I've been living out here in the Appalachian Mountains for most
of my life, and I always thought I knew what to expect once the
sun went down. Coyotes yipping in the distance,
maybe a black bear rustling around, nothing much shakes me.
But on this night, everything changed.
Let me start by saying my evening had been uneventful,
just chores and a quick dinner before midnight rolled around.
Jax, my retriever, was curled up by the fireplace like he always
is. He's the most relaxed dog on the
planet, rarely even barks unless the mailman shows up.
That's why I nearly dropped my coffee when I heard this growl
coming from him, deep and raw, unlike anything I'd heard
before. I glanced at him and saw he was
standing rigid, hackles raised, eyes fixed on the window.
I couldn't see anything but my own reflection in the glass, and
I tried to shrug it off, mumbling something like easy,
buddy, but inside I was rattled. I've never seen Jax look that
tense, tail stiff, nose practically glued to the window.
It was enough to get my heart pounding.
Soon I realized I still had to lock up my workshop down the
slope behind the house. Normally this isn't a big deal,
just a quick trip in the dark with a flashlight.
But the way Jax was acting, let's just say I was on edge.
Still, I convinced myself it was no big deal.
I grabbed my coat, clicked on the flashlight, and headed out.
Jax insisted on coming, practically pressing against my
leg with every step. Outside, the air felt strange.
I couldn't place why. Maybe it was too still.
No crickets, no wind through the branches.
Just a heavy quiet. Halfway to the workshop, Jax let
out another warning growl that made my stomach tighten.
Before I could turn on my heel, I noticed the workshop door was
slightly open, even though I was sure I'd closed it earlier.
My chest felt tight, but I forced myself to keep going.
I tugged the door shut and locked it.
And that's when this insane commotion erupted in the woods
behind me. I can't fully do the sound
justice, but it was like a sudden surge of noise tearing
through the undergrowth, branches snapping, leaves
crunching, almost like a crowd sprinting among the trees.
I froze, and Jax just pressed against me, teeth bared.
Whatever caused that ruckus had to be larger than a raccoon or
fox. It sounded massive.
My hands were shaking so badly that I fumble with the
flashlight, nearly dropping it. I backed up toward the house,
trying not to break into a Sprint, though my legs were
begging me to run. The closer we got to the porch,
the more frantic everything felt.
I got inside, practically shoved the door shut and slid the dead
bolt into place. My brain was racing, trying to
explain what I just heard. A bunch of deer.
A bear with Cubs. But it was so loud, so
widespread, like multiple creatures.
I stood in the hallway, breath hitching, jacks at my feet,
staring at the door. I realized I'd left my pistol
upstairs. Adrenaline was making my hands
tremble, my pulse hammered as I rushed to my bedroom, grabbed
the gun, and made sure it was loaded.
I've never felt so desperate to be armed in my own home.
Just as I debated whether to investigate or hide, Jax let out
a bark. That bark.
He only does that when something's seriously wrong.
So against every instinct, I headed back out onto the porch
with my flashlight and pistol. My chest was tight, my breathing
uneven, but I needed to know if there was an intruder or some
animal messing around. I scanned the tree line with the
beam. Nothing moved.
Silence reigned almost unnaturally, as though nature
itself took a step back, waiting to see what I'd do next.
Then, just as I was about to turn and go inside, I heard this
low murmur, more like a swarm of hushed voices than a single
sound. It came from the very edge of my
property, out near where the trees thickened.
My stomach dropped. It didn't sound like English,
but it was disturbingly close to speech.
Jax whimpered, tail tucked as if he wanted to drag me inside.
I couldn't see anything, but it felt like eyes were on me, a
presence both everywhere and nowhere.
The murmurs seemed to shift direction, echoing out from
multiple spots at once. My light swept across the yard,
revealing not one silhouette, not one flicker of movement.
Yet the voices, if that's what they were, didn't stop.
A wave of nausea hit me so hard I thought I might collapse right
there on the porch. I forced myself to breathe
through it, whispering Jax's name for a shred of comfort.
After what felt like ages, I managed to pull myself back
inside. That door had never felt so
flimsy. I latched it and checked the
windows, too spooked to turn on any indoor lights, hoping that
darkness would hide me. The night wasn't over, though.
I had a terrible feeling this was only the beginning.
Like whatever was out there wasn't done with me.
That was the moment I realized I wasn't just dealing with some
random animal. This felt orchestrated,
purposeful, and it was tightening around me step by
step. I didn't have a clue what was
causing it, but I knew one thing for sure.
My home, my safe space, was no longer secure.
Jax's instincts had been right from the start, and I dreaded
what might be next. I had barely closed my eyes for
a second, couldn't rest even if I tried.
With every nerve in my body on high alert, Jax was tense,
pacing the living room and refusing to leave the front
door. I kept the lights off, thinking
somehow it would make me less of a target.
My phone sat on the table, but out here in the middle of
nowhere, good luck trying to call for help.
Even if I did get a signal, what could I possibly say to
emergency services? Hello.
Yes, there are voices surrounding my house and I don't
see anyone, but my dog is freaking out.
That weird muttering from outside seemed to vibrate
through the walls, like a low chorus of whispers just behind
the wooden panels. It was madding because I
couldn't single out a phrase or identify if it was even human
speech. It rose and fell in waves, and
every so often it almost sounded like chanting.
I guess I was too rattled to be sure.
All I knew was that my gut told me there were multiple presences
out there. More than one set of footsteps
had circled the house after I first came inside.
After another minute of pacing, I finally thought, screw it, I
need to see what's happening. I edged over to the window
beside my front door, careful not to rustle the curtains.
The instant I leaned forward, the noise outside cut off like
someone hit a switch. In its place was the deepest,
most all consuming silence. Not a single insect chirping, no
rustle of leaves, just my own ragged breathing.
I can't express how unsettling it is to realize that whatever's
out there knows when you move. The second I froze, I heard a
slight shuffle near the corner of the house.
Then that quiet murmuring started back up again.
More agitated than before, I grabbed my pistol from the
coffee table and quietly approached another window that
looked out toward the gravel driveway.
Jax followed. Ears down and tail stiff, as if
he expected an attack. When I shifted the curtain a
millimeter, the Mumbles faded out again.
Something was definitely keyed into every movement I made.
And that realization. Caused my stomach to churn.
Time dragged on. I checked my phone. 1:47 AM.
It had only been an hour since I'd first heard that thunderous
crashing in the woods, but it felt like half the night had
passed. I decided to kill the darkness
with a chance at visibility, so I clicked on the porch light.
Nothing in the yard, No bodies, no shapes, not even a stray
raccoon. My flashlight remained on the
table, but I felt no urge to go out there again.
A part of me sensed if I opened that door, I'd be swallowed
whole. Jax's eyes stayed locked on the
windows. Now and then a single footstep
crunched the gravel outside, slow and deliberate.
One step, pause. Another step, pause.
It was unbearable not to open a window and yell, but I couldn't
bring myself to be that reckless.
