Blood Mountain has a reputation. Even before I set foot on the
trail, I'd heard the stories from friends who'd hiked this
section of the Appalachian Trail, stories wrapped in uneasy
laughter and shrugged off warnings about quiet footsteps
following campers after dark. Most dismissed these tales as
folklore, tricks of imagination born from isolation and shadows.
But as Mia and I parked our Subaru at Lake Winfield Scott
laced up our boots and double checked our packs, I pushed
those stories aside. We planned this hike carefully.
5 days away from screens, meetings and deadlines.
Just us and the wild rolling hills of northern Georgia.
mid-september brought crisp air, rust colored leaves under foot,
and a welcome quiet that felt like relief.
It was exactly what we needed. Our first day's goal was simple.
Hike S toward Blood Mountain, stay overnight at Woods Hole
Shelter, then continue on at sunrise.
We made quick work of the trail that morning, passing only two
other hikers friendly enough exchanges the usual headed far
and beautiful day banter. By late afternoon, the sunlight
had softened into that warm, fading glow that signals you
should start scouting for camp. It was nearly 6:45 PM when I saw
him. Mia and I had just rounded A
narrow switch back near Bird Gap, navigating a steep rise.
My calves burned pleasantly with effort.
I paused, breath catching slightly at the elevation, then
saw the man coming uphill from below.
It struck me immediately how unusual that was.
Most day hikers would have descended by now.
Yet there he was, climbing toward us, steady but unhurried,
alone. What caught my attention wasn't
his pace, but his complete lack of gear.
No pack, no trekking poles, not even a water bottle.
He wore a Gray windbreaker, faded jeans and worn sneakers,
shoes that looked battered, almost treadless, completely
unsuited for the rocky ascent ahead.
He moved with deliberate precision, like someone who'd
hiked this path countless times and no longer needed to watch
his feet. Hey, evening.
I called out automatically. Friendly.
He lifted his head, eyes meeting mine just briefly, and nodded
slowly. He didn't say a word, didn't
smile, just kept walking past us, uphill, silent as stone.
Mia stepped closer, and we watched him vanish behind the
curve of a Ridge. She spoke first, softly.
He didn't have a flashlight. I hadn't even thought about it
yet. Dusk would arrive soon, bringing
a darkness so thick you could barely see your own boots
without a headlamp or Lantern. Hiking would be dangerous,
reckless even. Probably just a day hiker going
for one last view. I said, forcing a casual tone.
Maybe he parked up at Neil's Gap and misjudged the sunset.
She nodded, but didn't look convinced.
We pressed forward to Woods Hole Shelter.
As twilight settled in, tinting the trees and hillsides blue
Gray, the temperature dropped, a sharp chill slipping between my
collar and backpack straps. Mia zipped up her jacket and
kept glancing back, uneasy, clearly more shaken than she
admitted. The shelter itself was typical
Appalachian Trail fair stone walls, a simple tin roof, an
open wooden sleeping platform. It had seen better days, but
offered enough protection from the biting mountain breeze.
As we prepared our campfire, something made me pause.
Tilting my head, a faint rustling came from beyond the
edge of our campsite. I raised my flashlight beam,
cutting through the brush and trees, illuminating nothing but
empty darkness. What is it?
Mia whispered suddenly close beside me.
Nothing. Probably just an animal.
But even as I spoke, I felt it again, that uncanny sense of
someone else out there, just beyond sight.
I scanned the trees once more, listening hard, but the rustling
had stopped. We ate quickly, conversation
thin. Afterwards, Mia opened the trail
journal stashed inside a plastic bin at the shelter.
I glanced over her shoulder, flashlight illuminating
handwritten entries from previous hikers.
One recent entry stood out, clearly dated just three days
earlier. Saw a guy standing still on a
ridgeline around 7:00 PM. No flashlight, no gear.
Didn't speak. I thought I was hallucinating.
Mia's eyes met mine. Neither of us spoke.
Later, lying awake beside her in our tent, wrapped tightly
against the cold, I found myself replaying the encounter, the
quiet nod, the deliberate pace, the worn sneakers somehow
unsettling in their ordinariness.
A part of me wished I'd called after him again, maybe insisted
on knowing if he was all right. But another part, deep and wary,
felt certain that silence had been safer.
Outside, beyond the nylon walls, the forest pressed close.
I strained my ears in the darkness, trying to catch any
sound, twigs snapping, leaves shifting, but the mountain
remained utterly, oppressively quiet, leaving only my own
breathing as proof I was still awake.
Sleep came late, restless and thin, plagued by half formed
dreams of someone slowly pacing circles around our campsite.
When morning finally arrived, it brought no relief.
The air hung heavy with mist and silence, and though we packed
quickly, eager to move, we both knew something had shifted.
The mountain had noticed us, and I couldn't shake the feeling it
was watching, waiting to see what we would do next.
We left Woods Hole Shelter earlier than planned, eager to
put distance between ourselves and the unease that lingered
from the night before. Morning fog wove through the
trees, cloaking the trail in dense white.
Our boots crunched quietly over damp leaves and loose stones as
we climbed steadily toward Blood Mountain Summit.
I tried to ignore the nagging feeling that we weren't alone,
focusing instead on practical distractions, the trail markers,
the map, the steady rhythm of my breathing.
Mia remained unusually quiet, her face tense, eyes scanning
constantly into the fog shrouded woods around us.
About mid morning we reached Slaughter Gap.
The name alone was enough to unsettle me further, a grim nod
to battles long past. We paused to catch our breath,
drinking from our water bottles and staring at the mist curling
silently through the hollow. As I lifted my pack back onto my
shoulders, something moved high above us on the trail.
My eyes snapped upward, pulse quickening instantly.
There he was again, the man from yesterday.
He walked the same direction as before, moving uphill with that
same steady, unhurried pace. Gray windbreaker jeans.
Worn out sneakers, no gear, no pack, no visible means of
surviving a night on the mountain.
Nothing had changed. It was as if no time had passed
for him at all. Jason.
Mia whispered urgently, gripping my sleeve, her voice tight with
disbelief. That's him, right?
My throat felt dry. Yeah, it is.
We watched silently, rooted to the spot as the figure climbed
steadily onward, vanishing over the Ridge.
There was no logical explanation, no alternate trails
he could have taken, no hidden routes that bypassed us.
He would have needed to walk directly past our camp to appear
there again. Yet neither of us had seen or
heard anything overnight. Mia pulled out the map again,
fingers trembling slightly as she traced the trail between our
campsite and here. There's nothing, she said
quietly. No junctions, no roads, nothing.
I know, I said, feeling a chill creep down my spine.
Let's keep moving. We quickened our pace, now eager
to reach Blood Mountain summit and then immediately descend.
The mist refused to lift, draping the forest in endless,
silent Gray. It dulled every sound, our
breathing, our footsteps, until it felt like we were passing
through some forgotten, abandoned world.
By early evening, we reached the stone shelter perched atop Blood
Mountain. It was solid but stark, walls
Gray and worn, bearing the signatures of decades of hikers
who had passed through. We decided against pitching the
tent, choosing instead the relative security of solid stone
walls. I built a fire outside, its
flames casting wavering shadows that danced uneasily across the
rocks and into the trees. Mia sat beside me, arms wrapped
tightly around her knees, staring wordlessly into the
darkening woods. Neither of us spoke for a long
while. Eventually the silence grew
uncomfortable, oppressive even, and I turned to reassure her.
