It had been a long weekend at my sister's place, and though I'd
cherished every moment, exhaustion had finally settled
into my bones. Emma and Mason, my 2 little
bundles of restless energy, had been bouncing off the walls all
day. Now, trapped in our cramped
sedan, they're bickering had reached a boiling point.
Emma, stop touching me. Mason shrieked, his voice shrill
enough to make my temples throb. I'm not even touching you.
Emma shot back, her tone equally indignant.
Guys, enough. My voice cracked slightly,
betraying my frayed nerves. Taking a deep breath, I
reluctantly signaled and pulled off to the gravel shoulder of
the isolated Hwy. nestled deep within the Appalachian
countryside. The fading daylight cast a murky
glow over the dense forests that line the road, trees standing
like dark Sentinels guarding ancient secrets.
Twisting around, I fixed them with my sternest mom stare.
If you 2 don't settle down right now, there won't be any screens
for a week, do you understand me?
They fell into sullen silence and I closed my eyes, briefly
pinching the bridge of my nose to ease the building headache.
That was when I noticed it. A soft, distant hum of an
approaching engine. My eyes flickered to the rear
view mirror, catching headlights, weaving slowly
through the dusk, drawing nearer at an oddly cautious pace.
Instinctively, I straightened up, alertness prickling down my
spine. The car, an old sedan with a
faded blue paint job, slowed to a stop alongside ours, passenger
window lowering with a tired mechanical whine.
Inside sat a middle-aged couple, their faces illuminated by the
dim glow from the dash. The woman leaned slightly toward
the open window, her pale face bearing an amiable smile beneath
eyes that were oddly vacant, distant even.
Evening. She called out, her voice
cheerful but hollow, like rehearsed friendliness.
Thought we should warn you there's a nasty accident just
ahead over the hill. Traffic's completely backed up
beside her. The man stared forward silently,
barely blinking, his thin lips slightly parted.
He hadn't moved or glanced in my direction since they stopped,
and his unnatural stillness sent goosebumps skittering across my
arms. Oh.
I managed, trying not to reveal my unease.
Thank you. The woman's smile widened
slightly, becoming almost forced.
There's a little road right up here.
She continued, pointing vaguely toward the shadowy woods behind
her. It'll take you right around the
wreck. You'll get home faster that way.
Something about her overly helpful tone twisted my gut.
That's very kind. I said, masking hesitation.
I appreciate the warning. For the briefest moment, her
eyes hardened, an icy glint replacing the forced warmth.
Then, almost immediately, she returned to her two friendly
demeanor. Just trying to help drive
safely. They pulled away slowly, gravel
crunching softly beneath their tires.
My breath came shakily as their tail lights vanished down the
road, leaving me sitting in unnerving silence.
Emma and Mason had fallen unusually quiet, their small
faces pale in the dim interior. Mommy.
Emma whispered uncertainly. Those people were weird.
I forced a reassuring smile. Just trying to be helpful,
sweetie. But as I pulled back onto the
main road, doubt gnawed at my mind.
The suggested detour appeared just up ahead, a narrow, unpaved
Rd. diving sharply into the dense forest, its entrance
swallowed by thickening shadows. My pulse quickened as I neared
it, eyes involuntarily drawn to the looming, darkened woods.
Then I saw them again. Their car sat idly by the
roadside, awkwardly parked, half hidden among tall, blackened
trees. Both occupants stood silently
beside the vehicle, shoulders rigid, eyes locked unblinkingly
onto something unseen deep within the tangled forest.
Their postures were unsettlingly stiff, almost unnatural.
Neither acknowledged my slow passage.
It was as if I didn't exist. My stomach twisted sharply,
panic fluttering up my throat as I quickly pressed harder on the
gas pedal. The road unfolded silently
beneath me, trees blurring past. Only when miles stretched
between us did I release my breath, realizing I'd been
holding it all this time. That night, safe at home, sleep
eluded me. Every shadow reminded me of
those strange, lifeless stairs, the unnatural stillness and the
way they'd waited silently, expectantly, at the mouth of
that forgotten Rd. a road that seemed to lead nowhere but
darkness. Morning sunlight painted a
deceptive warmth over the countryside, pushing back the
terrors of the night before. Yet a lingering unease refused
to fade. After dropping Emma and Mason at
school, kissing them a bit too long, holding them a bit too
tightly, I found myself drawn inexplicably back toward that
isolated stretch of Rd. my heartbeat faster as familiar
landmarks blurred past, anxiety simmering beneath my skin.
I tried to convince myself I was overreacting, that daylight
would make my fears vanish, but as the narrow Rd. came into
view, dread returned with suffocating strength.
Slowing down, I peered carefully toward the roadside, my pulse
hammering like a trapped bird against my rib cage.
A rusted metal sign emerged from behind thick brush, partially
concealed and leaning precariously.
My breath caught sharply. Dead end.
I swallowed hard, guiding my car carefully onto the shoulder,
gravel crunching softly beneath my tires.
For a long moment, I just sat there, hands gripping the
steering wheel so tightly my knuckles whitened.
The memory of the couple's vacant stairs and rigid postures
was vivid, haunting. The compulsion to understand, to
unravel this unsettling mystery, proved stronger than my fear.
Reluctantly, I stepped out, my shoes sinking slightly into the
soft earth, damp from the morning dew.
The woods surrounding me felt oppressive, their thick branches
forming a natural tunnel that seemed to suck the sunlight
away. An unnatural silence enveloped
everything. Not a bird chirped, nor leaves
rustled. It was as if the forest itself
was holding its breath, waiting, taking cautious steps toward the
dead end sign, I noticed faint tire marks in the gravel.
Beside them were clearer footprints, fresh imprints
leading from where the car had parked toward the impenetrable
darkness of the woods. The couple had walked straight
into the trees, leaving no trail beyond the initial line of
trees, as if they'd simply dissolved into the shadow
depths. My pulse quickened as I followed
the footprints to the tree line, peering into the tangled, shadow
filled thicket. Something unsettlingly large had
recently passed through here. Branches were snapped at
unnatural angles, bark freshly torn.