My mind kept thinking back on old stories from my grandparents
about things in the hills that weren't exactly animal and not
quite human either, tales I'd once dismissed as pure folklore.
But here I was, feeling cornered by something I couldn't see.
To keep myself sane, I jotted notes on a pad what times I
heard the footsteps, what they sounded like, how the whispering
seemed to move around the property in a clockwise pattern.
Once or twice I considered switching on music or the TV
just to drown it out, but a voice in my head told me to stay
alert, not to mask the sounds. After all, if something crashed
through the door, I needed to know instantly.
Hours crawled by this way. My nerves were shot, my hands
clammy, and every muscle ached with tension.
I found myself drifting off, only to jolt awake seconds later
whenever Jax twitched. It was like living on a fault
line, expecting the earth to quake at any moment.
Meanwhile, the murmurs persisted outside, underscored by that
dead silent hush whenever I tried to move.
It was a twisted game. They made sure I knew they were
there, but not once did I see a face or a form.
Sometime around 4:30, or maybe closer to 5:00 AM, the tone of
the murmuring changed. Hard to explain, but the pitch
went lower, almost guttural. Then, slowly, the sounds started
drifting away, deeper into the woods.
I caught faint rustling through the thick brush, then a final
few snaps of branches in their wake.
Frogs croaked and a couple of birds called.
It was as if the natural world had been stifled all night and
finally breathed again. Relief washed over me, but it
wasn't that comforting. I still felt like I might vomit
from the stress. I checked each window for any
sign of movement. Nothing.
The gravel driveway looked untouched aside from my own
footprints. Jax gradually relaxed, though he
wouldn't lie down until the 1st pale light of dawn crept across
the horizon. Once I was fairly certain the
immediate threat had disappeared, I stepped outside
onto the porch for a breath of air, pistol clutched tight in my
hand. The yard was a mess of broken
branches and the lingering smell of disturbed soil clung to the
morning breeze. Yet bizarrely, there were no
footprints, no trace of a crowd or gang of animals.
The only proof was in my shaking limbs and Jax's raw edge stare.
I spent sunrise going back and forth, mentally replaying each
horrifying moment. My place still felt uneasy, like
the echoes of those voices might start up again any second.
I didn't dare pack up and leave, part of me needed to know if
this was a one time nightmare or an ongoing threat.
I downed 2 cups of coffee, watched the brightening sky and
told myself I'd figure out what to do next.
For now, daylight was my only shield and I was not about to
let my guard down. Jax and I sat there in a haunted
silence, expecting something to re emerge, hoping that it
wouldn't. Sunrise brought the faintest
sense of relief, yet my nerves still buzzed with every stray
sound. I locked the doors, sealed every
window, and tried to make sense of what had just happened, but
nothing about it fit neatly into the realm of normal.
Part of me wanted to believe that it was some freak incident,
maybe a collective hallucination brought on by stress.
Still, the unease in my chest whispered that whatever took up
residence in the darkness that night is out there, lurking
beyond the edges of reason, waiting for another moment to
slip back into my world. For now, I've recounted every
detail here, hoping to warn others.
Sometimes the eerie stories we dismiss might be truer than
we're willing to admit. I've been drawn to the
Appalachian region for as long as I can remember.
Something about those towering slopes and shadowy hollows
always felt like a gateway into a different world.
Beautiful, yet laced with an unsettling aura that's tough to
articulate. A few friends and I decided to
head out to Holly River State Park in West Virginia, Lured by
rumors of an old family cemetery hidden up on a Ridge, we had
only a vague idea of where it might be.
All we knew was that we needed to follow a winding trail that
cut through dense undergrowth before climbing up toward this
rumored graveyard. So the three of us piled into my
car early that morning, excited by the prospect of a day hike.
The drive itself was so quiet that we began making offhand
jokes, like something was waiting out there just beyond
view. Maybe it was nerves talking, or
maybe I'd had too much coffee. Either way, my stomach churned
in that weird way it does when you're both excited and half
spooked. When we arrived, the parking lot
near the main trailhead had a few vehicles, but we didn't
cross paths with any actual people.
The entire place seemed deserted.
We shrugged, figuring everyone must have already started their
morning treks. After all, Holly River is a
decently sized park. Folks could be scattered across
countless trails. I tried to keep my mind on the
gorgeous landscape, Moss covered stones, towering hardwoods, and
the occasional chirp of a distant bird.
Yet there was this hush underneath it all, like nature
had dialed itself down a notch. We kicked off our hike around
midday. The sky was overcast, so the
light filtering through the branches came in muted, silvery
patches. The trail was pretty well worn
at first, so we made quick progress.
The chatter between us died off once we noticed how oddly calm
the forest felt. Everything about the place
demanded our attention, from the tangled roots under foot to the
looming canopy overhead. Occasionally we'd catch snatches
of movement in our peripheral vision.
Maybe squirrels, but the scuttling always stopped the
moment we tried to look closer. My friend commented that it
seemed like the place was sizing us up, and nobody argued.
We pressed on, climbing steadily.
Eventually we left the official trail in search of that old
graveyard. The path we followed was more of
a half remembered rumor than a marked route.
A fallen tree forced us to detour through thick brush, and
my arms got scratched up enough that I started wishing we'd
picked an easier day hike. Still, I couldn't help feeling
compelled to keep going. There was a raw, ancient feel to
the land that I couldn't let go of.
A couple hours in, the terrain turned steep.
Loose stones threatened to send us sliding if we weren't
careful, and we had to cling to exposed roots for stability.
We nearly missed the cemetery altogether, spotting it only
because of a warped iron gate that caught the corner of my
friend's eye. A row of leaning tombstone stood
beyond the lettering on them, faded and chipped.
If I didn't know any better, I'd say they'd been here for
centuries. Up close, the graveyard gave off
an atmosphere that bordered on oppressive.
The headstones bore names we could barely read, and the
ground was covered in tangled weeds.
The three of us wandered, taking pictures and gingerly brushing
aside overgrown vines. Every so often, a subtle breeze
would move past us, bringing with it a musty odor that
reminded me of damp soil and decaying leaves.
My pulse was hammering in my ears for reasons I couldn't
explain, but I tried to play it cool.
We stayed longer than we intended, mostly because we were
fascinated and maybe a little horrified by the idea that
entire families could be buried out here, forgotten by.
Time. Each time the wind picked up, we
paused, half expecting something or someone to step out from
behind those looming trees. It was all in my head, I told
myself. Probably just a side effect of
being in a graveyard at sunset. By the time we left, the sun had
started sliding down the sky, painting the Ridge in murky
oranges and purples. We hadn't planned on night
hiking, but it was creeping up on us fast.
The idea of navigating a dark forest trail made our nerves
spike, so we decided the parks main road would be safer.
Even if it was a bit out of the way, we figured it couldn't be
more than a few miles to loop around and reach the campground
parking lot. Leaving that cemetery felt like
stepping away from a forgotten realm.
Once we hit a semblance of a trail again, a fragile sense of
relief settled over us, but it was short lived.