Before I could say anything, Mia's hand shot out, gripping my
arm so hard it hurt. Jason, look.
Her voice was barely audible. I followed her gaze, squinting
into the twilight at the tree line about 200 feet from the
shelter. At first I saw only dark trunks
and tangled branches, but then my breath caught sharply as I
noticed the figure partially obscured behind a tree.
He was perfectly still, watching us.
Same clothes, same empty handed stance, same expressionless
face. He's been there.
Mia whispered, her voice shaking.
For at least 10 minutes. I thought I was imagining it.
I stood slowly, flashlight trembling slightly in my hand as
I shined the beam directly toward him.
He didn't flinch, didn't blink, he didn't step forward or
retreat. He simply stood there, eyes
fixed on us, face devoid of emotion.
Hey. I called out loudly, voice
cracking slightly. What do you want?
Are you lost? Nothing.
No response, no movement. My pulse hammered in my ears.
I picked up a small rock and threw it toward him, hoping to
provoke some kind of reaction. The rock clattered through
branches, breaking the tense silence, and instantly the
figure slipped quietly behind the trunk of the tree, vanishing
from sight without making a single audible footstep.
Mia reached immediately for our radio.
We need to call for help, She said urgently, switching it on.
She pressed the button repeatedly, speaking rapidly
into it, but static crackled back at us, a dead hiss that
drowned out her voice. Something's blocking it.
She whispered, desperation creeping into her tone.
We retreated into the shelter, securing the flimsy wooden door
behind us. I retrieved the trail journal
again, flipping nervously through pages filled with
cheerful anecdotes, weather complaints, and casual
greetings. My fingers froze at another
entry from less than a week ago. Man with no light or bag on the
slope near Bird Gap. Same spot I saw him two years
ago. Never speaks, he always walks.
N what the hell is this? I showed it to Mia.
Her eyes widened in horror. Two years ago, she breathed.
How is that possible? I don't know, I admitted
quietly. I just don't.
We sat together in the dim glow of our headlamps, listening
carefully. Nerves stretched tight, barely
daring to breathe. Hours ticked by in slow,
agonizing silence. Every shifting shadow, every
crackle of distant leaves made us jump.
Neither of us could sleep. We stayed awake, staring at the
wooden door, praying we wouldn't hear it slowly creak open,
revealing the silent, unblinking face waiting patiently outside.
We decided before dawn that we'd had enough.
By the faint grey of first light, Mia and I quickly packed
our things, leaving the stone shelter behind.
Without a second glance, we descended S, aiming to intersect
the Gerrard Gap Trail, a shorter route back to the parking area
near Lake Winfield Scott. Neither of us spoke as we
walked, moving faster than we had in days.
The quiet felt brittle, as if any careless noise might draw
attention from the shadows. The trail ahead wound steeply
downward, damp soil slick beneath our boots, forcing
careful foot placement with each step.
As morning brightened, sunlight broke through the canopy and
narrow shafts, slicing through the heavy mist that still clung
stubbornly to the lower slopes. Yet somehow, despite the welcome
daylight, the tension refused to leave me.
It lingered. A constant feeling of being
watched followed. Around mid morning, about
halfway down to Jarrard Gap, I paused to catch my breath.
Sweat cooled on my forehead and my lungs burned from exertion
and anxiety. Mia had stopped just ahead,
leaning heavily against a Moss covered boulder, eyes cast down
toward the forest floor. Jason.
She said, her voice hushed and strained.
Look at this. I stepped up beside her,
following her gaze down into the soft Moss and wet soil at the
edge of the trail. Clearly imprinted were several
shoe prints, worn sneakers, the pattern flat and smooth,
identical to the tread less shoes the man had worn.
They stood out sharply, unmistakably fresh.
I knelt down, examining the prints carefully.
They led a short distance away from the trail, directly into
thick underbrush. Then, abruptly, they stopped.
No continuation, no disturbed branches, nothing.
It looked like the Prince had simply appeared there, then
vanished. There's nowhere he could have
gone. Mia whispered, her voice
unsteady. It's impossible, I know.
I admitted quietly, standing up slowly.
A wave of nausea passed through me.
Let's just keep going. We moved on, maintaining an even
quicker pace, glancing anxiously over our shoulders every few
steps. The forest seemed thicker here,
the trees pressing closer to the trail, obscuring visibility
beyond a few feet in any direction.
I felt as though the woods themselves were closing in,
ready to swallow us whole at the slightest misstep.
Finally, just after noon, we reached the parking lot at Lake
Winfield Scott. Our car sat untouched, exactly
as we'd left it days earlier. I unlocked it hastily, tossing
our gear into the back seat. Without bothering to organize
anything, Mia climbed in silently, locking her door
immediately. Let's get out of here, she
murmured, her voice thin and exhausted.
We drove directly to the Ranger station in Sushis.
Inside, an older Ranger named Eldon greeted us warmly, But as
I began describing the strange man we'd seen repeatedly near
Blood Mountain, his welcoming expression faded, replaced by a
look of quiet concern. close that door, please.
He said, finally, nodding toward the station's entrance.
I did as he asked, locking it behind me.
Eldon sat at his desk, glancing briefly out the window before
turning to us. He cleared his throat, choosing
his words carefully. You aren't the first hikers to
mention this. He began slowly, voice lowered,
almost conspiratorial. In fact, folks around here, we
have a name for it. We call it the Unsolved Loop.
What do you mean? Mia asked softly, leaning
closer. Eldon hesitated briefly, then
reached into a desk drawer, pulling out a thick, worn
binder. He opened it carefully, sliding
it across the desk toward us. It was filled with pages,
emails, trail journal excerpts, handwritten notes, all
describing the same encounter, the same silent, gearless man
seen hiking N on the same trail section near Blood Mountain.
These reports go back decades, Eldon said gravely.
At least as far as the early 1990s.
It's always the same description.
Silent walking north, no gear, never aging, always near dusk or
dawn, sometimes in the exact same spot, years apart.
I flipped through the binder, heart pounding heavily in my
chest as I scanned entry after entry.
Hikers had documented seeing him again and again, describing him
in chillingly identical terms. Each sighting ended abruptly,
leaving behind no trace or explanation.
Why hasn't anyone done anything? I asked, voice thick with
frustration. Eldon sighed, leaning back in
his chair. Done what, exactly?
Searched, investigated. Trust me, people have tried.
Every attempt ends the same way. Nothing found, no answers.
Eventually, most hikers just assume they imagined it, or
worse, decide never to return. Has he ever?
Mia hesitated, voice trembling. Hurt anyone?
Eldon shook his head slowly. No reports of harm, but plenty
of hikers who've encountered him have sworn never to set foot on
the mountain again. It leaves a mark on you.
Mia shivered slightly, wrapping her arms tighter around herself.
What happens if you follow him? Has anyone tried?
Eldon looked away, his expression unreadable.
Once or twice. Maybe they never got close
enough to find out. He just vanishes, like he was
never there. We sat quietly for a moment,
absorbing the unsettling silence in the Ranger station, each lost
in thought. Eventually, Eldon closed the
binder gently and returned it to the drawer, sliding it shut with
a faint click. It's probably best, he said
quietly, to put this behind you. Maybe consider other trails for
a while. We thanked Eldon, stepping back
out into the bright afternoon sunlight.