A chill prickled along my spine as my eyes caught sight of
something on the forest floor, shattered glass and rusty,
twisted metal half buried in fallen leaves, hinting ominously
at long forgotten violence. Suddenly, a faint, nauseating
odor curled through the air, A smell of rot, damp earth, and
something darker, coppery, unmistakably familiar blood.
I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over roots hidden
beneath the grass. My heart raced, adrenaline
flooding my veins as panic threatened to overtake me.
Whirling around, desperate to return to my car, I froze.
From deep within the shadowy woods, barely visible but
unmistakable, stood 2 figures. My throat tightened painfully,
heart pounding as if ready to burst from my chest.
The couple stood motionless, staring directly at me through
gaps between twisted trunks, their pale, expressionless faces
half hidden in the shadows. It was impossible.
They couldn't have been standing there unnoticed all this time.
Yet there they were, unblinking, statuesque, their eyes gleaming
dully like marbles in the gloom. A sudden whisper drifted from
the darkness, a low rasping sound that crawled over my skin
like spider legs. My blood ran cold.
It was not a language I recognized, just unintelligible
murmurs that filled the silence with malicious intent.
Terrified, I forced myself to turn away, stumbling back to my
car on numb legs, certain that any moment I'd feel a cold hand
grip my shoulder or hear footsteps chasing me.
The door slam shut behind me and I quickly twisted the key, the
engine roaring to life, a lifeline anchoring me back to
reality. Glancing in the rearview mirror,
my blood froze one final time. The figures had moved forward,
closer to the road's edge. Still unmoving, still staring, I
peeled away, tires scattering gravel.
Heart hammering and chaotic rhythm, I vowed silently never
to return to this cursed road again.
Yet even now, 15 years later, their lifeless faces still haunt
me in nightmares, whispering from the darkened woods, waiting
patiently, endlessly waiting for another unfortunate soul to
follow them into the shadows. I'd driven route 322 E of
Cleveland hundreds of times. Six years of hauling packages at
midnight in a 30 foot Freightliner teaches you a lot
about being alone. It also teaches you when to keep
your eyes on the road, and when not to look too closely into the
forest lining either side of you.
Tonight, as usual, the trees stood packed tight.
Thick branches tangled overhead, forming dark tunnels that
swallowed my headlights whole. Fog clung to the pavement,
creeping upward, and ghostly tendrils that made each curve
feel sharper, each hill steeper. I rolled past Orwell, my
headlights barely cutting through the thickening mist.
Abandoned barn stood Gray and sagging at the edge of fields,
their roofs collapsing inward, windows long shattered.
Houses lay dark and empty, grass overgrown, driveways chained
off, signs posted warning trespassers away.
No porch lights offered comfort, no friendly faces, just darkness
and the steady growl of my diesel engine pushing through
the foggy silence. As I passed into Mesopotamia
Township, the woods pressed in closer.
Here, Route 322 wound uphill through a narrow gorge of
towering Pines and skeletal oaks whose black branches clawed at
the night sky. In six years of this route, I'd
never shaken the sensation that something watched from behind
the tree trunks, something silent and patient.
Deer sometimes burst from the shadows, their eyes glowing
green as they leaped through the headlights.
Tonight, there were none. Not even birds fluttered up from
the roadside. I shifted gears, the truck
rumbling steadily. Fog began pressing thicker
against the windshield, forcing me to squint and slow down.
A chill settled into my bones as I reached a winding stretch near
Welshfield. There, the road dipped sharply
before climbing again. For some reason, tonight felt
colder, quieter, emptier. I leaned forward, gripping the
wheel, eyes straining against the pale glow of the high beams.
Then, at the edge of my vision, something dark flickered across
the windshield. Not a bird, I told myself.
Too big, too fast. I shook my head, convincing
myself it was fatigue. But my chest tightened,
adrenaline trickling slowly into my veins.
I focused on breathing and pushed on, fingers gripping the
wheel harder. The road leveled briefly, and
ahead moonlight spilled across the asphalt.
I could see more clearly now. The fog had temporarily lifted
in this open stretch. Then it appeared again.
A huge shadow flashed downward, blotting out the moonlight, and
suddenly hurtled straight at me. I saw it clearly this time,
massive wings outstretched, limbs extended like a diver
plunging toward my cab. I instinctively ducked beneath
the dash, shielding my face, just as something heavy crashed
violently against the aluminum roof above.
The truck shuddered and swayed under the impact, metal echoing
with a hollow boom that rattled through the cab and down into my
bones. Slamming the brakes, tires
screaming across wet pavement, I skidded to a stop in the middle
of Route 322. My pulse hammered in my ears.
For several seconds. I didn't move, just stared
blankly at the dashboard, my breathing ragged and shallow.
Silence returned around me, heavy, pressing thick.
Slowly, carefully, I straightened, heart still
pounding as I peered through the windshield into the foggy
darkness ahead. Nothing stirred.
Every rational part of me wanted to stay inside the truck, lock
the doors, keep driving. But curiosity and fear gnawed at
my resolve. If it was an animal, it might be
injured. I had to see what it hit my
truck. I grabbed the heavy black
flashlight from the glove box and stepped down onto the cold
asphalt, feet crunching gravel as I circled cautiously around
to the back of the truck. Fog swirled in my flashlight's
weak beam, drifting lazily, obscuring everything beyond a
few yards. My eyes strained through the
haze, heart hammering louder with every step.
At first I saw nothing, just empty pavement, shadowy
underbrush and trees standing like silent Sentinels along the
roadside. Then the flashlight caught
something large and dark crumpled on the edge of the
pavement about 50 yards away. The beam illuminated, leathery,
tattered wings sprawled across the asphalt, limbs twisted
awkwardly. No feathers, only dark skin
reflecting wetly under the moonlight.
I paused, breathing shallow, legs trembling slightly as I
moved forward again, slowly approaching the motionless form.
From this distance, the shape resembled a massive bird,
perhaps a giant hawk or eagle, but it seemed off somehow.
Wrong. There were no feathers, no beak,
just strange proportions beneath the dark skin, stretched taut
across thin limbs. My mind raced, trying to
comprehend what lay before me. When I was about 15 feet away,
the figure suddenly jerked upright, limbs unfolding sharply
beneath its body. My heart froze.
