It was Drew's idea, like it usually was when we ended up
doing something dumb but well-intentioned.
He called me after 8 months of silence.
No texts, no memes, not even a Merry Christmas.
Just a one line message at 2O four in the morning.
You still hike? I didn't respond right away.
Truth was, I hadn't hit a trail in over a year.
Work, a breakup, and the kind of creeping exhaustion that settles
in your bones had kept me firmly planted indoors.
But something about the timing, about the way Drew asked, made
me say yes without even asking where.
We met up in Asheville three days later.
He looked rough, pale, gaunt around the eyes, like he hadn't
slept properly in weeks. But when I asked about it, he
shrugged it off, said he just needed to get out of the city,
clear his head, breathe real air again.
And I didn't push because, frankly, I needed the same.
Drew had picked the spot, an isolated stretch of the
Appalachian Trail near the Tennessee, North Carolina
border. We'd hike for four days, circle
back using a fire road, and crash in the truck.
No service, no noise, just miles of nothing.
It sounded perfect. I should have asked him why he
picked that spot. Should have asked a lot of
things really. We parked his rust bitten Tacoma
on an overgrown shoulder near an old mile marker.
The trailhead wasn't labeled on any map I had drew, just said
trust me. It connects in and pointed
uphill to a faded break in the trees.
The path was narrow, overgrown in places, and I could feel the
wetness of the Moss through the sides of my boots.
Within the 1st 20 minutes the air was heavy, damp, like the
woods had just finished raining. Even though the sky was clear,
it smelled old, earthy, but not the good kind, more like mildew
and forgotten things. Every step kicked up the scent
of rotting leaves and mud. Still, we laughed a lot that
first day, talked about the usual exes, jobs, dumb crap from
high school. Drew seemed like himself again.
That night. We set up camp in a shallow
basin next to a dry Creek bed, just a flat enough patch to drop
our gear. We cooked some ramen on my
Jetboil and passed a tiny flask back and forth until the stars
came out in full. Around midnight, the forest got
too quiet. It wasn't gradual.
One second we could hear the rustle of squirrels, the buzz of
insects, the occasional flap of something big in the trees.
The next it was like someone had hit mute on the whole world.
The fire still crackled. Drew's breathing was steady, but
beyond that, nothing. I sat up, suddenly alert.
Do you hear that? He didn't say anything, just
nodded, eyes fixed on the dark tree line beyond the fire.
That's when we heard it, this low grinding noise.
Not footsteps, not a growl. It sounded like someone dragging
a bag of rocks through wet gravel.
Long, slow, pausing every few seconds.
It moved just beyond the trees, where the fire light faded to
black. We didn't speak, didn't move,
just listened. It circled slowly, like it was
checking us out. When it stopped, Drew whispered.
Don't move, it's circling. I nodded, even though he
couldn't see me. My skin felt electric, my body
coiled tight like a spring. I grabbed the hatchet near my
sleeping bag and held it low. Minutes passed, maybe hours, I
don't know. At some point I must have dozed
off, because when I opened my eyes again, the sky was turning
Gray and the fire had burned to ash.
The woods were noisy again, birds chirping, a squirrel
scampering up a trunk like nothing had happened.
Drew was already awake, standing at the edge of camp with his
arms folded. I walked up next to him and
followed his gaze. Boot prints, Deep ones, not
ours. They circled the camp in a wide
arc, maybe 15 feet out, where the brush was just thick enough
that you wouldn't see someone unless you were looking for
them. Drew didn't say anything, just
turned and started packing up. We hit the trail again around
7:00 AM. Both of us were quieter, not as
quick with the jokes. There was this shared
understanding between us now, unspoken but heavy.
Something had been watching us last night, and it wasn't a bear
or a deer or anything that belonged out here.
We hiked most of the day without seeing anyone.
No other hikers, no trail markers, not even the occasional
candy wrapper left behind by an amateur.
It felt like we were the last two people on the trail.
At one point I checked my phone just to see the time and noticed
something weird. The time was wrong, off by two
hours. I laughed at first, thought I
must have hit daylight savings or messed with the settings, but
Drew checked his watch and went pale.
Same thing, we both had different brands, mine digital,
his analog, but both were off exactly 2 hours behind.
No way both of them are busted. I said.
Drew didn't answer, just looked back over his shoulder, scanning
the trees like he was expecting something to step out of them.
The rest of the day passed in a fog.
