work. Never paid a dime.
Instead, he offered:
Weed
Something he called "Old Man" (some opium-adjacent substance)
Tattoo chairs
Car tires
A place to stay
All of it vague. All of it without follow-through.
All of it meant to entangle.
He gave nothing clear in return. No real design direction. Just flattery. Just grooming.
He wasn't looking for a tattoo.
He was looking for a thread.
THE POEM
We were on our porch.
He handed us a small gift. Then, unprompted, he began reciting a poem.
Something about a flower. Rare. Sacred. Stolen by a king, gifted to a queen, planted in a garden.
It sounded like spellcraft. It felt ritualistic.
And then—he glitched.
He forgot a line. Froze. Sweated.
His face cracked like he’d dropped a plate in a temple.
He shook. He looked rattled, like he’d just been struck.
Our bodies knew: this was a binding that failed.
The spell hit a wall.
We were protected.
That moment? Everything changed. He never recovered.
THE PATTERN
He never gave clear tattoo input.
My husband designed five pieces based on that damn poem. All rejected.
No reasons. No guidance. Just constant rejections.
It felt like the art was being harvested. Not used. Just drained.
Meanwhile, he:
Interrupted every sentence
Re-directed every conversation
Flattered without knowing us
Tried to keep us confused, passive, distracted
He showed us bones and arrowheads. Claimed they were sacred.
Read my palm and triggered my trauma with one vague line.
I cried. He looked scared—like he’d punctured something he wasn’t ready to handle.
He confessed to killing his best friend at 16. Claimed he “went dark” for six years.
But never explained what that meant.
We were never invited inside his home. Always on the porch.
He panicked when his girlfriend pulled up, like we weren’t supposed to exist in the same scene.
He fixated on my husband. Obsessively. Repeatedly.
He offered help we never asked for.
He mirrored without ever listening.
He tried to play mentor, mystic, outlaw—all in one breath.
And then? One day, my husband pressed him for clarity.
That’s when he switched topics to an Oregon drug cartel.
He insisted we watch a YouTube video about it.
He wanted to show it right then. Wanted us in that world.
That was the shift.
That’s when we knew—we weren’t talking to a person anymore.
We were in the trap.
THE FORM
This thing was around 4 feet tall. Cowboy boots. Big hat. Denim. Everything a child might draw if asked to sketch a cowboy—only off. Slightly too polished. Slightly too performative. Like he was playing human.
His hands were the first wrong note. Fingers thick and bulbous—like overripe tubers. The skin taut, shiny, as if the meat beneath was trying to swell out. The nails? Jagged, yellowed, and warped—like splintered bark, or claws that forgot how to be claws.
They looked sculpted from memory by something that never had hands.
He had piercing blue eyes that stared too long. His laugh wasn’t laughter. It was a cut. A dominance signal. Something that said “shut up” without needing words.
Everything about him said: predator.
But soft-spoken. Giggly. "Helpful."
He wanted to take us into the woods. To “special spots.” Places he “loved.” He knew the land too well. Talked like it belonged to him. Like we were the ones trespassing.
He told us about Falls Creek. About bobcat traps. About rock corridors built for luring. Ancient hunting structures where animals could be herded and picked off one by one.
He said it like it was history. But we heard it like a plan.
And the whole time, he smiled.
Like he already knew how the story would end.
THE MOMENT THAT BROKE IT
We’d just found out I was pregnant.
He looked me dead in the face and said:
“You’re supposed to have two.”
It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t curious.
It was a claim.
Like he was speaking on behalf of something else.
Like he was trying to code my womb.
My blood went cold. My skin tightened. My heart dropped.
That was the threat.
And that’s when we knew.
THE CUT
We returned the “gifts” No note. No contact. Just an envelope. Through someone else.
We never saw him again.
And then? We got to work.
LBRP. Hexagram. Daily banishings. Meditation. Ritual light.
We moved to the moldy motel. We sealed our field.
And the air shifted. Like the story let go of us.
WHAT HE WAS
He wasn’t a man.
He was a Little Nasty.
A ritual predator.
A glamour parasite.
A test in human form.
They show up when you glow but don’t know it.
They sniff out psychics, creators, and wombs with open gates.
They mimic help. They flirt. They flatter.
They bait.
And if you take the bait, they plant something.
A compulsion. A dream. A darkness that whispers.
Some call them soul-sniffers. Energy tricksters.
Some say they’re old spirits wearing borrowed flesh.
Others say they’re spiritual parasites wearing the skin of trauma survivors.
This one felt ancient.
This one might’ve been a N’thl’q.
But we saw it.
We didn’t laugh it off. We named it.
We didn’t accept the gifts. We returned them.
We didn’t stay in the garden. We closed the gate.
And now I name it so you can see it, too.
If you’ve ever met someone who smiled too wide, who interrupted too much, who offered too many solutions to problems you hadn’t spoken aloud—
You may have met a Little Nasty.
And if so?
Say it with me:
“Wrong garden. No fruit for you”
And walk out.
Let the air return.
Let the light flicker.
You’re clean again.
And they? They lost.