Neither of us spoke as we drove away, passing winding roads and
thickly wooded hillsides. But as we rounded a particularly
tight curve, I glanced briefly into the trees lining the
roadside. For a fleeting instant, I saw
something standing motionless beneath the shadows of the
trees. A familiar figure facing the
road. Gray windbreaker jeans, worn out
sneakers, No pack, no flashlight.
And just standing there, silent, watching.
I blinked hard, looking again, but he was gone, the spot empty,
as if no one had ever been there.
Mia touched my arm gently. Did you?
She whispered, eyes wide with fear.
No, I said quietly, squeezing her hand tight.
It was nothing. But we both knew that wasn't
true. Blood Mountain was now forever
marked in our memories, and somehow I sensed deep down that
no matter how far we drove, we'd always feel him out there,
walking silently N forever caught in his unsolved loop.
Cheat Mountain isn't the kind of place you stumble onto by
accident. Nestled deep in West Virginia's
Monongahela National Forest, it feels deliberately placed beyond
the reach of casual hikers and day trippers.
The trails here dissolve into faint deer paths.
The trees grow thick and tangled, swallowing up any
semblance of civilization. It's exactly why we chose it.
Four friends eager for solitude, escape, and the challenge of
true wilderness camping. No phones, no marked routes,
just maps, compasses, and gear on our backs.
We'd started out from the garden near Scenic Area, threading N
into the denser parts of Cheat. By the second day, the forest
had tightened around us. Chris led the way, his pace
deliberate, compass in hand, determined to keep us from
losing our bearings. Nate trudged behind his breath,
a rhythmic puff breaking only for the occasional wisecrack.
Maria, our resident wildlife biologist and the voice of
reason, scanned constantly for signs of bear or deer.
Then there was me, Dev, the quiet one, ex military and still
comfortable in these conditions, but even I felt uneasy here,
aware of how quickly the forest could swallow us whole.
It was mid afternoon when Chris stopped abruptly.
Hey Dev, check this out. I moved up beside him.
He pointed out a thin path snaking off from our root, a
subtle crease in the brush barely visible unless you looked
right at it. Old game trail?
Maria suggested, skeptical. No, I said, too clean, something
uses this regularly. Nate sighed dramatically.
Please don't say Bigfoot. We exchanged glances.
Chris shrugged. Worth a quick look.
Curiosity pushed us forward. Within minutes, the faint trail
opened into a small clearing, tucked into a shallow dip in the
terrain. It felt strangely protected,
hidden from casual view. What we found there stopped us
all in our tracks. A makeshift campsite sprawled
before us, primitive yet meticulously maintained.
An A-frame shelter stood nestled between two sturdy spruce trees,
walls covered with sheets of dried bark.
Stacked neatly nearby were piles of carefully split firewood,
Bark, peeled and wood smooth by a low fire pit, ring tightly
with stones. Fresh looking meat hung from
lines strung between branches, drying in strips.
A cluster of rabbit and squirrel carcasses, skinned expertly lay
arranged as though waiting to be processed.
Holy hell. Nate whispered, voice suddenly
small. Maria moved forward slowly,
studying the scene. This isn't some weekend
hobbyist, She said quietly. This took skill and time.
I nodded, scanning carefully. Each detail stood out vividly.
Carved wooden utensils, painstakingly whittled from
branches, lay neatly atop a Flat Rock.
Nearby were perfectly crafted snares, loops tight and expertly
nodded. Military level precision, not
amateur bushcraft. I don't see any gear.
Chris said, circling slowly. No packs, no tents, no sign of
recent fire either. Strange.
That's intentional. I said this person knows how to
stay hidden. Maria knelt beside one of the
drying racks, cautious not to disturb anything.
These strips of venison haven't been here long hours.
Maybe? Chris asked.
She nodded. This isn't abandoned.
Whoever lives here is probably close by.
Watching. I felt my pulse quicken and
glanced toward the dense thickets encircling us.
Shadows shifted subtly in the breeze, impossible to
distinguish clearly from movement.
We should go, I said quietly. Let me grab a photo first, Nate
said, pulling out his phone. He moved toward a rusted meat
hook hung ominously from a nearby tree limb.
The twisted iron seemed out of place, almost threatening.
Come on, Maria urged softly. Don't push our luck.
Nate snapped a quick picture anyway, laughing nervously to
cover his discomfort. Just capturing the moment.
None of us felt much like joking.
We turned back toward the path, uneasy and silent.
Maria glanced at me, questioning.
She knew I'd seen things in remote areas before, remnants
left behind by people trying to vanish.
But this, this felt different. Meticulous, obsessive even.
Chris let us back to the main route quickly, pushing harder
than before. He didn't stop until we put
nearly a mile between US and the strange encampment.
Then we slowed, each of us quietly processing what we
discovered. Maria broke the silence first.
Did anyone else get the feeling we were trespassing?
Chris nodded. Definitely.
Nate just shook his head, eyes darting nervously into the
surrounding trees. Well, it was abandoned, right?
Maybe a prepper survivalist type.
Harmless, not abandoned. I corrected firmly, catching
each of their eyes. Someone's out here living off
grid on purpose. Likely saw every step we took.
I paused, unwilling to voice my next thought, that it felt
exactly like the silent, careful observation tactics I'd learned
years ago. You're saying we were watched?
Nate asked, paling slightly. Almost certainly, I replied
evenly. We should assume we still are.
Maria tightened the straps of her pack.
Chris resumed walking without another word.
The forest felt heavier now, more oppressive.
Cheat Mountain no longer seemed like an adventure, more like a
warning we'd ignored. And as we walked, I fought the
nagging sensation that whoever had made that camp had already
memorized our faces. Darkness settled early and
thoroughly in Cheat Mountain. By the time we found a small
saddle nestled between Cheat and High Knob to set camp, we'd
barely spoken a word in over an hour.
Each of us moved quickly, efficiently, silently setting up
tents, organizing gear, and boiling water for freeze dried
meals. Our uneasy silence hung thick as
we sat around the small, carefully maintained fire, heads
down, eyes scanning the shadows beyond our dim circle of light.
The image of the deserted camp haunted all of us.
I saw it on Chris's face, set tight and tense, and in the
restless glances Nate cast into the woods every few minutes.
Maria sat near me, staring blankly into the fire.
Her usual inquisitive cheerfulness was gone.
Listen. Chris finally said, breaking the
heavy quiet. Whoever that was back there,
they're probably just avoiding people.
Harmless. Let's stay calm, get some rest,
and hike out in the morning. Harmless, Nate muttered
bitterly. Right.
I checked my watch just after 10:00.
We'll keep shifts, I said firmly, cutting off any further
debate. Two hours each.
They nodded without argument. Nate and Chris took first watch.
Maria and I slipped quietly into our tents, exhausted but alert.
As I lay back on my sleeping bag, I strained my ears for the
familiar comfort of wilderness sounds.
Nothing Cheap. Mountain felt utterly silent, as
though holding its breath. I woke suddenly around 2:00 in
the morning, to a noise from Maria's tent.
A sharp intake of breath, rapid movement, the rustle of nylon
instantly alert. I unzipped my tent flap.