At some point we found an old overhang, looked like it used to
be a trail shelter before it collapsed in on itself.
The beams were weather worn and splintered, roof caved in like
it had given up fighting gravity.
We didn't stop, just moved past it and kept walking.
And that's when we saw him. A man walking the opposite
direction, maybe 50 yards ahead, just stepping slowly down the
trail like he had nowhere to be. At first I was relieved, another
person, proof we weren't alone out here.
But something felt off immediately.
He was barefoot, filthy, his shirt was torn hanging off 1
shoulder, and he was carrying a bundle of sticks in one hand.
Like carrying them. Not in a pack, just bundled in
his arms like a toddler holding toys.
We stepped aside to let him pass.
He didn't look at us, didn't say a word, just walked straight
down the trail, eyes locked on the dirt like he was afraid to
look up. Drew muttered under his breath.
What the hell was that? I didn't answer.
My mouth was dry, tongue stuck to the roof like I hadn't drunk
in days. I watched the man disappear
around a bend and felt this pressure in my chest, like the
woods were holding their breath again.
We made camp early that night, just before sunset.
Drew didn't speak much while we set up, just went through the
motions, tent, food, fire, like a man on autopilot.
When it got dark, we didn't tell stories or pull out the flask.
We just sat there, watching the woods, listening.
And that's when we heard it again. 3 short whistles, sharp,
deliberate. We both froze.
Then the sound of something stepping just beyond the trees.
One step, pause, another pause, closer.
Drew whispered. That's not the same thing from
last night. I didn't answer.
I just gripped the hatchet and prayed it would leave us alone.
But deep down I knew something had followed us.
Something was out there, and it knew we were here.
The morning after the whistles, neither of us said a word about
what we'd heard. Maybe we were too afraid to put
it into words. Maybe it felt safer to pretend
it didn't happen. But the silence between us
wasn't normal. It was sharp, tense, like a wire
pulled tight between two people. Trying not to panic.
We broke camp faster than usual. No coffee, no breakfast, just
packed our gear with stiff fingers and got moving before
the sun had fully cleared the trees.
The trail was wrong, I don't know how else to put it.
The path looked the same, but the woods felt off.
The spacing of the trees was too even, like they've been planted
and I swear they were closer together than they've been
yesterday. The light filtered through the
branches and thin pale streaks that didn't feel like sunlight.
It looked like the glow off ATV screen in a dark room, cold and
artificial. An hour in, we found the first
marker. It was carved into a tree trunk,
deep gouges in the bark. Done recently.
At first I thought it was trail graffiti, until I got closer and
saw the shape. Three straight vertical slashes,
evenly spaced. Not letters, not a hiker's
initials. It looked more like tally marks,
but there were only three. Like someone or something was
keeping track. We pushed on, trying to stay
calm, but the deeper we went, the more signs we saw.
Not just carvings. Stones stacked into little
pyramids beside the trail, with Tufts of fur wedged between
them, twine hanging from branches and haphazard knots.
Once we passed a log covered in dozens of dead moths, wings
splayed like they've been arranged there.
Drew didn't say much, but I caught him looking over his
shoulder constantly, and he started mumbling just little
things under his breath. Don't look at it or keep walking
over and over like a mantra. I finally stopped him.
What's going on, man? He looked at me, eyes glassy.
I've been here before. My stomach dropped.
What I I don't mean literally, not like I remember hiking this
part, but I know this place. I've seen it in dreams.
That tree. He pointed to a crooked cedar
split down the middle by lightning.
I've seen that tree a dozen times.
You didn't tell me you'd been dreaming about this.
He didn't answer, just started walking again.
By midday, it felt like we were the only people left in the
world. No birds, no bugs, just the
sound of our own breathing and the crunch of boots on damp
leaves. And that's when we saw the
footprints. Not ours.
Not from boots. Bare feet, one set deep heel
impressions, long toes wide apart, like someone or something
had been running barefoot along the trail, and they were fresh.
We stopped dead. The Prince curved off the path
and into the woods. I could see the trail they left
behind in the undergrowth. Bent grass, disturbed leaves.
It wasn't random. It was like it wanted us to see
where it had gone. We should turn around, I said.
Drew shook his head slowly. We won't get out that way.
You don't know that. He looked at me, and there was
something behind his eyes that made my stomach twist, like he
wasn't sure if we'd ever get out.
We followed the trail for another hour, then came upon a
structure. It wasn't on any map, just a
single rotting shelter buried deep in the woods.