In my chest, it stood upright, perfectly still, its shape
silhouetted against the pale glow of moonlight.
It was tall, close to my own height, and thin, its limbs too
long, too angular, too human. Red eyes glinted dully in the
flashlight beam fixed directly upon me.
A mouth opened slightly, revealing teeth that gleamed
wetly. No bird, no eagle or hawk.
Something else entirely, something that should not exist.
Before I could react, it bent its knees slightly, wings
spreading wide, and shot upward into the night without a sound.
I stumbled backward, flashlight clattering to the ground.
The dark figure vanished instantly into the fog shrouded
trees, leaving only empty night and deafening silence behind.
Heart thundering, hands shaking uncontrollably, I staggered back
to the truck, clambered inside, and locked the doors.
My breath fogged the windshield, pulse echoing in my ears.
Without looking back, I slammed the truck into gear and
accelerated, racing away from the stretch of road and whatever
impossible thing I had just witnessed.
But the image was burned into my memory.
The leathery skin, those silent wings, red eyes glowing dimly.
Not human, not animal. Something unknown and terrifying
lurking along Route 322 in the darkness east of Cleveland.
My hands shook so badly I had trouble keeping the truck
steady. The cab was suddenly
suffocating. Every sound amplified, every
vibration magnified. Fog pressed against the
windshield again, blocking visibility, turning the road
ahead into nothing more than vague shapes.
My heart pounded hard enough to hurt, and my chest felt tight,
compressed under the weight of what I'd just seen.
The creatures red eyes lingered in my mind, burned into my
memory. I replayed those few horrifying
seconds over and over, the shape unfolding, standing, watching me
silently, then vanishing into the darkness above without even
a whisper of sound. A cold sweat beaded along my
forehead as I continued down Route 322 toward Chesterland.
Every shadow moving past the truck became a new threat.
Every rustling branch, every flicker of fog across my
headlights made me jump. I was barely breathing, each
inhale shallow and strained. Then something else caught my
attention. A blur, dark and impossibly
quick move just beyond the edges of my headlights.
Weaving among the trees parallel to the road.
I strained my eyes, trying to follow the fleeting shapes that
seemed to pace me through the woods.
Were there more of them? My chest tightened again,
fingers clutching the wheel so tightly my knuckles went numb
each time I glanced over, the movement stopped, leaving only
thick, unmoving darkness. I speed up, engine roaring
loudly, diesel echoing off the tunnel of trees.
As I approached the outskirts of Chesterland, something passed
above the truck, casting a brief but unmistakable shadow across
the moonlit Rd. My stomach lurched and I
involuntarily ducked my head. Again.
Nothing landed, but the presence lingered somewhere nearby,
unseen but not gone. My radio crackled sharply,
startling me. Static filled the cab, growing
louder, drowning out even the growl of my engine.
A voice cut through the static, fragmented, unintelligible at
first, then clearer, disturbingly familiar.
It was a voice I recognized immediately, my own distorted
and panicked, repeating words I hadn't yet spoken.
My hands shook harder, and I switched the radio off, plunging
the cab into silence. Just ahead, the lights of
Chesterland finally came into view, dimly glowing through the
fog like a beacon. The faint comfort they offered
pushed me forward. When I finally turned into the
brightly lit Sunoco station on Mayfield Rd. my relief was
overwhelming. My legs felt weak, trembling as
I parked the truck near the pumps and switched off the
ignition. Silence settled again, heavy and
oppressive. Taking several deep, shaky
breaths, I stepped down onto the pavement.
Cold air bit into my lungs. I had to see the damage, had to
confirm that it was real, that this wasn't some waking
nightmare. Slowly, dreading what I might
find, I walked around to the front of the truck, peering
upward at the aluminum box above the cab.
The sight froze me in place. There, etched into the grime and
road dust, were massive wing prints, unmistakably defined
across the metal. The prints stretched easily 6
feet from tip to tip, veined and bat like.
Detailed and precise. No feathers, no resemblance to
any bird I'd ever seen. At the center of the impressions
were deep indentations, clear marks of clawed hands gripping
the aluminum. My skin went cold, stomach
twisting painfully. From behind me came the sharp
click of a lighter. I spun around so quickly I
nearly lost my balance. A young gas station attendant
leaned against the wall, cigarette dangling loosely from
his lips. He eyed me carefully, then
glanced up at the marks above the cab, his expression changing
instantly to recognition. What happened to you out there?
He asked quietly, taking a slow drag.
His voice was low, cautious. I hesitated, not knowing how
much to share, how much would sound insane.
It's something big. I finally replied.
My voice was hoarse and barely audible, even to myself.
He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing slightly.
Yeah, you're not the first man seen those same marks before.
Drivers come through here sometimes, looking just like
you, shaking, pale as a ghost. What the hell is it?
My voice cracked, revealing more fear than I intended.
He shrugged uneasily, glancing back up at the marks.
Nobody knows. Been stories out there for
years. Folks around here call it the
Flyer. Comes around every few months,
chases trucks down that same stretch of Rd., usually at night
when nobody else is around. His words sent a fresh wave of
dread washing over me. What does it want?
He paused, exhaling smoke slowly into the foggy air.
Some say it likes the engines, the diesel sound, draws it in,
attracts it somehow. Others say it's just waiting for
someone unlucky enough to stop to step out of the truck, like
you did tonight. Nobody's sure.
But whatever it is, it's not good.
He stubbed out his cigarette, eyes darting toward the darkened
Rd. behind me. Be careful heading back.
If I were you, I'd find another route.
With a tight nod, he slipped back into the brightly lit
station, leaving me alone again In the oppressive quiet.
I stared at the wing prints one last time, pulse hammering
loudly in my ears. Slowly, reluctantly, I climbed
back into the cab, locking the door tightly behind me.
I knew I had no choice. Soon I'd have to head back down
Route 322, right through that same foggy darkness again,
toward whatever was still waiting out there for me.
I sat motionless inside the cab, staring blankly at the fog laden
windshield. Minutes ticked by, the diesel
engine idling steadily beneath me, the rhythmic vibration
traveling up my legs. My heart wouldn't settle and
dread pooled heavily in my stomach.