Maria stood outside, eyes wide and fixed on something suspended
near the edge of camp. Her flashlight beam trembled
slightly in her grip. Dev, she whispered urgently.
Look at this. I moved closer.
At first, the shapes hanging from the sinew chords barely
registered as real. But as my vision adjusted,
reality set in. A trio of dead rabbits, fresh
kills strung neatly just beyond the edge of our tents.
Blood dripped from their limp forms, soaking silently into the
dirt below. Did you hear anything?
I asked, barely audible. Maria shook her head, her face
pale. Nothing.
I woke up and just saw them. Chris appeared beside us, his
voice tense. What's going on?
He froze when he saw the animals.
Nate stumbled out behind him, confusion shifting instantly to
horror. My boots, Nate muttered.
They're gone. We stared at the spot where he'd
left them, neatly by his tent flap.
Nothing remained, not a lace, not a print in the dirt.
Someone was here, Chris breathed.
No footsteps, I pointed out, scanning the ground with my
flashlight. The leaves lay undisturbed.
Nothing marked a trail. No bent grass, no snapped twigs.
Whoever placed the rabbits had moved with impossible precision.
I don't like this, Maria said tightly, her voice strained.
Not at all. Pack up, Chris ordered quickly.
We're going back to the hermit's camp.
Maybe we'll find some sign of him, some clue to who the hell
this is. Nobody argued.
We broke camp rapidly, anxiety urging our hands into swift,
practiced movements. Within minutes our packs were
loaded and we were tracing our steps back through the dim pre
dawn gloom as daylight crept weekly through the trees.
We emerged into the clearing we discovered yesterday, only to
find nothing but empty space. It's gone, Nate said, his voice
hollow. The whole camp is just gone.
The clearing stood empty. Too empty.
No fire ring, no bark walls, no drying racks.
The ground was undisturbed, as if the campsite had simply never
existed. No, Maria whispered fiercely,
scrolling frantically through the GPS on her phone.
It was right here. I marked it yesterday.
This is exactly the spot. I crouched, feeling the dirt
beneath my fingertips, searching desperately for signs of recent
disturbance. Nothing.
It was impossibly pristine. It doesn't make sense.
Chris said softly, shaking his head in disbelief.
Nate swallowed audibly, pacing nervously at the clearing's
edge. This is wrong, so wrong.
My eyes caught Maria's. Her jaw was set firmly,
determined yet vulnerable. I nodded slightly, confirming
silently what we both felt. We weren't just being watched,
we were being warned. Hours later, after another
exhausting hike, we found a small spot far from both
campsites, this time making certain it had clear sight lines
in every direction. Chris insisted we build a fire
again, not for warmth or cooking, but as a defiant
comfort against the oppressive weight of the wilderness.
Maria sat beside me, eyes distant, fingers nervously
twisting a piece of cord from her pack.
She turned suddenly, voice low, barely above a whisper.
Dev, tell me something, anything.
You saw those snares yesterday, the way they were made.
You knew something. I could see it in your face.
I hesitated. She deserved the truth.
Yeah. Military survival training.
Whoever built those knows exactly how to vanish without a
trace, how to move quietly, erase every sign, how to
intimidate. Maria swallowed, nodding slowly.
That's what I thought. Chris fed more wood into the
flames, causing shadows to shift restlessly around us.
Nate stared outward, eyes fixed on the shadows, jaw clenched
tight. Night came again, deeper and
colder. Before turning in, I checked the
area thoroughly, flashlight beams scouring every tree trunk,
branch, and patch of earth. Nothing seemed out of place,
until I noticed a thin loop of twine tied discreetly around a
branch at the very edge of our perimeter.
It hadn't been there earlier. A simple loop, a subtle,
unmistakable message. We were in his territory, and he
knew exactly where we were. None of us slept.
Dawn crept into the clearing, bleak and colorless, and found
us already packing our gear in tense silence.
The feeling of being watched hadn't faded.
It pressed heavier now, palpable, thick like humidity
before a storm. Cheap Mountain felt hostile in a
way none of us had anticipated. It wasn't just nature's
indifference. Someone wanted us gone.
Maria stayed close beside me as we pushed toward the marked
trailhead near Durban, our fastest route back to safety.
Chris set a rapid pace ahead, his compass held tightly, jaw
set in stubborn determination. Nate followed behind us, his
head jerking frequently at every snap of a twig or rustle of
leaves. No one spoke.
Every shadow, every movement in the thick brush seemed
threatening. More than once, I caught Chris
checking behind us, eyes narrowed and scanning.
When we finally saw the gravel parking lot through the thinning
trees, relief surged through my veins.
Parked at the far end, a Department of Natural Resources
truck idled, tailgate open as a uniformed officer stood taking
notes on a clipboard. He glanced up, startled by our
hurried emergence from the woods.
You folks OK? He called, concern obvious in
his voice. Chris moved quickly toward him,
already shaking his head. Not really.
We gathered around, word spilling out from us all at
once. Descriptions of the hermit's
campsite, the drying meat, the precision snares.
Maria's voice broke slightly when she described the rabbits
hanging silently outside our tent.
Nate shook visibly, his eyes darting from the officer to the
shadowed forest behind us. The officer raised a hand
slowly, urging us to slow down. Hold on, wait, you said you
found a camp, yes? Chris insisted.
And when we went back, everything was gone.
No traces at all, like it was never there.
The officers eyes narrowed, thoughtful but unsurprised.
Drying racks, snares, expertly built shelter.
I nodded, heart thudding harder in my chest.
Exactly. He lowered his clipboard and
exhaled slowly, as though he'd been expecting this.
Did you touch anything? Just photos.
Nate admitted nervously. That's it.
The officer rubbed his forehead side again and look toward the
mountain Ridge behind us. I think what you folks
encountered was old Scott. Old Scott?
Maria asked cautiously, her voice hesitant, wary of the
answer. Scott Maddox.
The officer explained quietly. Ex military Army Ranger.
After his wife died in 98, he walked straight into cheap
Mountain. No one saw him again.
Officially declared dead in 2001, but sightings never really
stopped. My skin prickled with cold
realization. I knew those methods, those
survival techniques. Ranger training taught you how
to live unseen, undetectable, silent, dangerous.
You're serious? Chris asked, his skepticism
fading quickly. This guy's been out here for
nearly 30 years. The officer nodded solemnly.
More than a few folks have run into his handiwork.
Sometimes he leaves warnings, animals, snares.
Other times just vanishes into thin air.
Maria glanced at me, fear evident in her eyes.
Why hasn't anyone found him? Because he doesn't want to be
found. I answered quietly.
The officer nodded in confirmation, his gaze steady.
We thanked him, our voices subdued.
Nate, shaking but finally calm, climbed into Chris's car first.
Maria sat silently beside me in the back seat, staring blankly
out the window as Chris turned the car back toward Elkins.
The tension eased slightly as we passed through Durbin, but none
of us relaxed completely. Each mile put Cheap Mountain
farther behind, yet the feeling of intrusion lingered, deep and
uncomfortable. Hours later, back in town, Chris
handed me his phone. On the screen was a grainy
newspaper clipping from 27 years ago.
Veteran vanishes in Cheat Mountain after wife's death The
accompanying photo showed a smiling, confident man in
uniform, someone I'd likely have respected.