The path to the road was riddled with roots, slippery patches,
and random branches that snagged at our clothes.
Little cracks and snaps echoed in the brush, just enough to
keep us on edge. We hurried along, willing
ourselves not to think about the dark shapes dancing in our
peripherals. Finally, we broke free of the
tree line and spotted the asphalt up ahead.
The sense of relief was almost overwhelming, like stumbling
onto a lifeline in the middle of nowhere.
But an uneasy vibe still trailed behind us, no matter how hard we
tried to shake it. The light was fading fast, and
the road itself looked empty in both directions.
No cars, no people, nothing. Just a hush that felt downright
eerie. That's where the first leg of
our journey ended, with us stepping onto that road and
peering into the early twilight. Looking back, I realized we had
no clue how unsettling the next stretch would be.
In the moment, though, we were just grateful to be out of the
thick woods. Little did we know that relief
was about to dissolve quicker than we could have imagined.
After stumbling out of the tree line, we reached this narrow
asphalt Rd. that was supposed to lead us back to the campground.
And for a few fleeting moments, we were relieved.
No more tripping over roots or scraping our arms on
undergrowth. The wind seemed calmer, too,
though I swear the air felt heavier than it had in the
woods. With dusk rolling in, we figured
we had maybe 3 miles to cover tops.
But it was eerily quiet. I mean, you'd expect at least a
car or two to pass by in a park this size, even late in the day.
Instead, we had this winding stretch of Rd. all to ourselves.
I remember my friend joking. We're basically the only people
left on earth, and none of us cracked a real smile.
We picked a direction based on a ragged sign pointing toward the
campground and started walking, the sun melting into the horizon
behind us. As we hiked along, the darkness
deepened. The trees on either side of us
stood like silent onlookers. Every so often something would
stir in the brush, maybe a small critter or a bird, but we never
saw anything. That emptiness felt unnatural,
like the park itself was waiting for something to happen.
We'd covered about half the distance when we spotted the
silhouettes up ahead, illuminated by the faint
remnants of twilight. Or at least five figures.
They were just standing there in the middle of the road, as if
they were waiting for us. Relief surged through me for a
second, thankful that we weren't the only ones out there.
My friend even waved, though none of them waved back.
We moved closer, calling out a timid hey or two, hoping for
some response. Nothing.
They were close enough now that I should have been able to make
out features, faces, hair color, clothing details, but it was
like I could only see the general shape of them, as if the
light was playing tricks. The weirdest part was that they
didn't make a sound. No conversation, no footsteps,
shuffling on asphalt. They were just there, like
placeholders. Then, without warning, they
started to fade. 1 by 1. They flickered in and out until
all that remained was a vacant stretch of Rd.
The three of us were rooted in place, trying to process what
was happening. We weren't imagining this.
There had to be a rational explanation.
Maybe our eyes were messing with us after the dim forest, or
maybe they just slipped away into the dark.
But as we reached the exact spot where we'd seen them, it was
clear there was nowhere to go. On one side, a sheer drop fell
away into a valley. The other side was a jagged
slope of rock that would have been nearly impossible to climb
quietly even in broad daylight. The asphalt itself looked
undisturbed. No footprints, no sign of
scuffling, not even a stray candy wrapper.
Just empty roads stretching off into the shadows.
A cold sense of dread settled over us.
We hung around for a minute, shining phone flashlights and
calling out, but nobody answered.
The idea of those figures just evaporating forced our tension
up several notches. I couldn't tell if we'd
witnessed something supernatural or if my eyes were conspiring
against me in the low light. Either way, it triggered a kind
of primal fear I haven't felt too often in my life.
We finally decided to press on, hearts thumping from the sudden
shift in atmosphere. Every step from then on felt
like it echoed a little too loudly.
We kept glancing back, convinced we'd see the group again,
trailing behind us or maybe popping up ahead, but there was
nothing. At one point I caught a whiff of
a faint odor, sort of earthy and decayed, but it was gone as soon
as I noticed it. By then, we were moving faster
than I'd ever hiked in my life. The final stretch to the
campground felt like a fever dream, each of us expecting
something horrible to lurch out of the darkness.
When we finally caught sight of the campground sign, it was like
stepping into another world, only there weren't any people
there either. The entire place was
disturbingly quiet, save for the distant rustle of trees.
Usually a State Park campground has some buzz.
Campfires, crackling, murmured conversations, maybe a dog
barking. We got nothing.
Our car was right where we left it, sitting in a patch of
moonlit gravel. I can't describe how relieved I
was to see it. We clambered inside, locking the
doors more out of instinct than necessity.
Who locks up in a lonely campground?
But something about that night made every protective move feel
justified. My friend gunned the ignition
and we peeled out headlights, pushing back the darkness a
little. That entire drive out of the
park, I kept expecting those figures to emerge from the trees
or appear in the rearview mirror.
Only once we hit the main highway did we dare speak about
it. In more than whispers, we tossed
around ideas. Mass hallucination, illusions
caused by the fading light, or maybe some group of locals
messing with us. Still, none of those
explanations explained the silent disappearance act.
Days later, every time I closed my eyes, I'd see those
silhouettes flicker and vanish like they'd never existed at
all. I've heard plenty of stories
about weird sightings in the Appalachians, ghostly hikers,
phantom Lantern lights bobbing through the trees.
But until that night, I brushed them off as campfire tales.
Now I'm not so sure. All I know is that something
happened on that silent road, and I can't shake the idea that
it was a glimpse into the unknown.
That's the story of how a simple day trip to Holly River spiraled
into a haunting mystery that continues to gnaw at me.
Was it some lost echo of the park's past, or did we stumble
into something far stranger than we were prepared to handle?
Honestly, I still don't have an answer, but there's one thing I
can say for sure. The image of those five figures
dissolving in the twilight is going to stay with me.
I guess not every twist in these old mountains needs a tidy
explanation. Sometimes it's enough to know
that the darkness holds more secrets than we can ever hope to
understand. I'm writing this because every
time I look back on my experiences out there, I end up
pacing around my apartment, uneasy and restless.
People love talking about the Appalachian Trail as if it's
just scenic overlooks and friendly hikers, but I learned
there's a lot more than meets the eye.
Before I ever set foot on that route, I was the type of person
who devoured paranormal stories. Something about the unknown
always grabbed my attention. Maybe it's just human nature to
chase mysteries. By the time I started planning
my extended trek, I'd convince myself that I was more prepared
than most for whatever I'd find in those ancient mountains.
The reality Completely different.
I remember my first stretch near Blood Mountain.
History loomed around every bend, not just from the Civil
War sites, but from the remnants of tribal conflicts that went on
long before European settlers showed up.
The ground felt worn in a way that's tough to put into words,
like it had absorbed centuries of voices.
A couple of nights in, I decided to camp alone in a spot where
the trees formed a thick canopy, letting in only patches of
moonlight. The moment I unrolled my
sleeping gear I noticed that the usual night chorus, crickets,
distant owls had faded. There was an odd sensation of
being watched from multiple angles.