I didn't want to go back that way, not tonight, not ever.
But there were no good alternatives.
Route 322 was the only feasible way home without adding nearly
an hour to my trip. Reaching under the passenger
seat, I grabbed the crowbar I kept tucked there, gripping the
cold metal tightly. It provided little comfort.
I switched off the radio completely, afraid it would
burst to life again with another twisted imitation of my voice.
Instead, I opened the voice recorder on my phone and placed
it on the dashboard. If something happened to me,
someone needed to know what I'd seen.
Taking a long, shaky breath, I shifted into gear and turn the
truck back onto Route 322, heading east again.
My headlights sliced into the darkness, illuminating empty
stretches of damp asphalt and trees looming closely on both
sides. The fog had thinned, but the
silence outside was even heavier.
Not a single sound broke through.
No rustling leaves, no animals in the underbrush, just the
constant hum of my tires on the road.
My eyes kept darting upwards, scanning the black sky, wary of
any movement above. Each mile passed painfully slow,
tension nodding tighter inside me.
I approached the section of road near Welshfield where the
creature had first appeared, my chest tightening.
The engine suddenly sputtered, power faltering briefly, causing
my heart to leap into my throat. Gauges flickered, the lights
dimming for a fraction of a second.
No, please, I whispered, begging the truck not to fail me now.
The engine sputtered again, louder this time.
The headlights flickered once more than faded completely,
plunging me into absolute darkness.
I fought to maintain control as the truck slowed rapidly, the
steering heavy in my hands. The panic surged through me as
the truck rolled to a dead stop, completely powerless.
Sitting helplessly in the middle of the deserted Rd.
I froze, hardly daring to breathe.
Slowly, I reached for the flashlight, clicked it on and
aimed the weak beam forward, illuminating the foggy road
ahead. At first there was nothing, just
black pavement and pale mist drifting lazily over the ground.
Then the beam caught something standing motionless in the road
about 20 yards ahead. It was there, waiting.
It's thin frame stood upright, perfectly still, massive
leathery wings draped from its shoulders, hanging limply at its
sides. The creature was facing me
directly, the dull glow of its red eyes fixed firmly on my
truck. I shuddered uncontrollably, the
crowbar slipping slightly in my damp palms.
My mind raced desperately for options, but every escape seemed
impossible. It began walking forward, one
slow, deliberate step after another, closing the gap
silently. In the flashlight beam, I saw
its face clearly for the first time, skin stretched tight over
sharp cheekbones, pale and translucent.
Its mouth hung partially open, teeth gleaming wetly in the
faint light. The wings twitched slightly with
each step, their veined membranes glistening.
Panic clawed viciously at my chest as it approached.
I raised the crowbar, heart thundering, preparing for
whatever hopeless fight awaited. The creature was just a few feet
away now, its skeletal fingers reaching forward, fingertips
brushing against the grill of the truck.
I braced myself, eyes locked onto the thing's empty red gaze.
Then blinding headlights suddenly flashed behind me,
slicing through the darkness, bathing everything in harsh
white light. A horn blared, loud and urgent.
The creatures head snapped sharply toward the new sound.
In an instant it turned, leaped upward, and vanished swiftly
into the dark trees along the roadside.
A large delivery truck pulled to a stop behind me, engine
rumbling loudly, lights illuminating everything.
I sagged back into my seat, muscles trembling from the
sudden release of tension. The truck driver climbed down,
flashlight in hand, and cautiously approached my window.
His expression was serious, but understanding.
You all right, man? He called out, knocking gently
on the glass. Hands shaking badly, I opened
the door and stepped down onto the road.
My voice cracked as I replied. You saw it, didn't you?
He nodded gravely, eyes scanning the dark woods warily.
I've seen it before. Two years ago, same Rd. same
damn spot. Almost crashed my rig that
night. What the hell is it?
My voice was barely above a whisper.
He shook his head slowly. I don't know, friend, nobody
does. But if I had to guess, it's been
out here a long time. People see it occasionally,
always around this stretch. Usually folks keep quiet about
it. Easier that way.
We quickly checked my truck, managed to jump start the
battery, and got it running again.
He advised me to never stop along that road at night, and if
possible, to avoid driving it all together.
I thanked him sincerely, grateful beyond words, and
climbed back into my truck. I didn't stop again until
daylight broke, reassuring and bright.
At home, exhaustion overtook me, but before sleep came, I
scrubbed the front of the truck clean, washing away the marks,
the dirt, and the reminders of the encounter.
Satisfied, I collapsed into bed, falling instantly into a
restless sleep. But when I woke later that
afternoon, I noticed something from my bedroom window,
something that sent a chill crawling slowly up my spine.
Faint but unmistakable. Pressed deeply into the metal
itself were the outlines of those massive, veined wings.
No matter how hard I scrubbed, the imprints remained.
I never drove Route 322 again, eventually switching to daytime
routes through busier towns. But some nights, even far from
that road, when everything was silent and still, I would hear
heavy wings beating somewhere high above, passing overhead,
quietly hidden by darkness. It was just past 11 at night,
and I was driving home alone from a friend's house in Chester
Township. My hands gripped the wheel
tightly, my knuckles pale beneath the faint green
dashboard lights. I'd had my driver's license for
barely 3 weeks, and I still wasn't completely comfortable
behind the wheel, especially at night.
The road stretched endlessly in front of me, Mayfield Rd. as the
signs marked it, curving through dense forests that pressed in on
either side. The fog rolled in, heavier than
usual, smothering everything beyond my headlights.
I wasn't playing music. My phone stayed silent in my
jacket pocket because every turn, every shadow felt
demanding of my full attention. I knew these winding roads could
hide anything, especially wildlife that darted out
unexpectedly. A slight drizzle blurred my
windshield, my wipers barely keeping pace with the weather.
The world felt enclosed, reduced to just a few feet of asphalt,
illuminated by my headlights. As I approached a tight curve
near Gates Mills, my heart jolted as a large, dark object
appeared suddenly in front of me.
I slammed the brakes, the tires screeching on wet pavement.