Old Ranger station, maybe. The roof sagged like a broken
spine. Windows boarded, the door
hanging off its hinges. I didn't want to go in.
Every part of me screamed not to, but Drew was already
stepping through the threshold. Inside, it was worse.
The air was thick, foul, like old meat and mold.
The walls were covered in claw marks, not scratches, gouges
deep enough that flakes of wood curled at the edges.
Something had torn through here recently.
In the corner was a pile of bones.
Small ones, animal probably, but they were laid out in a pattern,
symmetrical, deliberate skulls stacked on top of each other
like a totem. And next to it, a pile of
clothes, folded clean, too clean.
A faded hoodie, hiking pants, a baseball cap with a tiny patch
that said wander more. There was a name stitched into
the jacket collar. Ryan S Drew said nothing, just
stared at the clothes like they were radioactive.
Then we heard it again. The whistle. 3 notes this time.
Closer, right outside. Drew turned to me slowly.
It's hunting. No, I said, backing away.
It's toying with us. We bolted out of the station and
ran, full Sprint, packs bouncing, lungs on fire.
We didn't stop until we were halfway down a ravine, gasping
and soaked in sweat. That's when I realized my GPS
wasn't in my pocket anymore. Gone.
Just gone. I'd checked it maybe 10 minutes
earlier. No way it fell out.
It was taken. Mine's dead, Drew said, holding
up his screen. It was cracked straight down the
middle. The display flickered once and
shut off for good. We sat there in silence for a
while, listening to the forest breathe.
The sun was going down behind the Ridge.
We didn't have long. We need to make camp, I said.
Set a fire, keep watch. Drew nodded but didn't move.
And then he whispered something that chilled me more than
anything that day. I don't think we're on the trail
anymore. I looked around.
He was right. The path we'd been following
wasn't a trail, not really. No markers, no blazes.
Just a worn line through the trees that we've been blindly
following, thinking it would lead somewhere safe.
But it didn't. It was a path meant for
something else. We didn't sleep that night.
We built a fire and took turns watching it, listening for the
whistle. It didn't come.
That somehow made it worse, at least before we knew where it
was. Now it could have been anywhere,
all around us. Or maybe it was just waiting.
The woods didn't feel like woods anymore.
They felt like a maze, like we'd cross some invisible line and
the rules no longer applied. When the sun came up, if you
could even call it that, we packed up and tried to
backtrack. We figured if we could retrace
our steps to the Ranger station, maybe we'd find something that
pointed us toward a real trail. But the ravine we'd scrambled
down? Gone just a flat stretch of Moss
and deadfall. The Ranger station nowhere.
Maybe we missed it, I said, even though I knew we didn't.
Drew didn't respond. His face had gone pale again,
and his left eye had started twitching every couple of
minutes. He looked like he was falling
apart from the inside out. I don't think it wants us to
leave, he finally whispered. We kept walking.
After a few hours, we hit a clearing, a wide circular
opening in the trees. No sound, no birds.
Just a field of stones. Big flat slabs laid out in
tight, unnatural rows. Some were cracked, others looked
like they'd been burned. And in the center, a tree, dead,
blackened, split right down the middle.
At its base, something had been carved into the wood.
Come closer. Drew just stared at it like it
was calling his name. I grabbed his arm.
We're not going near that thing. He didn't argue, just let me
pull him away. That's when we heard it.
Not the whistle this time. It was our voices, my voice,
Drew's voice coming from the woods.
It said this way, then help, and then laughing, mocking, like it
was trying to remember how to be human but got the tone wrong.
Off just enough to make your skin crawl.
We ran. The path was uneven, roots
rising to grab our boots, branches clawing at our arms.
I lost track of how long we moved like that, ducking,
stumbling, shoving through brush like we were being chased even
when nothing was behind us. Eventually, we hit another
trail. A real one.
I recognized the markers. White rectangles on the trees.
Appalachian Trailblaze. I nearly cried, but Drew wasn't
celebrating. He just stood there, staring
into the woods. It let us find it, he said.
It wants something. What the hell are you talking
about? He looked at me, expression
flat. We're not both getting out.
No, I said, backing away. Don't do this.
But he was already taking off his pack, dropping it in the
middle of the trail. You've got a wife, a real life
back home. I don't this thing.
It followed me first. I grabbed him by the jacket.
I'm not leaving you out here. And that's when we heard it.
Footsteps. Not shuffling, not creeping,
running fast, heavy, right toward us.