My mind started to wander and I ended up lying awake far longer
than I wanted. The strange part is, I was
positive I spotted movements where there shouldn't have been
any silhouettes flitting at the periphery of my headlamps glow.
Once or twice I had the distinct impression of a figure standing
behind a distant trunk, dressed in something that didn't fit
modern times. I never got a clear look, but
that sense of stepping across some invisible threshold kept me
wired until sunrise. A few weeks later, I ventured
closer to Harpers Ferry, where you can literally walk among the
traces of the Civil War trenches.
One late afternoon, as the light shifted from gold to a dull
Gray, I saw a person in old style military gear drifting
along a sunken path. My brain tried to rationalize.
Maybe it's a re enactor, maybe I was exhausted, But the person,
or whatever it was, vanished almost instantly.
The spot fell silent, like everything around had decided to
pause for a second. I questioned if I was alone in
that corridor of battered earth. It left me on edge for the next
several days, scanning every ridgeline in case something else
appeared. But nothing compares to the
night a bear and I had our awkward confrontation.
I'd rigged up a hammock between two sturdy trunks and dozed off,
lulled by the distant rustling. At some unknown hour, a firm
prod against my back startled me awake.
I reacted without thinking, twisting around and striking
with my hand. I connected with fur and
realized in horror it was a bear's muzzle.
Adrenaline shot through me as I waited for it to decide if I was
more trouble than I was worth. Instead, it crashed off through
the brush, leaving me stunned and trying to slow my breathing
The rest of that evening. Every single noise made me tense
up, braced for a second round that thankfully never came.
Funny thing is, when I mention this to people, they usually
fixate on the bear encounter. They don't realize that animals,
wild as they might be, don't compare to the unsettling
presence that seems embedded in parts of this trail.
That feeling of history refusing to let go.
Those fleeting glimpses of things wearing outdated clothes,
the heavy atmosphere around certain places.
It's all there, woven into the land.
I'd tell myself these experiences were just the
product of fatigue. Maybe I'd just been reading too
many ghost stories. Yet something nagged at me, like
I'd stumbled onto a realm where the past occasionally slips
through the cracks. Later, in Pennsylvania, I'd
discover what true dread can feel like.
That, however, is a story for another post, one that still
keeps me alert at odd hours. Replaying every step I took
through that long, dark night, I thought I'd seen the worst of
the trail run. Insurance with spooky
silhouettes and a half asleep confrontation with a bear had me
convinced I was prepared for anything.
Turns out, Pennsylvania wanted to prove me wrong.
After crossing the state line, I remember feeling oddly
optimistic. The weather was pleasant enough
and I decided to sleep under the stars rather than set up any
shelter. The sky was so clear earlier
that evening and I wanted to experience the open air for
once. I laid out my sleeping pad and
got comfy in my bag, surrounded by trees and that faint hum of
night time insects. Eventually, I drifted off.
Sometime past midnight, I woke up with my heart thumping.
The night had gone dead silent, which rattled me.
Normally, you'd at least hear a hooting owl or wind rustling the
branches. Instead, a thin, eerie whine
reverberated all around. It was so soft, like it was
trying not to exist, but it also seemed inescapable.
Every instinct told me I shouldn't remain there.
My breathing felt tight and the air felt heavier than usual, as
if some invisible presence had crept in and settled on top of
me. I tried to tell myself I was
overreacting, that it might just be the wind through the leaves
or some small animal. Yet the wind didn't change
pitch, didn't shift direction, didn't do anything I'd label as
normal. The dread in the pit of my
stomach wasn't something I could shrug off.
Within minutes I was shoving gear back into my pack, fumbling
for my headlamp. It took every ounce of willpower
not to panic and run blindly through the dark.
The moment I found the trail markers and started moving, the
heaviness slowly eased. After maybe half a mile, the
sensation broke. Like stepping out of a dense
fog. The noise faded into nothingness
and I stood there, leaning on a tree, my mind racing.
Part of me wanted to turn back, search for some logical
explanation. The rest of me argued that I
should get as far from that spot as possible.
In the end, I kept going. Even now I haven't made sense of
what happened or what was possibly lurking in that empty
patch of forest. A few days later a storm caught
me and a group of through hikers near Mount Rogers.
Rain hammered the metal roof of a simple shelter, Thunder
rolling across the sky. We were soaked, shivering and
half starved. Someone remembered that a local
pizza place would deliver to the parking lot if you sweet talk
them enough. The idea of hot food and maybe a
six pack had us pooling whatever money we had left.
After a tense wait, lightning flickering in the distance, we
spotted headlights. Naturally, we figured our food
had arrived. Several of us shuffled out into
the downpour, layered and soaked clothes, boots caked in mud,
hair plastered to our faces. We must have looked like a
nightmare. The driver saw us coming and
slammed on the high beams. Tires screeched, reverse lights
glowed bright red, and the van spun around so fast we all stood
there in confusion. We watched the vehicle vanish
back down the road, fishtailing like it was desperate to escape.
We exchanged baffled looks, water dripping down our faces,
and laughed nervously. Some of the group started
joking. Maybe we seemed like forest
ghouls or something. 5 minutes later, like clockwork, a
different car pulled up and this time the driver hopped out,
completely unfazed. Apparently he was the real pizza
guy, used to hikers in all their rain soaked glory.
He handed over hot pizza boxes, a few cans of cheap beer, and
chuckled about us looking like zombies.
I can only guess what the first driver's story would be
afterward, how a band of unholy creatures approached his van in
the middle of nowhere at night. In those moments, I realized
that the Appalachian Trail doesn't just feed on spooky
legends. Sometimes genuine comedy and
confusion over shadow the fear. Yet for all the laughs we shared
over that botched pizza delivery, I still had the memory
of that unsettling wine in Pennsylvania fresh in my head.
I couldn't help but wonder if I'd only scratched the surface.
The trail has this way of revealing its secrets when you
least expect it. One minute you're joking around,
dripping wet, begging for food. The next you're bolting from an
unexplainable force in the dead of night.
Even now, I look back at Pennsylvania and feel a pang of
discomfort. Whatever I sensed out there,
whatever generated that unearthly noise, made me think
there are places along the trail better left alone, maybe
forever. And yet part of me can't resist
the pole to keep exploring, half expecting to stumble onto some
ancient mystery that refuses to stay buried.
Guess that's the real paradox of the Appalachian Trail.
It draws you in with beauty, then leaves you with questions
that linger night after night. I was closing in on Duncannon,
feeling that mix of exhaustion and excitement that comes when
you're too far gone to turn around, but not quite close
enough to celebrate. About 10 miles out, I spotted a
small group of older women huddled around a couple of
picnic tables near the trail. They waved me over with warm
smiles, so I joined them to rest my legs a bit.
They asked if I was a through hiker and seemed genuinely
thrilled about my progress. We traded a few stories.
I told them where I started, how many states I'd already trudged
through. It felt like your average
friendly chatter until they asked where I was sleeping that
night. Soon as I mentioned some older
shelter a few miles shy of town, their energy shifted.