It felt wrong, almost impossible, that this man,
skilled and disciplined, had vanished into the wilderness,
becoming a ghost haunting the living.
As I studied the photograph, a message notification flashed on
Chris's screen. Nate had sent something.
A picture attachment with the words PHOTOS back just
reappeared. Check this out.
I clicked it open. It was Nate's original photo
from the hermit's camp, the rusted meat hook swinging gently
from the branch. But something else appeared now,
lurking in the shadows behind it, vague yet unmistakably real.
A figure standing perfectly still, almost invisible, barely
discernible from the trees around it.
Maria leaned in, eyes widening sharply.
Oh my God. Chris's hands shook slightly as
he took the phone back, staring at the blurred in distinct form.
The shadowed figure watched silently from behind the meat
hook. A quiet threat, a final reminder
of the boundary we'd crossed. Scott Maddox, a man declared
dead decades ago, hadn't vanished.
He had simply become something else, a warning whispered by
locals, glimpsed briefly by unlucky campers, existing
somewhere between legend and reality.
Cheap Mountain belonged to him, and we'd been wise enough or
lucky enough to heed the warning.
But as we drove away, I knew none of us would ever shake the
image of that blurry figure. Scott Maddox the Hermit,
remained out there, hidden, watching, waiting.
Before you ever touch the water, you feel the weight of the
place. The Gali River carves its way
through mountains that hold their secrets tight.
They are old bones, webbed with abandoned coal mines and
forgotten logging roads. In the 1930s, a company
desperate for hydroelectric power drove a three mile tunnel
through the silica rich rock at Hawk's Nest.
They gave the workers, mostly poor black men from the South,
no masks, no ventilation, nothing.
The dust they breathed in turn their lungs to stone, a disease
they called tunnelitis. They died by the hundreds, maybe
thousands, drowning on dry land. They were buried in unmarked
fields, their short lives and agonizing deaths absorbed into
the very bedrock of West Virginia, Appalachia.
People here know the story. They know the mountain
remembers. The October air had a sharp,
clean edge to it, the kind that makes your lungs feel new.
Below the immense concrete face of the Somersville Dam, the put
in was a controlled chaos of color and sound.
Rafts of screaming yellow and electric blue lay overturned on
the rocky shore like giant beetles.
The air smelled of damp neoprene and pine.
A steady, deep throated rumble vibrated up through the soles of
my paddling booties, the sound of the dam releasing the golly
waking it up for the day. You nervous?
Ben's voice was close to my ear, his breath a warm cloud in the
cold. He bumped his hip against mine,
his grin a little too wide, a little too bright.
Should I be? I asked, cinching the strap on
my helmet. First time on the beast.
He said, trying for a casual tone.
His strength was in his shoulders and back, built from
years in a climbing gym, but the river was a different kind of
animal. It didn't care about your grip
strength. This trip had been my idea, my
gift to him, to us, a final wild adventure before the seasons
turned for good. I felt a familiar hum under my
skin, the mix of reverence and adrenaline the Golly always gave
me. Liam and Chloe, our seasoned
companions, were already by their raft, moving with an easy
economy of motion that spoke of countless river trips.
Liam, built like a retired linebacker, methodically checked
the air pressure in the raft's chambers.
Chloe, his wife, was smaller but radiated A wiry strength, her
salt and pepper braid tucked neatly under her helmet.
Her brother Noah was a decade younger than the rest of us, a
lanky kid buzzing with an almost frantic energy.
A GoPro was already strapped to his helmet, it's little red
light blinking, recording. All right, people, listen up.
A guide with a beard like a wild bird's nest called out,
gathering our group. The Gali is a Class 5 river.
That means there are serious risks.
You listen to your guide, you paddle when they say paddle, and
you hold on tight. The river gives and the river
takes. Today, let's make sure it just
gives you a good time. The speech was standard, but the
phrase hung in the air. The river gives and the river
takes. Once we pushed off, the world
narrowed to the raft, the crew and the water.
Ben's nervousness melted away, replaced by the focused
intensity the river demands. We worked as a unit, paddles
dipping in rhythm, our bodies bracing against the jolts and
sprays. The first few Big Rapids, the
legendary Big 5, were a glorious, violent blur.
At Pillow Rock, a house sized boulder that creates A churning
hydraulic, our guide steered us perfectly along the edge and we
shot through the wave train with whoops of triumph.
The water was a living thing, powerful and impartial.
Cold spray shocked my face and the roar was all-encompassing.
Between the chaos of the Rapids were moments of impossible calm.
We drifted through stretches where the gorge walls layered
with shale and dotted with Hardy trees, rose hundreds of feet
into the overcast sky. It was in one of these quiet
pools that the mood shifted. A dense, dark stretch of forest
clung to the steep hillside, looking older and less touched
than the rest. Liam, who had been silently
scanning the shoreline, pointed with his paddle.
Hawk's nest country, he said, his voice low and flat.
The easy humor was gone from his face.
The tunnel runs right through there.
Noah, ever the documentarian, swiveled his head.
Is that the place with the, you know, with the ghosts?
Liam let out a short, sharp breath that wasn't a laugh.
The men who breathed the mountain, Yeah.
They say they were buried all through these hills, wherever
they fell. Some things are worse than
ghosts, kid. He turned away, his expression
grim, and the conversation died. A cold I hadn't felt before, one
that had nothing to do with the water, seemed to settle over the
raft. The sky, which had been a
uniform Gray, began to darken. A strange cold mist started to
rise from the river's surface, clinging to the water and
blurring the edges of the gorge walls.
We were approaching Iron Ring, a rapid named for a rust pitted
piece of metal embedded in a Riverside boulder, a relic from
a time when men tried to tame this water with chains.
It was a technical run, with a nasty hydraulic hole that had a
reputation for holding on to boats.
Our line was off. I felt it a second before our
guide shouted. We hit a submerged rock, a
glancing but powerful blow that spun the raft sideways.
The world tilted violently. Instead of punching through the
1st wave, we were slammed into it, and the rivers full,
monstrous power drove us directly into the hole.
It wasn't a capsize, it was an explosion.
The roar became a physical presence, A deafening white
noise that vibrated through my bones.
I was ripped from the raft, my grip torn away as if by a giant
hand. I saw Noah's GoPro ripped from
its mount, a tiny black speck tumbling into the churning
abyss. I saw Chloe's face, her mouth
open in a silent scream, her eyes wide with shock before she
was gone. The last thing I saw was Ben's
hand, his fingers straining for mine, just inches away.
Then the raft flipped, and the world went dark.
The pressure was immense, the cold absolute.
I was trapped underneath in a suffocating, roaring chaos.
My lungs burned for air, my limbs were tossed about like a
dolls. I didn't know which way was up.
Then my helmet scraped hard against rock and a star burst of
pain erupted behind my eyes. The current took me, dragging
and tumbling me through a violent underwater world.
When my head finally broke the surface, I was gasping, choking,
my throat raw from swallowing water.
The roar of the main river was muffled, distant.
I was in a small secluded Cove, a place hidden from the main
channel by a massive ancient rock fall.
The water here was unnervingly still and dark, coated with a
faint oily Sheen that caught the dim light.
My entire body was a Symphony of pain, but a sharp searing fire
in my left arm told me something was badly broken.
