Some places feel like stages long before a story ever unfolds upon them.

The house on Riverview Drive is one of those places.

Perched high above the Wisconsin River on the east side of Wausau, the property descends in a long stone staircase that winds its way down through towering white pines, ending at a dock that rests quietly against the current. The first time you pull into the driveway, you feel it immediately — as if you are arriving not at a home, but at a theater. The trees form a natural curtain. The river waits below like an audience.

I call it the Snow White house.

It has a sunroom that fills with golden light, a stone-built indoor hot tub room, and an outdoor deck made entirely of stone. From the deck, a winding path of stone leads down the steep thirty-foot drop to the river. At the base of the stairs, two massive white pines stand like sentinels on either side of the dock, framing the water like a doorway between worlds.

Across the river, you can see the tree line near East Cassidy Drive. Small islands drift in the current like sleeping animals. The river itself moves with a slow, ancient patience.

On Friday, September 16, 2022, it was one of the last warm days of summer in Northern Wisconsin. The temperature reached eighty-one degrees. The air was dry. The sky stretched endlessly blue.

At the last moment, my boss let me take the day off.

Sean and I planned to spend the afternoon by the water.

I arrived a little after 2:30 p.m. The house was quiet. We had the place to ourselves. I brought food and drinks from the local grocery store downtown. We carried everything down the long stone staircase, laughing as we went, music playing from a small speaker.

We sat on the dock with our feet in the river, watching clouds drift overhead. The water glimmered in the late summer sun. Birds called from the trees. Boats passed in the distance.

At one point, Sean went back up to the house for refills. I stood alone on the dock and glanced out over the river — then back toward the stairs and the two white pines.

For a brief moment, I felt as though I were standing on a stage.

As if something unseen were watching.

The afternoon stretched on lazily. We talked about life. We laughed. Time softened around us.

Around 6:40 p.m., we headed back up to the house. The air was cooling, especially near the river, and we grabbed sweatshirts before starting the oven for pizza. While it preheated, Sean checked the mail and opened a package — a Halloween decoration he had ordered called a Jabberin’ Jack.

He plugged it in.

The pumpkin lit up and switched to its “spooky” mode.

It began speaking in a strange, sing-song voice:

“Now that the sun has gone down, we can spot all the monsters walking around your town. I once saw a gravestone that said, ‘Here lies Aunt Joan, always a hoot and a holler — that’s until she put on the dog’s electrical collar.’”

Something about it made my stomach turn.

My mother’s name was Joan. She had passed years before. We had family dogs named Pluto and Casper.

I stared at the pumpkin and said, “Aren’t you a wicked little thing.”

Sean laughed and unplugged it, switching on smooth jazz instead.

One of my favorite songs came on — *Songbird* by Kenny G.

I sat at the counter, while Sean stood behind me, wrapping his arms around me and gently swaying. The room filled with music and color. The light shifted strangely, like strands of glowing DNA moving through the air.

It felt unreal.

The song ended. The pizza was done. We ate quickly, gathered our things, and headed back down the stone staircase.

It was just before 8:00 p.m.

The sun had set at 7:12.

The river was alive with sound — birds settling into trees, distant traffic humming beyond the water, the low rhythm of the current brushing against the dock.

We sat side by side, legs dangling over the edge, gazing toward the opposite shore near East Cassidy Drive.

Sean played a song I had never heard before.

*Sigh No More* by Mumford & Sons.

We listened in silence, surrounded by trees, sky, and river. The song felt like a benediction — a closing hymn to summer itself.

When it ended, Sean reached for his phone.

And then everything went quiet.

At first, it looked like fireworks.

White light appeared above the tree line across the river — soft and shimmering, rising upward as if launched into the sky. But there was no sound. No crackle. No echo.

The lights drifted downward, changing as they fell — morphing into gold, sparkler-like trails that glowed against the darkening sky.

Sean calmly uttered to me.

“Erica… are you seeing what I’m seeing? That’s not fireworks.”

I nodded. “That’s not a taillight either.”

The river stilled.

The air went heavy.

The lights began to assemble themselves, folding inward as if gathering substance. Slowly, deliberately, they formed a vertical rectangle — seven to ten feet tall — hovering just above the surface of the water.

Its color deepened into a dark burgundy red, edged with black. The light pulsed like a heartbeat.

Then it descended.

Half of it slipped beneath the river’s surface. The other half remained standing, glowing like a doorway made of fire and shadow.

It aligned perfectly with the stone staircase and the two white pines.

Directly in front of us.

I could feel it.

Not fear.

Awareness.

As if it were looking at us.

Judging us.

Observing.

The moment stretched impossibly long.

Then, somewhere in the darkness, there was the unmistakable sound of a stage light clicking off.

The red glow faded the way a lamp dims after being switched off — slowly, gently, deliberately.

The river stirred again.

Traffic noise returned.

A train horn echoed in the distance.

Sean and I sat in silence, staring at the water where it had been.

Neither of us spoke.

Finally, we stood and walked toward the road, watching the train pass as if searching for something — anything — that could explain what we had just witnessed.

But there was nothing.

Only river.

Only trees.

Only night.

Years later, I was scrolling through Pinterest when I froze.

There, on my screen, was the same shape.

A red rectangular light standing in the middle of a country road, framed by trees. The image was labeled simply:

**Red Monolith.**

That is what we saw.

To this day, I know one thing with certainty.

I did not see it alone.

And whatever descended into the waters of the Wisconsin River that night was real.

A sentient light.

A watcher.

A doorway.

In Native folklore, lights on the water are not uncommon — especially at the end of summer, when the veil between worlds grows thin.

And some stages are built long before the actors ever arrive.

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What is a Monolith?

A monolith is a tall, singular structure that appears as one solid form, often rectangular and unmistakably out of place in its surroundings. Historically, monoliths were massive standing stones used as sacred markers, boundary points, or astronomical guides. In modern and paranormal contexts, the word describes a smooth, vertical object that appears deliberately placed — something that feels less like a natural formation and more like a presence.