My pulse thundered in my ears as the car shuddered to a stop,
inches away from a massive tree log sprawled across both lanes.
I sat there a moment, breathing shakily, adrenaline flooding my
veins. My headlights lit up the rough
bark of the log, and as I squinted through the windshield,
something about it looked strangely deliberate.
Carefully placed, not fallen. It was too neat, too
symmetrical. My stomach twisted into knots.
For a brief second I debated calling someone, maybe my dad or
roadside assistance, but embarrassment took hold.
It was just a log. I could handle it.
I'd started hitting the gym recently, and even though I
wasn't the strongest guy around, it seemed manageable.
Maybe I was overreacting. So with an uneasy sigh, I pulled
on my hood and stepped out of the car, immediately assaulted
by cold rain. As I approached the log,
headlights appeared in my peripheral vision.
Another car was slowly creeping up behind mine.
Its beams pierced the fog, and it rolled to a stop about 20
feet away. I squinted, shielding my eyes
from the glare, unable to make out who was behind the wheel.
Then, abruptly, the car started flashing, its high beams
repeatedly honking its horn. The sudden chaotic noise
startled me, making my breath hitch.
Confusion turned to anxiety as the honking persisted, insistent
and aggressive. What the hell?
I muttered, half angry, half scared.
Maybe they thought I was blocking the road intentionally.
My pulse quickened as panic began to claw at my throat.
I wasn't used to confrontations, especially not out here in the
middle of nowhere. Quickly abandoning the idea of
moving the log, I sprinted back toward my car, fumbling for the
door handle as rain pelted my face.
The second my door slammed shut, I punched the accelerator, tires
slipping on wet asphalt before gripping.
The mysterious vehicle behind me lurched forward, matching my
speed, high beams still flooding my mirrors and blinding me
intermittently. Every few seconds the horn
blared, echoing through the trees.
I took sharp turns down back roads I hardly knew, so M Center
Rd. County Line Rd. anything I could
think of to lose them. But no matter where I turned,
those headlights were glued to my rear bumper.
I felt my throat tighten, my breathing ragged as panic seeped
into my chest. My grip tightened painfully on
the wheel. Was this road rage?
Was I being chased by someone dangerous?
Eventually, after 10 minutes of frantic driving, I saw the
familiar streetlights of my neighborhood in Mayfield
Heights. Relief flooded through me
briefly, but it was short lived. The other car was still behind
me. I whipped into my driveway, not
even bothering to straighten the car out, jumped from the
driver's seat and bolted inside, slamming the front door shut
behind me and locking it swiftly.
My chest heaved, gasping air as I leaned against the door.
But just as I thought the nightmare was over, I heard it.
The sound of footsteps quickly approaching, and then three
deliberate, heavy knocks at the door.
I stood frozen in the hallway, heart hammering so loudly I
could feel it in my temples. 3 slow, heavy knocks reverberated
through the wood again. I swallowed dryly, trying to
slow my breathing, but it came shallow and ragged despite my
efforts. Then came the voice.
A woman's voice, gentle yet clear, quietly calling my last
name. Hello, are you there?
We need to speak with you. A chill race down my spine.
Who the hell was at my door at this hour?
My last name was right there on the mailbox, sure, but it was
past midnight. The knocking resumed, firmer
this time, more insistent. I hesitated, every instinct
screaming at me to stay silent, to hide, but curiosity and a
strange sense of obligation took hold.
I crept forward quietly, holding my breath, and slowly leaned
into the door, placing my eye against the tiny peephole.
Outside stood an older couple, illuminated by the porch light.
They seemed harmless enough, mid 60s maybe.
The woman was petite, her Gray hair tucked neatly beneath a
scarf, her face wearing a gentle expression.
Beside her, the man stood taller, thin framed and hunched
slightly against the drizzle, a concerned look etched deeply
into his weathered face. I exhaled, heart still racing
but feeling slightly foolish for panicking so badly.
Against my better judgement, I turned the lock, keeping the
chain latched as I cracked the door open just an inch.
Can I help you? I asked cautiously, my voice
barely louder than a whisper. Oh, thank goodness.
The woman said softly, visibly relieved.
We've been trying to get your attention.
My brow furrowed. Why, what's going on?
The older man stepped forward slightly, his voice calm yet
serious. Son, we were behind you on
Mayfield Rd. right back near Gates Mills.
We saw you get out to move that log.
My stomach twisted painfully as dread crept slowly up my spine.
I nodded silently, barely able to form words.
When you got out. He continued slowly, his tone
careful. Someone climbed into your back
seat. I stared blankly at him, the
meaning of his words hitting me like ice water.
My breath caught sharply in my throat.
What? The woman nodded solemnly, her
eyes wide in earnest. It happened right as you stepped
out. We tried flashing our lights and
honking to warn you, but you drove away so fast.
Blood drained from my face, my knees suddenly weak.
Someone was in my car. Yes.
The man replied gravely. We followed you here to make
sure you got home safely. We were worried.
Without thinking, I unlatched the chain and flung the door
wide open. Suddenly filled with frantic
urgency, I rushed past them, grabbing a sturdy umbrella from
the stand beside the door. Rain pelted down harder now, but
I barely felt it. My feet splashed through puddles
as I sprinted to my car. I peered inside, shining my
phone's flashlight across the back seat and floor.
Empty relief nearly brought tears to my eyes.
My breathing steadied slightly. Then I opened the driver's door,
the flashlight beam wavering slightly from my trembling hand.
As I scan the floorboards, something metallic glinted from
under the seat. Kneeling carefully, I reached
beneath, fingers brushing against something cold and
unfamiliar. Pulling it into the dim glow of
my flashlight, my heart sank even deeper into dread.
In my palm lay a small folding knife, the cheap handle worn,
muddy, fingerprints smudged along its edge.
I had never seen it before in my life.
I spun around toward the elderly couple, mouth open to speak, but
the words caught sharply in my throat.
They were gone. The driveway stood empty, silent
except for the drumming of rain against pavement.
The street stretched deserted in both directions.
No car insight. My knees buckled slightly,
confusion and fear surging through my body like a physical
weight. I stood alone, clutching the
knife tightly, feeling the cold metal pressed sharply into my
palm as the rain continued pouring down around me.