One of them said you should really head into Duncannon
tonight, while another repeated the advice, adding nothing else,
just the same warning. None of them spelled out why,
and I remember thinking, are they worried about the weather
or something? But their eyes had this urgency,
like they knew something I didn't.
I tried to press them for details but they brushed it off,
insisting it'd be better if I pushed on to town.
My pack was heavy and my feet were screaming at me, so heading
all the way in felt like an extra challenge.
Their unease was contagious, though as I said my goodbyes,
that tension they carried clung to me like a damp chill.
By late afternoon, I found myself turning off the main
stretch of the Appalachian Trail, following a steep side
path toward the shelter. The slope was trickier than I
expected, with old roots and loose stones that had me
stumbling more than once. Overhead, the light was already
starting to fade behind thick branches.
Normally I'd be OK with a few hours of dusk hiking, but
something about that place just felt heavy.
Eventually I reached 2 battered structures that I knew from my
guidebook were built by Earl Schaffer.
He was basically AT royalty, having been the first person to
ever hike the entire trail in one go.
The shelters looked ancient, sagging in spots, and the musty
boards gave off a whiff of age and rot.
Nearby was a new shelter under construction, and even from a
distance I noticed carved faces on the beam ends.
They peered out in a way I couldn't quite describe, like
silent observers in the dying light.
I could have stayed in the half finished shelter, but it seemed
even more unsettling with those carved heads, so I stuck to one
of the old ones. Inside, the shelter's floor was
just round logs placed side by side, barely lifted off the
ground. It made for a pretty uneven
sleeping surface. I figured I'd seen worse.
This was the AT, after all. But something about that rickety
setup gave me an odd sense of discomfort.
I tried to focus on other things, next day's mileage where
I'd get water. A possible zero day in
Duncannon. But whenever I paused, that
prickly awareness returned. Like I wasn't alone.
I kept glancing around, seeing nothing but old wood leaves and
a few spiders skittering in the corners.
I made dinner quickly, more to keep my hands busy than
anything. Every so often a gust of wind
would whistle through the beams and the shelter groaned like it
had a voice of its own. My mind flicked back to the
women at the picnic tables. Why were they so insistent I
shouldn't be here? The question nagged at me, but
without a concrete reason I brushed it off as local
superstition or overprotection. Night fell harder than usual, it
seemed. The woods beyond the shelter
entrance looked like a solid wall of black.
My headlamp beam danced around, catching the edges of rocks and
roots outside, but I couldn't shake the weirdness.
I tried to sleep, but my senses stayed on high alert.
Sometimes a crack of a branch snapped me awake, or a rustle of
movement made me think there was someone or something lurking
beyond the circle of light. When morning finally arrived,
the relief I felt was intense. Packing up, I almost sprinted up
that trail, my body protesting the sudden climb, but my mind
demanding we get moving. With each step, the weight of
the place seemed to lessen, replaced by fresh air and the
promise of Dunk Cannon's comforts.
Still, I couldn't completely shake a lingering unease, like
I'd just crawled out from under a dark cloud.
It wasn't until I reached town, found a phone, and updated my
mail drop contact that I got slapped in the face with the
real story. I mentioned that shelter
offhandedly, describing it as seriously creepy.
That's when she told me about the two hikers.
They'd been southbounders having a friendly chat with a random
bar patron in Duncannon later that night.
This. Same patron had followed them to
that very shelter, waited until they were asleep and murdered
them. Hearing it made my stomach
twist, replaying every odd vibe I'd felt.
Every unsettling sound during the night.
Those women at the picnic tables had tried to warn me, but they
couldn't bring themselves to say why out loud.
I felt a hollow ache in my chest, knowing now what happened
in those walls. It was more than just an old
shelter. It was a crime scene, a place
stained by something monstrous. If I had known, would I still
have slept there? Maybe not, but the thought of it
being so close to where two people lost their lives shifted
the trail in my mind. The wilderness wasn't just bears
and storms, it could hold human darkness too, and I had just
walked right into it. I came back to that stretch of
the trail a few years later. I hadn't really planned on
returning. There was a part of me that
wanted to avoid that entire area after learning what had gone
down at the old shelters. But life and my hiking routes
had a funny way of circling back on themselves.
Before I knew it, I was standing at the same cut off from the
main trail, peering down the slope with this knot in my
stomach. The trees here looked familiar
yet different, maybe older or scarred by storms.
Sunlight trickled through the canopy and thin beams and a low
breeze made the branches sway. I swear it felt like the forest
was reminding me we remember what happened here.
Going down that path, I half expected to see the two old
shelters just as they've been. My memory was vivid.
Those ramshackle logs, the musty smell, the new shelter mid
construction with the carved faces.
But when I reached the bottom, I was greeted by an entirely
changed scene. The two ancient structures had
been torn out, no trace but a few piles of splintered wood
near the edge of the clearing. Instead, the new shelter stood
proudly in their place, fully completed.
The carved faces I'd glimpsed years ago.
We're still there, only now smooth by weather, or maybe by
countless hikers running their hands along them.
They seemed less like art and more like watchful eyes.
I hesitated, feeling a swirl of relief that the murderous old
shelters were gone, mixed with a weird nostalgia for the original
version of the place, even if it had been dangerously creepy.
As I moved closer, I noticed someone sitting on the newly
built porch, sipping from a battered canteen.
He wore a bandana and looked like he'd seen a lot of trail
miles. When he looked up, I nodded a
greeting and he waved me over. We got to talking, as hikers do.
Turns out he'd through hiked the trail a few years back and had
come out for a weekend getaway. It wasn't long before we drifted
into the subject of the area's grim history.
Apparently there was a formal dedication ceremony once the new
shelter was finished, and from what he'd heard, Earl Schaffer
himself had been there only to be brushed off or overshadowed
by certain officials, folks who didn't get the depth of his
contribution or maybe just didn't care.
Hearing that made me bristle. Earl had literally shaped part
of the trails legacy, these shelters, the story of the first
thru hike, and it hurt to imagine him being sidelined.
The conversation took a darker turn when we ventured into the
topic of those murders. My companion knew about them,
too, of course. Everyone who's hiked this area
for long enough picks up the rumors, if not the exact
details. But he also mentioned how,
despite the tragedy, folks in town tried to move on.
The new shelter was supposed to symbolize a fresh start, a safe
space for hikers passing through Only, he said, some people
believe the land itself still felt tainted, as though the
violence of that night hadn't just vanished when the old
shelters got ripped out. Have you felt it?
He asked me, eyes locked on to mine.
That heavy quiet. I gave a slow nod, remembering
the sensation of dread from my own first night here.
We both fell into silence, broken only by the rustle of
wind and the distant Babble of a Creek.
Eventually, he packed up and left, heading back toward town.
I hung around a bit, taking in the new shelter.