I saw him then, a few yards away, a flash of red helmet and
blue life jacket. Ben.
He was half in, half out of the water, his body limp.
Ignoring the agony in my arm, I scrambled over the slick, wet
rocks. I grabbed the back of his life
vest and pulled my boots, slipping my muscles.
Screaming, I dragged him fully onto the shore.
His face was pale, his eyes closed.
A nasty gash on his forehead bled sluggishly.
I put my ear to his mouth and felt a faint, shallow breath.
He was alive. But as I listened, I heard the
sound that would become the soundtrack.
To my horror, with every labored breath he took, a wet, congested
rattle echoed from deep in his chest.
I looked around frantically. The shattered remains of our
yellow raft were snagged on the rocks at the coves entrance, a
testament to the river's power. But there was no sign of Liam,
of Chloe, of Noah. The sun was sinking behind the
gorge wall, and the oppressive quiet of the Cove closed in.
We were alone, injured and lost in a gap on the river that no
map had ever shown. The thrill was gone, replaced by
a cold, sharp edged terror that was only just beginning.
The sun bled out behind the hard line of the gorge wall and the
Gray light of dusk settled into the Cove.
It was a heavy, smothering kind of quiet, broken only by the
soft lapping of water against the rocks and the ragged sound
of Ben's breathing. I propped him against a boulder,
his head lolling to one side. The gash on his forehead had
stopped bleeding, but his skin was cold and clammy even through
his wetsuit. Maya.
He whispered, his eyes fluttering open.
They were unfocused, glassy. Can't, can't get warm.
I know, Ben, just rest. I pulled the tattered remnant of
a nylon tarp from the wreckage of the raft and draped it over
him. It was a useless gesture against
the profound cold sinking into our bones.
The rocks beneath us were slick, not just with river water, but
with something else. I ran my fingers over the
surface of the boulder. A Milky white substance, thick
and cool to the touch, came away on my fingertips.
It left a chalky, gritty residue.
When I rubbed my fingers together, I saw patches of it
everywhere, smeared across the dark stone like grotesque snail
trails. As the last of the light
vanished, a new sound began. It was low and rhythmic, a dry
scraping noise. At first I thought it was the
wind moving through a fissure in the rock, or maybe an animal,
but it was too steady, too mechanical.
It seemed to come from the rock face at the back of the Cove, a
sound like stone grinding on stone, or 1000 tiny sharp
breaths being drawn at once. It was a deeply unsettling
sound, and it seemed to harmonize with the wretched
rattle in Ben's chest. He started to cough, a deep
hacking sound that echoed in the enclosed space.
It was a wet, congested noise that spoke of lungs filling with
fluid. He was drowning.
Slowly, right next to me, a fine, cold drizzle began to
fall, turning the rocks from slick to treacherous.
I had to get him out of the open.
My eyes scanned the back of the Cove, trying to pinpoint the
source of the rasping sound. I saw a dark fissure in the rock
face, a deeper shadow in the gloom.
It looked like our only option for shelter.
Ben, we have to move. I slipped my shoulder under his
arm, hoisting him up. The pain in my broken arm was a
nauseating white hot fire, but I locked it away.
Ben was dead weight, his feet dragging on the stones.
Every step was in agony. As we got closer, I saw that the
fissure was no natural cave. The opening was crudely squared
off. Rotted Moss covered Timbers,
black with age and moisture, were wedged around the entrance.
It was a mine shaft, a forgotten hole dug into the side of the
mountain. The rasping sound was louder
here, a constant grating hum emanating from the darkness
within. The air inside was thick, heavy
with the smell of wet earth, of decay and something else, a
faint acrid chemical odor that pricked at the back of my
throat. The white secretions were
thicker here, coating the walls in pale leprous patches.
We stumbled just inside the entrance, the drizzle stopping
abruptly behind us. The darkness in front of us was
absolute. Ben was seized by another
coughing fit, this one more violent than the last.
The sound was shocking in the tight space, each hack and gasp
amplified. He collapsed against the wall,
sliding to the floor the moment his coughing stopped.
The other sound, the rhythmic rasping from the tunnels depths,
also stopped. A dead, ringing silence filled
the mine. I held my breath, every muscle
in my body tense. My heart hammered against my
ribs. Then, from the deep,
impenetrable blackness ahead, a single wet, hacking cough
sounded. It was a perfect mimicry of
bends. It was an answer.
The blood drained from my face. It wasn't an echo.
We were not alone in the tunnel. After a long moment, the
rhythmic sound slowly resumed as if nothing had happened.
White dust. Ben murmured from the floor.
His voice was thin and reedy. He was feverish, his eyes wide
with delirium. It's in my lungs.
They're all all just men with no faces.
His breathing was a constant, agonized wheeze now.
The rasping from the mine seemed to deepen in response, growing
closer. I couldn't stay in there.
I scrambled back to the entrance, my body shaking
uncontrollably, and looked out at the Cove.
The drizzle had thinned, and pale moonlight filtered through
a break in the clouds, casting the Cove in a sickly Gray light.
I saw movement in the murky water.
A pale form broke the surface. It was humanoid, but horribly,
fundamentally wrong. Its skin was a slick corpse,
white, the color of the secretions on the rocks.
It moved with an unnatural fluidity, hoisting itself onto a
boulder. Its limbs were too long, its
joints bending at angles that a human body could not achieve.
It had no eyes, only a smooth, unbroken expanse of skin where
they should have been. The thing unfolded itself.
Standing on the rock. It turned its blank head towards
the mine entrance. As if it had sensed me, as if it
had been waiting, it opened a wide, lipless mouth.
And from that dark cavity came the sound.
The sound. It was the horrible wet, rasping
wheeze I had been hearing from the rock.
The sound of lungs not breathing air, but grinding it.
The chest cavity of the creature visibly fluttered with the
effort. It was not just making the
sound, it was the sound. It was an embodiment of the
disease that had haunted this place, a predator drawn to the
weakness in Ben's lungs. It slipped off the rock, its wet
pale feet making no sound on the stones, and began to move toward
me. It moved toward the mine
entrance with an unnatural smoothness, it's long pale limbs
carrying it over the slick rocks without a sound.
It's blank face was fixed on the darkness where we huddled.
It was coming for the sound in Ben's chest.
It was coming for the sickness. Ben lay on the mine floor, his
body shuddering with each agonized wheeze.
He was lost in his fever dream, unaware of the approaching
shape. The creatures rasping grew
louder, closer, a dry grinding sound that vibrated through the
stone beneath me. In that moment, a brutal clarity
cut through my terror. I could stay.
I could die with him, or I could run.
Survival is an ugly, selfish instinct, it strips everything
else away. A sob caught in my throat.
I crawled to Ben's side, his skin was hot to the touch.
I whispered an apology that was lost in the sound of his
breathing and the creatures rasp.
I pressed my lips to his feverish forehead for a fraction
of a second, then I ran. I scrambled out of the mine, my
broken arm screaming in protest as I slammed it against the
rock. I didn't look back.
I couldn't. The creatures rasping grew
faster, closer behind me. Then from the mine, I heard a
final, terrible gurgling cry that was cut short with a wet
final sound. I didn't hesitate.
I launched myself from the rocky bank, away from the hidden Cove
and plunged into the main channel of the gali.