Two days passed, each filled with restless anxiety.
The knife I discovered beneath my seat was now in police
custody. I'd sat in the Highland Heights
police station, recounting everything multiple times, but
the officers exchanged skeptical glances, their faces unreadable.
No fingerprints except mine, no clear proof anyone else had been
in the car. I sensed their doubt, which only
deepened my paranoia. I tried returning to a normal
routine, hoping to shake the unease from my mind.
But even in the crowded halls of my high school, I felt exposed.
As if unseen, eyes constantly watched me from the shadows at
home, every creak and shuffle amplified into something
sinister. Each night since the incident, I
checked every lock repeatedly, peering through blinds,
searching the darkened streets for any sign of danger.
On the third night after the incident, I was alone again,
sitting anxiously in my bedroom. My parents had left earlier to
visit relatives out of town, and I hadn't dared tell them the
full story. I didn't want to worry them, or
worse, sound paranoid. As midnight came and went, my
ears picked up a faint sound from downstairs, a soft, almost
inaudible creak near the back door.
I froze instantly, ears straining.
Another faint noise followed, A muffled shuffling from somewhere
below. Cold dreads surged through my
body, reaching silently to my bedside table.
I grabbed my phone, its screen illuminating my trembling
fingers as I stood. Slowly, cautiously, I crept
downstairs, my pulse raced, my breathing shallow.
I gripped my phone tighter, ready to call the police at the
slightest indication of trouble. I glanced around the empty
living room, shadows deep and unmoving.
The back door appeared untouched.
I approached quietly and tested the knob, relieved to find it
locked securely. Yet as I turned away, I heard
another sound, clearer this time, a quiet thump coming
unmistakably from the garage. I hesitated only a second before
approaching the garage door, heart pounding louder with each
step. With a shaky hand, I gently
tested the handle. My stomach dropped when the door
swung open. Silently unlocked, I stared into
the pitch black interior, my thumb shaking as I switched on
my phone's flashlight. Footprints, wet and muddy,
glistened faintly on the concrete floor, heading toward
my car. A sudden wave of nausea rose
sharply in my throat. Before I could move or even
think, the house plunged Into Darkness.
Everything went silent. My phone buzzed suddenly,
causing me to jump on the screen.
An unknown number flashed. You didn't check the trunk.
A wave of cold panic crashed over me.
Every instinct screamed to run, to get out, anywhere else.
But fear propelled me forward. With adrenaline surging, I
hurried outside into the pouring rain, moving toward my parked
car. My hands shook violently as I
reached for the trunk, keys fumbling in my fingers.
The trunk clicked open softly, and my flashlight revealed
something crumpled within. My stomach twisted painfully at
the sight. A torn piece of flannel, soaked,
dark, heavy with a rotten metallic scent.
Blood. I slammed the trunk shut,
gasping for air. Backing away, my shaking hands
dialed 911. My voice came raggedly, barely
coherent as I begged them to hurry.
Within minutes, flashing blue lights illuminated the
neighborhood officers combing through my car and yard,
methodically searching for evidence.
Later, sitting dazed and trembling on my porch, a
detective approached. With a grim face, he explained
they'd finally found fingerprints inside the trunk,
Prince matching an escaped inmate from Lake County Jail.
He'd been missing for over a week.
I swallowed painfully as realization sank in.
This wasn't random. He'd chosen me deliberately, set
the trap hidden in my car. He'd watched, waiting for the
right moment, planning something terrible.
Police canvassed the area thoroughly, finding similar
traps on other roads nearby. Logs dragged into place,
vehicles abandoned. The detective's voice faded into
a distant murmur as my mind raced with horrifying
possibilities. What had he planned for me?
Long after the officers left, I sat alone on my porch steps,
staring blankly into the rainy darkness.
A chill ran through me, not from the cold, but from a terrible,
lingering truth that I would never again feel truly safe
behind the wheel. The woods had never been the
threat. It was always something closer,
hidden just out of sight, waiting quietly behind me.
It was the first weekend of October, and I decided on a whim
to rent a cabin up near Skyline Drive.
I told myself it was to clear my head, decompress after the chaos
of the past few months, a breakup, A relentless workload,
and the kind of insomnia you only ever see portrayed
dramatically in movies. Really, though, I just needed
silence. Real, deep silence.
The kind of silence that only mountains could offer.
I left Richmond a bit later than I'd intended, and by the time I
turned onto Skyline Drive, the sun was barely clinging to the
horizon. The sky had turned a deep shade
of purple, threaded with streaks of fading orange.
I knew the drive would be slow, winding through the heavy
foliage of Shenandoah National Park.
It didn't help that fog began rolling in thick and Milky,
blanketing everything in a soft, smothering quiet.
My GPS flickered out almost immediately, losing signal
completely. I'd expected it might happen in
these mountains, but it still made my gut tighten a little.
I reassured myself that I knew roughly where my cabin was,
somewhere past Hazel Mountain Overlook, not far from Big
Meadows Lodge. I adjusted my eyes to the
darkness, my high beam slicing through the fog just enough to
keep me from slipping off the narrow mountain Rd.
The road felt unusually empty, no headlights coming from the
opposite direction. It was unsettling, the absolute
solitude of it. And then, just as I crested a
hill near the overlook, something caught my eye.
A pair of faint red tail lights, glimmering through the haze,
appeared ahead. A small wave of relief washed
through me. At least I wasn't completely
alone out here. I figured it had to be another
traveller headed toward Big Meadows, or perhaps a park
Ranger patrolling. I kept a careful distance behind
them, but soon I noticed something off.
The lights never varied in brightness, never disappeared
around corners or dips in the road.
It was as if they were maintaining A precise distance,
hovering consistently about 50 yards ahead.
And oddly, despite the curves and hills, they moved fluidly,
smoothly, without shifting position or even briefly
disappearing from sight. I glanced down at my dashboard
clock. 9:27 PM. Hadn't it read the same time
earlier? I shook the thought away,
dismissing it as fatigue. My hands tightened around the
wheel as I turned, a sharp bend spotting the wooden sign for
Hazel Mountain Overlook. Yet again, I slowed down,
confusion tightening in my chest.