It looked perfectly ordinary from the outside, just sturdy
beams, a proper roof, and enough space to fit a handful of
hikers. But those carved faces unnerved
me. Maybe it was just my
imagination, but I could have sworn they were almost aware, as
if they'd seen more than they let on, listening for footsteps
in the night. Later on, I found myself walking
north again. The trail was peaceful, the kind
of gentle climb that usually empties my mind of worries.
Only this time, my thoughts kept drifting back to what had
happened there. I wondered if a fresh coat of
wood in a brand new name could really erase the memory of two
hikers who'd never made it out. A piece of me doubted it.
A few weeks down the line, I came across Pierce Pond Shelter
in Maine. Beautiful spot, picturesque
pond, vibrant autumn colors. But the instant I got there, I
felt a pang of that same uneasy tension I'd experienced in
Pennsylvania. It wasn't rational.
There was no recorded tragedy. I knew of no creeping murderer
lurking behind a pine tree. Still, the place had this hush,
like it was waiting for something.
I tried shaking it off, chalking it up to hiker paranoia or
lingering trauma from that other shelter.
Yet as the sun dipped below the Pines, the atmosphere felt
suffocating. Every rustle outside set my
nerves on edge. That's when I started to wonder
if it was me, if I was carrying this darkness from shelter to
shelter, replaying it in every unfamiliar corner of the trail.
The thought alone was enough to keep me wide awake, scanning for
silhouettes in the dark. Eventually, Exhaustion 1 and I
drifted off, but not peacefully. In the morning, the chill still
clung to me. I realized it's not as simple as
a single terrible event in one place or some new construction
replacing old bones. The trail might be full of kind
souls and breathtaking sights, but it can also trap echoes of
the worst moments experienced by those who walked it.
The deeper truth is that no matter how many signs we put up
or improvements we make, history has a nasty habit of haunting
whatever ground it clings to. I left Pierce Pond Shelter
feeling a little more shaken, a little more aware of how quickly
these woods can go from comforting to unnerving.
And as I hiked on, the thought kept circling in my head.
The real danger out here isn't always the wildlife or the
elements. Sometimes it's the people you
cross paths with and the echoes they leave behind long after
they're gone. Be careful out there.
I'd planned on taking it easy that evening.
Maybe practice a few fishing knots or help Grandpa Morley
tidy up the workshop instead. A couple of friends, Ray and
Kelsey, coaxed me into one last round of our favorite hide and
seek style game. It was something we'd concocted
years ago, chasing each other through every nook and cranny of
the Appalachians behind Grandpa's homestead.
Funny how you can grow up around these hills and still feel like
you've barely scratched the surface of what's out there.
The house sits at the base of a Ridge that rises into dense
hardwood forests. Grandpa always said the land has
its own memory, that every gust of wind and snap of twigs might
be a signal if you listen closely enough.
I laughed it off whenever he got too mystical, but tonight I was
starting to see where he might have been coming from.
The three of us were in the yard, the western sky burning
orange where the sun dropped behind the ridgeline.
Kelsey decided she'd be it this time, so Ray and I scampered
toward the slope. We both had camouflage jackets,
more fashion statement than functional gear, but I like to
think it helped us blend in. The plan was to outsmart Kelsey
by moving uphill. She'd never guess we'd take the
steeper path, or so we thought. We crested that slope, and the
first thing I noticed was how quiet the forest had become.
Usually this time of evening, you can hear crickets winding up
for their nighttime chorus, maybe an owl calling in the
distance. That night, it felt like
everything paused, waiting. Ray and I tucked ourselves into
a shallow dip in the ground, just behind a line of scraggly
bushes. We had a clearview of the yard,
though it was getting dim. Kelsey's flashlight beam danced
across the grass below, and we congratulated ourselves on the
perfect hiding spot. All we had to do was lie low.
Until she gave up easy enough. A moment later, a low, rhythmic
pulse reached us, like a drum beat echoing from far off.
Ray's head jerked up. I glanced at him, wondering if
he felt it too, that buzzing in the pit of my stomach.
Drums in this part of the mountains.
Maybe a local gathering, though it made zero sense for it to
suddenly start after dusk. The sound grew.
The beat became something more than a lone drum, chanting or
singing, weaving in and accompanying everything, a
melody that shouldn't fit any of it, A high, keening note
reminiscent of bagpipes. That unexpected note stirred
something protective in me, like I needed to stand up and figure
out who was out there. Except stepping forward was the
last thing I wanted to do. The music peaked, reverberating
through the trees, each note rippling across the slope.
Ray and I, we just stared at each other, neither wanting to
speak out loud. Even whispering felt too risky,
as if we draw unwanted attention.
My lungs begged for a deep breath, but I tried not to make
a sound. Then it died away, gone in half
a heartbeat. The sudden lack of noise rang in
my ears more than the drum beat did.
I couldn't bear another second of stillness.
Ray must have felt the same, because he jerked his head
downhill, eyes wide, We both sprang up, stumbling over that
Ridge. Gravity did half the work,
sending us skidding down faster than we intended.
A root snagged Ray's foot, nearly toppling him.
I grabbed his sleeve, and we both regained balance long
enough to lurch down into the yard.
Kelsey didn't need an explanation.
She stood frozen near the house's floodlight, face pale
with confusion. Grandpa stepped onto the porch,
an old Lantern in one hand, eyebrows knit.
We didn't offer much beyond a frantic we heard something
weird. Even saying that felt like an
understatement. Inside the house, we slammed the
door behind us, hearts hammering.
Grandpa told us to sit, voice firm but calm, and started
asking questions. Ray tried to describe the
chanting and the bagpipes while I stared out the window, half
expecting more noise to erupt from the hills.
But everything beyond the flood lit yard was black, mute.
Eventually Grandpa checked his radio to see if there were any
announcements. Some festival, A big group.
Camping, a local event that might explain away the noise.
Nothing came through. He frowned, as if something he'd
worried about was stepping into reality.
He suggested we all stick close, even though part of me wanted to
bolt for my truck and drive into the nearest town.
We ended up huddling in the living room, not saying much.
Each time the house creaked with night settling in, we jerked our
heads toward the windows. Part of me thought I was
overreacting, the other parts that I couldn't be too careful.
At one point, Kelsey started describing how it sounded almost
ceremonial. Ray kept mentioning the
bagpipes, how out of place they felt in these mountains.
Grandpa just listened in silence, like he was adding up
bits of a puzzle we couldn't see.
And so we waited for dawn, adrenaline coursing so hard that
sleep didn't stand a chance. Whatever we heard out there, it
didn't feel like an accidental jam session.
It had the determined rhythm of something bigger, something we
weren't meant to stumble upon. I glanced through the window one
more time, across that slope where the silhouette of bare
branches seemed to watch us back.
The night had only just begun, and I was afraid it wasn't done
revealing whatever secrets lay in those woods.
Morning light had a way of making the previous night feel
like a fever dream, but when I opened my eyes, the knot in my
gut told me it wasn't just an overactive imagination.
Ray was already awake, pacing in front of the fireplace.
Kelsey sipped coffee at the window, staring off at the slope
where we'd heard that eerie music.