The cold was a physical blow. It punched the air from my lungs
and sent a shock through my system that nearly stopped my
heart. The river's roar was deafening,
a chaotic violence that swept me away instantly, dragging me
under and tumbling me through the dark.
It was a maelstrom of black water and grey rock, and it
washed away the sound from the Cove.
I fought my way to the surface, gasping.
My life vest kept my head above water, but the current was
relentless. I was swept downstream in the
dark, a helpless piece of debris.
The world narrowed to a fight to keep my face out of the water,
to take a breath before the next wave crashed over me.
I snagged on something in the dark, a floating log, a piece of
our shattered raft. I clung to it, my good hand
locked around it, my broken arm a dead weight.
The cold seeped deeper, past my skin, into my bones, into my
core. My thoughts became sluggish, the
images from the Cove replaying in my mind.
The white secretions, Ben's rattling breath, the blank face
of the creature. Hours must have passed.
The black of the gorge wall softened to a charcoal Gray.
Dawn was breaking. I was barely conscious when I
heard a new sound cutting through the river's roar, the
buzz of an engine. A boat appeared through the
mist, men inside pointing at me. Hands, strong and sure, hauled
my limp body from the water. I was wrapped in coarse
blankets. Voices were muffled, distant.
They were asking me questions, but the words would inform.
I tried to tell them. I tried to explain about the
Cove, the mine, the thing that came out of the water.
My words were a jumbled, delirious mess.
They looked at me with pity. The look people give someone
whose mind has broken from trauma.
They saw my injuries, my hypothermia, and they heard only
fantasy. Later, in the warmth of the
rescue boat, a man with kind eyes and a grim face told me
they had found Noah's body snagged in a strainer miles
downstream. Liam and Chloe were still
missing. The official search for them was
ongoing, but his tone told me there was no hope.
They were all gone. My world became a sterile white
room in a hospital in Charleston.
The steady, rhythmic beeping of monitors replaced the roar of
the river. My arm was encased in a hard
white cast. Men in uniforms.
Officials asked me questions. I told my story again, my voice
flat and hoarse. I described the hidden Cove, the
abandoned mine, the creature, They wrote in their notepads,
their faces impassive. The official report, they later
told me, would state it was a tragic rafting accident.
A search of the area I indicated had found nothing.
No Cove, no mine. The river gives and the river
takes. My story was a hallucination, a
side effect of trauma and a brain rattled by a blow to the
head. My physical wounds began to
heal, but something else was wrong.
The doctors were puzzled. I was being treated for exposure
and pneumonia, likely from aspirating river water, but my
lungs weren't getting better. The infection was resistant to
every antibiotic they tried. In the quiet of the hospital
room a new sound began to surface.
A slight persistent wheeze in my own breathing when I was alone,
when the nurses had gone and the machines were the only sound I
could hear it. A faint dry rasping sound with
every exhale. It was a ghost of the creatures
call, and it was coming from inside me.
Weeks passed, I remained in the hospital, a medical curiosity.
I was weak and the rasp in my breath was my constant
companion. One night I pushed myself out of
bed and shuffled into the attached bathroom.
The face in the mirror was a stranger.
Gaunt, pale, with dark circles under the eyes.
I had been avoiding my own gaze for days, but this time I forced
myself to look closer. That's when I saw it.
Across the deep brown of my irises, A faint Milky white film
was creeping inward from the edges.
It was like a cataract made of chalk dust, a delicate branching
pattern of white against the dark.
It was the same substance I had seen on the rocks in the Cove,
the same residue that had come away on my fingers.
I survived, but I did not escape.
I had brought the sickness out of the mountain with me.
Staring at my own changing reflection, listening to the new
familiar sound of my own breathing, I understood that the
rasping had only just begun. Unaka Mountain sits right on the
Tennessee, North Carolina border, cloaked in thick spruce
and fir forests that rarely see direct sunlight.
They say the Cherokee once revered these peaks as sacred,
maybe even haunted. I never believed in ghost
stories, but I understood why some folks avoided hiking here
after dark. In October 1976, eight-year old
Caleb Merritt vanished near Unaka Mountain overlook.
Despite a massive search, no trace was ever found.
Locals still whispered his name from time to time, but mostly
they stayed away from that stretch of the Ridge.
The disappearance eventually became a faded footnote in park
history. Just another unfortunate
accident officially unsolved. 49 years later, I came to that same
Ridge alone, determined to record nocturnal wildlife sounds
for my senior biology project at Western Carolina University.
I wasn't reckless. I'd done solo trips before.
I figured I'd spend three nights camping quietly and taking audio
samples. Straightforward, safe.
I parked at the trailhead around noon and hiked up toward the
overlook. The Appalachian Trail here was
narrow, slippery with Moss and fallen leaves, the air thick and
cold enough to see my breath. The mist was low hanging like
thin gauze between the trees. My boots sank gently into the
spongy earth as I followed A faint path off the main trail to
a small, flat clearing I'd marked on my GPS.
By late afternoon, I'd pitched my tent beneath 2 tall spruces
and set up my parabolic microphones around camp.
Everything was perfectly quiet. No hikers passing by, no
squirrels chattering, not even the faint buzz of insects.
It was like nature was holding its breath.
I scribbled quick notes in my journal about the eerie
stillness, unsure if I was capturing serenity or something
stranger. As night fell, I zipped myself
into the tent and began monitoring the audio feed.
At first, just silence, almost deafening and how absolute it
felt. Then finally, around midnight,
the soft calls of a distant screech owl drifted into my
headphones. I marked down the time, relieved
that at least something normal was happening.
But minutes later, the woods fell silent again, more abruptly
than before, unnaturally abrupt. Then I heard something else, so
faint at first I nearly missed it.
Footsteps carefully moving around the tent, slow and
steady. My pulse quickened, and I held
my breath, straining to listen. Not a deer, too rhythmic, too
deliberate, and not heavy enough for a bear.
I whispered sharply. Hello.
But the footsteps continued softly, circling slowly around
the tent. I gripped my flashlight and
unzipped the tent flap just enough to peer out.
My light beam swept the perimeter, but nothing moved.
In the inky blackness. The footsteps stopped as
suddenly as they'd started. I waited, flashlight trembling
slightly in my grip, the second stretching painfully into
minutes. Nothing else moved or stirred.
Eventually, convinced I'd spooked myself, I sealed up the
tent again and lay back down. But sleep was impossible.
Every rustle, every snap of a distant twig seemed amplified
until dawn finally crept into the sky.
Exhausted, I crawled out, stretching stiff limbs and
breathing deeply of the cold, damp air.
Then I saw them. Small footprints pressed softly
into the Moss, no more than a yard from my tent.
Child sized footprints, barefoot, clearly outlined.
My breath caught in my throat as I stared down, trying to
rationalize what I saw. No adult prints nearby, no signs
of animals, just these small, impossibly out of place tracks.
I packed a small day bag and left camp feeling uneasy as I
rejoined the main trail. Halfway down to the overlook, I
met an older hiker coming the opposite way.
He paused, looking me up and down, his eyes lingering on my
gear. Something in his expression
shifted from mild curiosity to concern.
You camped back past the overlook?
He asked quietly. Yeah, doing a project up here?
I replied, trying to sound casual.
He nodded slowly, scratching at his Gray beard.