Had I gotten turned around somehow?
Had the fog disoriented me so badly that I'd made a full
circle without realizing it? Determined, I pushed onward, but
a few minutes later, there was the overlook sign again, wooden
letters emerging from the fog like a taunting whisper.
Impossible. My heart speed up a little, a
quickening thud against my ribs. I'd driven this road before.
There were no loops here. Skyline Drive ran straight along
the Ridge, branching occasionally but never looping
back on itself like this again. I checked my dashboard, still
927 PMA. Cold sweat began to form on the
back of my neck, my mouth suddenly dry.
The tail lights were still ahead of me, unmoving in distance,
impossibly stable. I needed to pull over and gather
myself. Maybe I was overtired,
hallucinating from the stress of the drive.
Finding a wide shoulder, I brought the car to a stop,
cutting off the engine. But as the noise of the engine
faded, it hit me. The silence was unnatural.
No crickets chirped, no leaves rustled, not even the faint hum
of wind. It was a kind of silence I'd
never experienced before, heavy and oppressive.
My ears strained desperately for any noise, but nothing came.
I leaned forward, staring through the windshield into the
thickening fog. My breathing echoed oddly inside
the car. When I looked back at the road
ahead, the tail lights had vanished.
For a moment, relief flooded through me, until a whisper of
movement caught my eye in the rear view mirror. 2 red lights
floated there now, just behind my parked car.
I felt my muscles tense, a cold shiver racing down my spine.
I quickly twisted the key, the engine roaring back to life with
a comfortingly familiar sound. The red lights behind me blinked
out abruptly. I shifted the car into gear and
started forward again, gripping the steering wheel tighter than
before. As the road curved gently ahead,
my headlights caught something I hadn't seen earlier.
A roadside mile marker. I squinted, leaning forward to
read it clearly. My stomach dropped as a deep,
cold dread settled in. It was mile marker 39, the exact
same mile marker I'd seen at least three times already.
I pressed down harder on the accelerator, desperate to break
whatever was happening. The fog thickened further and
still. The tail lights reappeared again
directly in front of me, moving smoothly ahead, leading me
deeper into the dark heart of Shenandoah.
And this time, as I stared, unblinking, they began to drift
slowly backward toward me. My pulse hammered relentlessly
in my throat as I stared helplessly at the approaching
lights. They moved backwards smoothly,
deliberately, without sound, without the faintest hum of an
engine or crunch of tires on gravel.
Instinct took over and I slammed my foot against the brake,
bringing the car to a sudden halt.
I gripped the wheel, knuckles bone white, eyes fixed on the
rearview mirror. The red glow drifted closer,
only stopping when it was mere feet behind my bumper.
I squinted, desperately trying to make out the shape of the
vehicle behind the lights, but saw nothing.
No headlights, no windshield, not even the shadowy outline of
a car's body. Just two luminous red orbs
suspended perfectly still. Panic crept up my spine,
freezing me in place. Seconds dragged by, each one
painfully slow. Sweat trickled down my forehead,
stinging my eyes. Unable to sit still any longer,
I shifted into reverse, determined to confront whatever
this was, but the gear refused to engage.
My heart sank deeper into my chest.
The car was unresponsive, locked in some unnatural paralysis.
I glanced frantically around the dark interior, searching for
answers, but found nothing. Then came a faint, crackling
static through the speakers. I jerked my head toward the
radio, the sound barely audible, as if a frequency had slipped
through the static filled dead air.
A voice whispered faintly from the speakers, chillingly
familiar yet utterly impossible. Aaron.
The voice was gentle, soft, achingly familiar.
It belonged to Emily, my ex-girlfriend, whose warmth I'd
sought to erase from my memory on this very trip.
My breath caught in my chest as I stared at the radio, my hands
shaking. Aaron, I've missed you.
No, I whispered aloud, my voice trembling raw.
This isn't real. Suddenly, the radio went silent
again, and the lights vanished, plunging me back into a
suffocating darkness. My breath came in short, ragged
bursts. I knew I had to move, had to get
out, had to run if I had to, but fear had rooted me to my seat.
Eventually, desperation overcame paralysis and I reached for my
flashlight in the glove compartment, forcing myself to
open the door. The moment my feet touched the
ground, the silence pressed harder around me.
I swung my flashlight wildly, it's beam slicing through dense,
curling fog that swallowed everything around it.
I stepped cautiously away from the car, turning slowly, looking
for any sign of what had pursued me.
Then I heard it. A quiet crunching of footsteps
on gravel. Rhythmic, slow, deliberate.
It echoed from somewhere in the fog just beyond sight.
My chest constricted painfully as I spun frantically, shining
my flashlight in every direction.
The beam illuminated only empty pavement, ghostly trees, and
thick, swirling mist. The sound stopped.
Silence engulfed me again, thick enough to smother my breath,
formed clouds in the damp air. I moved instinctively toward the
edge of the road, flashlight shaking in my grip.
That's when I spotted a faint glow deeper in the woods, barely
noticeable, half obscured by branches.
Against every screaming instinct, I moved toward it,
desperate for answers, for anything familiar.
As I stepped over roots and tangled brush, the flashlight
beam revealed remnants of an old campsite, tattered canvas
flapping gently, tent poles rusted and bent.
Beside the crumbling fire pit lay a weathered notebook, its
cover swollen and warped from exposure.
Kneeling, I grabbed it, flipping through fragile pages.
The handwriting was frantic, uneven, as if scribbled in haste
or fear. I've been following them for
days. The red eyes, they lead you
nowhere. Time bends around them.
Nothing makes sense here. My breathing quickened.
The next entries grew more frantic.
I tried to leave, but the road loops endlessly.
I'm trapped. Something whispers to me,
speaking in voices from home, but it's not them.
It's never them. My hands shook as I flipped
through pages, eyes scanning faster.
Near the end, a single phrase stood out, repeated in scrawled,
desperate handwriting. It sees you when you follow it.
It wants a second set of lights. I dropped the notebook, my pulse
roaring in my ears. The flashlight flickered
suddenly, plunging me into momentary darkness.
Frantically, I smacked it against my palm, cursing
silently until the beam returned, weaker than before.