The house felt tense, like we were all braced for whatever
might come next. Grandpa Morley was digging
through his old field notebooks, scattering them across the
kitchen table. He murmured to himself as he
flipped pages, sometimes tapping a map he'd pinned down with an
empty coffee cup. Finally, he called us over this
area right here. He pointed at a forested patch
just beyond the Ridge. I've heard stories about folks
finding strange footprints, hearing unexplainable sounds.
Never had solid proof, but no shortage of rumors.
Ray wanted answers. He kept talking about how that
chanting still echoed in his ears.
Kelsey looked as though she wanted to crawl under a blanket
and forget everything. But Grandpa said if we wanted
Peace of Mind, we had to see what was out there in the
daylight. I wasn't exactly thrilled, but
curiosity gnawed at me. The only way to settle my nerves
was to confront whatever was lurking in those trees.
We followed the same path as the night before, only this time
sunbeams cut through the canopy. The forest felt awake now, birds
calling overhead, the smell of wet leaves under foot.
My boots squelched in the soft soil.
About 20 minutes in, we spotted footprints in the mud near an
old game trail. More than one set 2.
Some were big enough that I wondered if a whole group had
come through. Kelsey knelt down, tracing the
edges with her fingertips. She didn't say a word, but her
expression told me she was unsettled.
As we pressed deeper, a low clearing opened up.
In the center were stones stacked in a wide circle.
The ground was littered with scorched branches, as if a fire
had burned there recently. I kicked at a pile of ash,
uncovering what might have been animal bones.
Nearby, Ray found shredded fabric snagged on a sharp
branch, checkered like tartan. The breath caught in my throat.
Bagpipes, a Scottish pattern, and those drum rhythms.
None of it added up, but it sure felt connected.
Before we could piece things together, that same beat
thrummed in the distance. All three of us froze, and every
nerve I had went on high alert. The chanting returned and with
it came a deeper resonating drum beat that rattled through the
trees. We ducked behind an uprooted
trunk, peering over as shadows flickered beyond the bushes.
I saw multiple figures moving, at least 5 or 6, too many to
count accurately. 1 carried what looked like a bagpipe under an
arm. Another brandished a tall staff
decorated with dangling bits of cloth or feathers.
It felt like we'd trespassed on a hidden ceremony.
My pulse roared in my head, urging me to get moving.
Ray tugged my jacket and we bolted.
Adrenaline drove us as we crashed through the undergrowth.
The chanting didn't fade right away.
In fact, for a moment it seemed to chase us, echoing in all
directions. We burst out onto the slope
behind the homestead, nearly stumbling over each other.
Grandpa was there, a rifle propped against his hip.
He took one look at our faces and told us to get inside.
Over the next hour, we told him about the footprints, the circle
of stones, the scrap of tartan, and the silhouettes with
bagpipes in hand. He listened, and at the end he
nodded, like it confirmed a rumor he'd once heard that
generations ago. Certain families who settled
these hills, mixed cultures, Scottish and Native American,
keeping old traditions alive in the most secluded spots.
There was no telling if they meant harm.
Grandpa planned to notify a Ranger station, see if they'd
heard of any suspicious gatherings.
But I think we all sense the same foreboding truth.
Whatever goes on in these woods after dark might not welcome
outsiders. We'd seen enough to know we
didn't belong out there. At night.
When dusk rolled around, we stayed close to the house, porch
lights blazing. Kelsey kept her eyes on the
Ridge, looking for any flicker of fire, light or movement among
the trees. Ray sat with me in the living
room, occasionally glancing at the window every so often.
I half expected those drums to sound again.
Even if they stayed silent, I knew they were only a heartbeat
away, tucked in the deep pockets of the Appalachians.
We had a name for the fear now, but it didn't make it any less
real, and it didn't keep me from wondering if next time we might
not get away so easily. I've always said these.
Appalachian Mountains were in my bloodstream, a legacy from my
grandfather in Boone County, West Virginia.
Every time I roll down the highway and see those steep
ridges rising in the distance, something inside me sparks to
life like part of me recognizes home.
This time, though, that welcome feeling came bundled with an
unsettling undercurrent I couldn't quite explain.
The plan was simple enough. Drive from Michigan to New York
City, pick up my friend who needed extra help traveling, and
head back to Detroit. I'd done cross country treks
before, so I didn't expect anything beyond the usual long
haul hassle. The first few hours were
honestly too quiet. I got pulled over in Ohio for a
busted headlight, and even though the trooper was polite,
my nerves still buzzed the rest of the night.
The idea of sleeping in my car at a rest stop sounded OK at
first, but every shuffle of footsteps outside made me sit up
and peer into the dark. Eventually I dozed off, but it
was a half baked sort of sleep that left me feeling ragged.
By mid morning, I was back on the road, cutting through
Pennsylvania and drinking in the misty peaks off in the distance.
Something about those valleys always puts me on edge and at
ease all at once, like I belong there.
But I also know the land can turn dangerous without warning.
The hours ticked by, traffic thickened, and soon I was in the
sprawling chaos of New York City.
After a painful search for parking, I finally spotted my
friend. She hopped into my cramped PT
Cruiser and I was eager to leave the city behind.
There's a hyper awareness that creeps in when I'm stuck in that
much congestion. Too many headlights, too many
people, and not enough personal space.
We were both relieved to point the car W again.
Darkness wasn't far off by the time we made decent progress.
We'd agreed to pull into a large store parking lot somewhere in
western Pennsylvania for the night, Somewhere bright enough
and busy enough that we wouldn't feel vulnerable.
That's where things started getting weird.
I rolled into a Walmart lot that was mostly empty except for a
handful of cars clustered near the entrance.
But parked a little too far out were two vehicles that gave me a
sour feeling. Dark tinted windows, Engines
idling like they were waiting on something.
I tried to wave off my own paranoia, but every time I
glanced over, one of the cars seemed to shift closer.
My friend noticed it, too. She nudged my arm and whispered.
Is it just? Me.
Or are they edging toward us? Her voice was shaky, and it
confirmed I wasn't imagining things.
I felt tension coil in my gut. We decided to bail.
No point in testing our luck. Neither of us wanted to be
cornered by strangers in the middle of the night.
Pulling out of that lot, I could feel my hands clenching the
steering wheel. Driving away eased the pressure
only slightly. The next rest stop we aimed for
was tucked between shadowy ridges, nearly deserted.
My headlights swept over scattered parking spots and
there in the corner was a white Jeep, newish model, tinted
windows, Not a soul insight around it.
In the back of my head I was screaming at myself that I was
just being jittery, but I couldn't shake the thought.
What if it followed us from the lot?
It seemed too coincidental. My friend leaned forward, trying
to see if anyone was inside and that quiet question hung in the
air. Could it be the same one?
We didn't linger long enough to find out.
I swung the car around and got back on the highway, half
expecting the Jeep's headlights to pop up in my mirror.
For a while it was just darkness and winding roads, the trees
crowding in on either side. My friend and I didn't talk
much. We were both in our own heads.