We turned and bolted. Whatever it was, it was behind
us. close. I could hear the snap of
branches, feel the vibration in the ground.
I didn't look back. I couldn't.
We ran until my lungs felt like they were filled with glass.
My legs barely worked. Drew was falling behind.
He stumbled once, hard, rolled down a slope and hit a tree with
a sickening crunch. I stopped, turned back.
He wasn't moving. The thing was close now, too
close. I could hear it breathing wet,
rattling breaths. I had to make a choice.
I turned and ran. I ran until I saw a clearing in
the glint of metal, a trail sign, bent, rusted, half covered
in vines, but real. I followed it, crashing through
the underbrush until I saw a gravel Rd. a Ranger truck, a man
in uniform. I don't remember what I said, I
think I screamed. He grabbed me, hauled me into
the truck and drove. He didn't ask questions, didn't
talk, just kept his eyes on the road.
We drove for maybe 20 minutes before I caught my breath enough
to speak. My friend Drew, he's still out
there. The Ranger didn't look at me, he
just muttered. You're lucky it let you go.
What are you talking about? What is that thing?
He finally turned his head, just enough for me to see the deep
lines in his face. We get a few like you every
couple years. Pairs mostly.
One gets out, one doesn't. I stared at him.
So what, you just leave them? We've tried, he said.
Sent teams in dogs, drones. Sometimes we find pieces,
sometimes we don't. It's not our land, not really.
We rode in silence after that. Back at the station, they gave
me water, took a statement I barely remember giving, told me
someone would look into it, but I could see it in their eyes.
They already knew how this ended.
But Drew? Drew made it. 3 days later, a
rescue team found him wandering down a game trail 6 miles from
where I'd left him, Shirt shredded, shoes gone, blood
crusted down one side of his face.
He was muttering something about names and mirrors.
They sedated him on the spot. He doesn't talk anymore, not to
me, not to anyone. He moved to New Mexico, changed
his name, deleted every trace of his old life.
Sometimes I text him just to see if he's still there.
He never replies. As for me, I moved out of the
city, don't hike anymore. I stay away from wooded areas.
I don't go near parks. Sometimes I catch myself
listening too closely at night, waiting for the wind to shift.
And once, just once, I swear I heard it again. 3 sharp whistles
and my voice calling from the trees.
I didn't grow up with ghost stories.
I didn't grow up believing in curses, forest spirits, or
anything that couldn't be measured or explained.
My family wasn't superstitious. We were practical.
We believed in what we could see, touch, quantify.
That's probably why I didn't take Everett seriously when he
grabbed my arm that night, his nails digging into my skin, eyes
glassy and wide. If the woods go quiet, you stop.
Don't talk, don't run, don't turn around.
That's what he told me. I should have listened.
Everett lived out past Blue Ridge, in this patch of the
Georgia mountains where the trees felt older than time.
His cabin was one of those places that never had good cell
reception, never got mail delivered directly, and somehow
always smelled like damp stone. I'd driven in that afternoon to
grab the Will paperwork he'd finally gotten around to
finalizing. He wasn't dying, but he looked
like he was getting there. Thin, pale, like something had
hollowed him out from the inside.
He wasn't eating. Said the woods had been too loud
lately, then too quiet, whatever the hell that meant.
His windows were covered in newspaper and black duct tape.
He'd unplugged his fridge, covered all the mirrors, and
kept bundles of sage hanging above every door frame.
It looked less like a house and more like a bunker for someone
who thought the trees were conspiring against him.
When I asked about the blackout curtains, he just said they
don't like to be watched. I laughed.
He didn't. When I stood up to leave,
Everett didn't follow me to the door.
He jumped ahead of me and blocked it, clutching the frame
like he thought it might vanish if he let go.
Just stay the night, he said. I'll drive you back at first
light. It's safer that way.
It's a mile and a half, I said. I know the trail.
I've done it 100 times. I'll be home in less than an
hour. Everett stepped aside, but not
before pulling something from his pocket, a small cloth pouch
tied shut with a knot of red twine.
Take this, he said. Don't open it, don't lose it.
What is it? Salt, bones, a few teeth, stuff
it doesn't like. I shoved it in my jacket just to
make him feel better, and promised to text when I made it
back to the trailhead. He didn't smile, didn't even
wave, just stood there on his porch as I walked off, eyes
locked on the tree line like he expected it to move.
And for a while, everything was fine.