His gaze settled somewhere past my shoulder, as if he were
recalling something deeply unpleasant.
You heard about Caleb Merritt? He finally asked.
The missing kid. Right from the 70s.
He nodded again, solemnly this time.
They never did find that boy. Most folks around here say some
places just don't let go of what's lost.
I tried to smile politely, but my face felt suddenly cold.
Be careful up there, son. He said softly, stepping aside
to let me pass. Sometimes the woods get curious,
best not to give them a reason. I moved on quickly, but his
words lingered heavily as I returned to the camp to face
another long night on Unaka Mountain.
By midday, the old hikers words were still circling inside my
head. The fog had settled deeper into
the trees, turning everything around me Gray and uncertain.
Determined to focus, I spent the next several hours placing
microphones high in the spruce and fir branches, hoping to
capture clearer recordings of nocturnal wildlife.
Still, the feeling of being watched was inescapable, like a
constant weight pressing between my shoulder blades.
When I returned to camp shortly before dusk, an uneasy sensation
crawled down my spine. I stopped at the edge of my
clearing, squinting into the growing darkness.
Something was different. My pack lay against a fallen log
where I'd left it, but the main zipper was open.
I approached slowly, pulse quickening.
Peering inside, I saw everything.
Still neatly arranged food, untouched gear exactly as I'd
packed it. It didn't make sense.
Then my eyes fell to my hiking boots, positioned carefully side
by side near the tent flap. They'd been scrubbed clean of
mud and Moss. I felt my mouth go dry.
I knew without question I'd toss them there hastily.
Muddy souls up. I glanced nervously into the
trees around the camp, the shadows deepening by the second.
It felt like an invitation, no, a message.
Stay calm, I told myself firmly, though my hands shook slightly
as I set up my wildlife camera on the trunk of a nearby spruce.
I pointed it carefully toward my tent, angling it to cover the
spot where I'd seen the footprints that morning.
If something returned, I'd catch it clearly on video.
Night fell fast, bringing with it a raw, biting chill.
I crawled into my tent, secured the flap, and settled myself
against my pack ears straining. The microphone system fed into
my headphones, turning every faint rustle and distant snap
into a nerve wracking Symphony. I listened intently, barely
breathing, waiting for anything unusual.
Around midnight it began again, the soft, slow footsteps
circling outside. A creeping dread settled in my
stomach, heavy and nauseating. I held absolutely still, afraid
even the slightest movement might give me away.
Each step moved deliberately, pressing softly into the Moss,
stopping briefly beside my head, then moving around the tent once
more. Than beneath that rhythm came a
sound even more unsettling, a low, gentle humming, childlike,
almost playful, floating through the fabric just inches from my
face. My heart pounded furiously, and
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to remain calm.
This couldn't be happening. But the sound persisted, clear
and unhurried, lingering long after the footsteps had stopped.
Minutes passed, slow, painful minutes, until finally, in
desperation, I whispered into the darkness.
Who's there? Instant silence.
The humming ceased immediately. I lay there, frozen, breath
shallow, straining to detect any further movement.
Nothing stirred. Had it left?
Or was it simply waiting, listening?
Just beyond the thin tent fabric, a sudden flash
illuminated the tent, sharp and startling.
My wildlife camera had been triggered.
Something was out there. I curled tightly in my sleeping
bag, shivering, counting down each agonizing second until
dawn, when pale light finally seeped through the fabric.
Exhaustion was heavy in every limb, but I forced myself to
crawl outside. Slowly, dread pooling in my
chest, I approached the wildlife camera.
I detached it carefully, my fingers numb from more than just
cold. As I checked the playback
screen, my blood turned to ice. The image was blurry from the
fog and darkness, but there it was, a small, pale figure
crawling toward my tent on all fours, limbs elongated and
unnatural. The head tilted oddly toward the
camera. The woods around me felt
suddenly colder, less forgiving. I stood motionless, camera
trembling in my hands. Whatever was out here wasn't an
animal, and it certainly wasn't human.
Not anymore. I stood motionless, camera
gripped tightly, my mind racing to process what I'd seen.
The creature on the screen was pale, crouched low, its limbs
unnaturally stretched. It was humanoid, small and
fragile, yet completely alien in its posture.
The blurred face revealed nothing but shadowed hollows for
eyes. A sudden rustle echoed softly
behind me, startling me from my trance.
I spun around, breath tight in my chest, but the clearing was
empty. The wind whispered gently
through the branches, carrying a faint scent of damp earth and
decay. I forced myself to slow my
breathing, but the woods around me seemed to close tighter with
every passing 2nd. Every instinct screamed to leave
immediately. Forget the microphones, forget
the gear. Just run.
I glanced down at my tent, noticing the flap swaying gently
in the breeze, half opened, revealing the dark interior.
I knew I'd sealed it tightly. My stomach twisted.
I moved quickly, stuffing essentials into my pack.
My hands shook uncontrollably as I fought with zippers and
straps. I refused to look around,
convinced that if I did, I'd see something terrible watching,
waiting, ready to crawl toward me again.
Minutes later, gear hastily gathered, I bolted from the
campsite, heart hammering painfully in my ribs.
The trail blurred beneath my feet, slick Moss threatening to
trip me as I race toward the overlook.
Twice I slipped, catching myself on jagged rocks and roots,
feeling the sting of scraped palms.
But panic drove me relentlessly onward.
At the overlook junction, I slowed briefly to catch my
breath. Standing there, silhouetted
against the fog, was the old hiker from before.
He watched me silently, his gaze heavy with unspoken meaning.
He made no move to approach, just nodded once, slowly, a
gesture waited with solemn acknowledgement.
My throat closed tight, but I managed A shaky nod in return
before pushing onward, driven by fear more powerful than
curiosity. I reached my truck just before
dusk, fumbling with the keys, throwing my pack carelessly into
the bed. Tires spun in gravel as I speed
down the winding Rd. away from Unaka Mountain and whatever
lingered in its mist covered forests.
Days later, after countless sleepless nights haunted by the
blurred images from the wildlife camera, I took the footage to
the Forest Service station. The Ranger behind the desk
accepted it with a practiced look of weary skepticism.
A month later, I received an e-mail, a terse message claiming
the footage had been corrupted. Impossible to recover.
I sat numbly, staring at the screen until my phone buzzed.
The caller was an unknown number, but I answered anyway,
desperate for answers. You camped on that Ridge above
Unaka Overlook? A gruff voice asked without
introduction. A pause, then softer.
We don't patrol up there anymore.
Folks here have unofficial beliefs.
Some things are better left alone.
The line clicked dead before I could respond.
My fingers hovered over my computer, hesitating briefly
before finally deleting every backup of the footage.
Some things weren't meant to be shared.
Some truths carried a cost too heavy to bear.
Weeks passed. I abandoned the wildlife biology
project, avoided hiking trails, slept with the lights on.
And yet, 1 quiet night, lying awake in the unnatural
brightness of my room, I heard a faint noise.
Soft, careful footsteps on carpet.
My breath caught sharply as I sat upright, pulse pounding
painfully. Across the room.
The closet door stood slightly ajar on the floor.
One of my hiking boots had fallen over.
I swallowed hard, throat dry with dread.
The soul was perfectly clean, scrubbed free of dirt and Moss
just like before.