I bolted back toward the road, stumbling branches clawing at my
clothes. When I reached the pavement, my
car sat quietly, the driver's door now wide open, interior lit
dimly by the dashboard lights. The seat was empty, but
condensation coated every window.
Wet leaves lay scattered across the hood and roof, though no
wind stirred the air. I froze.
Flashlight pointed at the open door.
Inside, faintly, I saw movement, just the slightest shift, as if
something had leaned forward from the shadows in the
passenger seat. A soft, familiar voice drifted
outward again, heart achingly sweet.
Come back inside, Aaron. It's OK.
Terror surged through me. Without a thought, without
hesitation, I turned and sprinted down the road.
My footsteps echoed loudly, filling the silence around me.
Behind me, I heard the sound of the car door slamming shut,
followed by an impossibly gentle whisper carrying clearly through
the night air. Don't go, Aaron, stay with me.
But I didn't look back. I ran into the dark, lungs
burning, legs numb, desperate only to escape whatever had
trapped me in these endless woods.
I ran until the burning in my lungs was unbearable, until the
muscles in my legs seized and refused to push any further.
My shoes skidded on loose gravel as I finally stumbled to a stop,
gasping desperately for air. The fog had thickened even
further, pressing against me with a tangible weight, and my
flashlight barely illuminated more than a few feet ahead.
The road stretched ahead of me, dark, silent, empty.
I glanced behind me, half expecting to see those dreadful
red lights approaching once more, but there was nothing,
just the emptiness of the night. My pulse thundered in my ears
and I bent over, hands on my knees, trying to regain my
breath and my bearings. When I finally straightened, I
noticed an old wooden sign at the edge of the road, partially
obscured by branches. I moved closer and swept the
flashlight beam across faded lettering.
Hawksbill Summit Trail. It was familiar.
I'd hiked this trail before, years ago.
Something inside me stirred. Maybe hope, maybe desperation.
Trails LED somewhere, didn't they?
Anywhere was better than here. I stepped onto the narrow path,
flashlight trained carefully on the uneven ground.
Shadows stretched and twisted around me with each careful
step. The dense canopy overhead
blocked out any remaining traces of moonlight.
Soon, even the faint outline of the road behind me vanished
completely into the fog. The silence on the trail was
oppressive, a thick, unnatural quiet that amplified every
ragged breath I took. I kept moving, focused on each
careful footfall. Eventually, the terrain
steepened and the air grew colder, sharper.
My lungs burned with every inhalation.
But at least here, away from the road, away from those terrible
lights, I felt some small measure of control.
Then, as I rounded a sharp bend in the path, my heart stopped.
Ahead, just off the trail, 2 red lights hovered motionlessly in
the shadows beneath a massive oak.
The same lights from before, except this time they were
clearer, brighter. Not reflections, not headlights.
They hung impossibly still, suspended about chest height,
glowing softly in the darkness. Instinctively, I froze in place,
breath hitching painfully in my chest.
The lights remained perfectly still, their glow steady and
unblinking. Swallowing my fear, I forced
myself forward, step by cautious step, flashlight shaking
uncontrollably in my grip. I had to know.
I needed to see clearly what this thing was, what had haunted
me along Skyline Drive. As I drew closer, my flashlight
beam slowly illuminated the space beneath the lights.
The realization was immediate, visceral, and horrifying.
They weren't lights at all. They were eyes. 2 glowing red
orbs set far apart in a darkness that revealed no shape, no body,
just the eerie stillness beneath the branches of the tree.
My stomach clenched violently as my limbs went numb.
My breath became shallow, rapid gasps.
I wanted to turn, to flee back down the trail, but my legs
refused to obey. All I could do was stare,
transfixed, caught between terror and fascination.
Slowly, around me, the forest began shifting subtly.
The trail beneath my feet twisted unnaturally, warping
into impossible curves. Branches rearranged themselves
silently, shadows dancing in strange shapes under my
weakening flashlight beam. I remembered the desperate
scrawl from the notebook. Break the line of sight, break
the loop. Could that truly be the key?
Could something so simple free me from this endless nightmare?
I closed my eyes, shutting out the red glow, shutting out the
terrifying distortions of reality around me.
With trembling limbs, I forced myself to move backward,
stepping carefully, blindly retracing my path.
The air felt colder now, a chill seeping deep into my bones.
Each step backward was agonizingly slow, the urge to
open my eyes overwhelming, but I resisted.
I couldn't afford to see it again.
Then my heel caught on something unseen, sending me sprawling
onto the ground, my flashlight skittering away into the
underbrush. Darkness enveloped me
completely, and for an instant my mind went utterly blank.
When I opened my eyes again, the cold dawn light seeped gently
through the trees. I was lying in a shallow ditch
alongside Skyline Drive, leaves and dirt clinging to my clothes.
My body ached as though I'd been tossed down a rocky slope.
Slowly I sat up, disoriented but alive, breathing deeply the cool
morning air. My heart quickened as memories
flooded back. The red lights, the impossible
loop, the voice on the radio. A head parked along the roadside
sat my car, engine silent, doors ajar, battery long dead.
Condensation coated every window, and scattered leaves lay
across the hood and roof. Carefully, painfully, I pushed
myself upright and limped toward the vehicle.
By the time Park Rangers found me wandering barefoot near Big
Meadows Lodge, the sun had fully risen.
Their expressions were skeptical.
As I babbled my story, their eyes filled with quiet
disbelief. When I mentioned the notebook
and the frantic writings of someone named Eli, their
skepticism turned to confusion. Later, after a brief search,
they told me no such person had ever been reported missing.
The journal I swore I'd seen was never found.
Months later, safely home in Richmond, I tried to rationalize
my experience as stress induced hallucinations, nightmares
brought on by exhaustion. But deep down I knew the truth.
I kept glancing at the darkened windows of my apartment,
expecting red lights to appear in the reflection.
One night months afterward, parked at a quiet rest stop not
far from Shenandoah, I caught movement at the edge of the tree
line, a familiar silent glow. 2 red lights hung there, patiently
unmoving, watching from the darkness of the forest, waiting
for someone else to follow them into the endless loop.