Every distant glimmer of lights behind us made my muscles
tighten. A few times I caught myself
speeding, pushing my old PT Cruiser harder than I should
have, just wanting to be around other people, bright lights,
safety. Maybe it was overblown fear, or
maybe not. Eventually, we spotted another
big box store off the highway, a place that was open all night.
We drifted into the lot, found a spot neither too hidden nor too
exposed, and tried to settle in. My friend reclined her seat,
fiddling with her phone, and I leaned against the door, letting
my eyes close. The adrenaline buzz was fading,
replaced by sheer exhaustion. The plan was simple.
Get some rest, wake up and push on at dawn.
That's all we needed, right? But a nagging alarm kept
sounding in the back of my mind. I couldn't help imagining a set
of headlights rolling in beside us again.
I'd always prided myself on having good instincts,
especially on the road, and something was shouting at me to
stay alert. Maybe the night was messing with
my head. Maybe it was the mountain air,
but I couldn't settle. I just kept checking the rear
view mirror and scanning the corners of the lot, half
conscious, waiting for a sign that everything was about to
unravel. Looking back, I should have
known I wasn't going to get a peaceful rest.
The real trouble was just around the corner, and a part of me
sensed it even then. The mountains have a way of
holding secrets close, and that night it felt like I was driving
straight into one. I'd been through my fair share
of late night drives, but none that left me quite this tense.
We'd found another big parking lot, a large store glowing in
the distance like some lifeline, and I figured we could finally
try to rest. My friend was nodding off in the
passenger seat, leaning her head against the window.
My eyes felt heavy, but every time I let them close, I'd jolt
awake at the faintest hint of movement in my mirrors.
At first, the lot seemed almost peaceful.
Only a smattering of cars, plenty of overhead lights, and
the steady hum of night shift employees hauling carts around.
I tried to tell myself we'd been imagining things earlier, that
those suspicious vehicles were just random folks passing
through. Then I spotted headlights
drifting in from the far side of the lot, and my grip on the
steering wheel tightened again. A white Jeep Compass glided
across the asphalt and parked right next to us.
There were at least a dozen other open spaces.
So why pick the one so close? I glanced to my left, and there
he was, the same driver who'd been lingering in my memory like
a fleeting shadow I couldn't quite get rid of.
He was young, but warned somehow, his gaze heavy and
unflinching. A cold energy rolled off him,
making my nerves flare. Part of me wanted to brush it
off, assume I was just stuck in my own fears, but the longer we
locked eyes, the more certain I became that this wasn't random.
My friend must have sensed it too.
She snapped awake, following my stare.
I heard her mutter something like not again, and that was all
the push I needed. I cranked the ignition, yanked
the gear shift into drive, and tore out of there.
The wheels squealed, echoing across the mostly empty lot.
I almost expected the Jeep to remain behind, some bizarre
coincidence put to rest. Instead, the headlights came to
life and stuck to our bumper. I felt a jolt of adrenaline rush
through my limbs as I realized we were being followed yet
again. The highway ramp was up ahead
and I gunned it, hoping I could leave him behind in the open
stretches of Rd. But once I merged, those lights
were still there, unwavering mile after mile.
I tried to ignore the tightness in my chest, the nagging thought
that I'd let this go too far. Yet I couldn't slow down, not
with that Jeep trailing me like it was locked on.
Ahead, the mountains rose against the sky, dark
silhouettes capped by faint moonlight.
We thundered onto an exit, hoping to lose him in the twists
and turns of back roads. My friend pulled out her phone,
trying to chart a route that might confuse any pursuer.
We zigzagged through narrow highways, winding through steep
valleys and lonely clusters of trees, the path weaving in a
dizzying snake like pattern. Each time I dared glance back,
those headlights burned in the darkness, unshaken by the
hairpin curves. Exhaustion gnawed at me, and I
wondered how long we could keep this up without making a
critical mistake. The roads were almost deserted,
lined with battered guard rails and the endless silhouettes of
sloping ridges. Everything in me wanted to stop,
to catch a moment's calm, but my instincts hollered.
That would be a terrible idea with this creep hanging on our
tail. Then, in a flash of brilliance
or desperation, I'm still not sure which, I yanked the wheel
onto a hidden side route. The Jeep speed past our turn,
its tail lights flaring red as it tried to break.
Too late. A wave of relief washed over me
when I realized we might have slipped his grasp.
I continued down this narrow Rd. until we reached an aging wooden
sign pointing to a smaller town St.
Lights became more frequent, the black outline of the mountains
gave way to a dimly lit Main Street and for the first time in
hours I let myself breathe. A fast food place may be the
only one open that early, glowed at the edge of the road.
We pulled in found a spot between work trucks and local
cars. The safety of other humans
moving around was enough to let the tension in my muscles ease a
bit. My friend and I were so drained
we just collapsed against the seats, windows still rolled up
tight. After so many panicked miles,
the distant hum of a drive through speaker and the smell of
stale French fries felt like a blessing.
When the sun finally started creeping over the ragged skyline
of mountains, I stirred. My neck ached from sleeping at a
weird angle. Outside, life was picking up
people stepping in and out. An elderly couple walking their
dog along the sidewalk. No white Jeep Insight.
You'd think I would have been relieved, but an odd sense of
dread tugged at me. Had we really lost him?
Or was he just bidding his time? I checked my phone, half
expecting messages from family asking where I was, but it
stayed eerily silent. The air felt thick with
unresolved tension. My friend and I ordered some
breakfast, greasy but hot, just to ground ourselves in something
normal. Every so often we glanced out
the windows, scanning each vehicle that pulled through.
Nothing suspicious, yet neither of us could fully shake the
lingering paranoia. It felt like we'd gone through
some twisted rite of passage in those mountains.
By the time we climbed back into the car, the morning sunlight
was streaming in, almost too bright against the tiredness in
our faces. A part of me wished we could
head straight home without another break, but I knew I had
to keep an eye out for that Jeep as though it might materialize
again. The realization was chilling.
A simple trip to help a friend had morphed into this frantic
late night chase. Sure, maybe we were both wound
too tight, maybe the stranger was just some random jerk on a
power trip, but I couldn't shake a deeper suspicion that he was
dangerous and that under the vast sky of Appalachia, anything
could happen. We buckled up and drove off,
leaving that small town in the rear view mirror.
Each mile of Hwy. felt both relieving and nerve racking, as
if something could pop out any second.
By the time we found a route that led back toward Detroit,
the mountains were starting to fade behind us.
I couldn't help thinking about how, despite my deep respect for
those old ridges, I was leaving with a new grim awareness of the
shadows they can hide. I took a final look at the
looming outlines in the mirror, imagining that white Jeep hidden
somewhere in the valleys, lying in wait.
Even if I never found out who was behind the wheel, that night
changed me. I used to think of these roads
like a second home, a place of comfort and belonging.
Now a nod of tension insisted that some things are better left
alone, and that wandering too far into unknown territory can
lead to horrors you can't always outrun.