The trail was familiar, narrow, winding, but clearly marked.
Light bled through the trees and thin golden strands, and the air
was crisp, still clinging to that late autumn chill.
I kept a steady pace, earbuds in, just wanting to get home
before my mom started blowing up my phone.
I was about 1/4 mile in when I noticed it, The silence.
Not the peaceful kind, either, the kind that makes your stomach
tighten before your brain even catches up.
No wind, no crunch under foot. Even my own footsteps sounded
muted. I paused, pulled out one earbud,
and realized the forest wasn't just quiet, it was dead.
No birds, no insects, nothing. I don't know how long I stood
there before I realized I was holding my breath.
I took a step forward. Something shifted in the corner
of my vision. Just trees.
Another step. A low, creaking noise echoed
from behind me, like a tree groaning under its own weight.
I kept walking. That's when I smelled it.
Something foul, heavy and sweet, like meat left in a plastic bag
on a hot day. It hit my nose like a slap and
lingered in the back of my throat.
I covered my mouth with my sleeve, eyes watering.
I don't know why I looked left. Maybe instinct, maybe stupidity.
But through the thick brush, just past the slope of the
Ridge, I saw something standing between 2 trees.
At first I thought it was a person, just a man watching me
from a distance. But it didn't move.
It didn't breathe. Its arms were too long, hands
drooping low enough to brush the tops of its knees.
The legs were bent like a deer's, and its skin, what I
could see of it, looked leathery, like it had been
stretched too tight over the bones.
And its face, God, its face. It had a mouth, a human one,
full of teeth, too many teeth, and eyes, like open coals,
glowing just faintly in the dimming light, like they weren't
reflecting light but making it. I blinked.
It was gone. I laughed, mostly out of panic,
and forced myself to keep walking.
I told myself I'd imagined it, some illusion from the shadows,
my brain playing tricks. That's what I told myself.
That's what I needed to believe. Because if I didn't, I'd have to
accept that Everett wasn't crazy, that he was right, that
there's something in those woods that watches you when the air
goes still. My shoe came united about
halfway through. I bent down to fix it, hands
shaking more than I'd like to admit.
As I did, something snapped in the trees ahead.
Not a twig, a crack, like something heavy had stepped on a
branch. Without caring how much noise it
made, I froze. Another snap, this time closer.
I stood up fast, tied or knot, and started walking.
Not running, just walking. That's what Everett said, right?
Don't run, don't talk, don't look back.
I tried to hum, keep myself calm, but even my voice sounded
swallowed up, like the trees were listening.
Then I heard it. Singing.
Low, feminine, no words, just a tune carried by a voice that
sounded human, almost, but there was something off.
Notes held too long, vibrato where there shouldn't be any.
A voice that sounded practiced, like it had learned the song by
watching people sing but never tried it until now.
It came from behind me. I didn't turn around.
The sound moved, circling to my right, then to my left, then
above. I told myself it was an echo,
just sound, bouncing off rocks or cliffs or whatever, but the
air was too flat, too thick. That's when I felt the breath,
hot and rancid, hitting the back of my neck, like someone was
standing an inch behind me. I closed my eyes, took one step
forward, then another. The singing stopped.
Everything stopped. I heard my own heartbeat
pounding in my ears, heard the crunch of gravel beneath me
again. Finally, like the trail had come
back online, I opened my eyes and nearly cried from relief
when I saw the old mile marker nailed to a tree ahead.
I was halfway there. Just keep walking.
There's a weird kind of silence that comes after something
terrifying. Not peaceful, not even still,
just hollow, like the world is holding its breath.
That's what the trail felt like as I passed that old mile marker
and stepped deeper into the trees.
I kept thinking, just a little farther, but my legs were tight
with tension and my back felt like it was being watched,
scanned. I hadn't seen that thing again,
but the memory of it was burned into me.
That mouth, those eyes, the way it just vanished.
I kept my pace steady. No running, no talking.
Just walking, like Everett said. I even kept my eyes down,
watching the dirt, the scattered leaves, the faint depressions in
the path. That's probably why I almost
missed it. The second mile marker.
I blinked at it, confused. It looked exactly the same as
the one I'd already passed. Same angle, same faded white
numbers, same nail poking out just a little too far.
I reached out, hesitating, and ran my fingers along the cracked
wood. It was the same.
Not just a copy, the same one. I hadn't gone in a circle, the
trail didn't loop. There were no offshoots.
I knew this part of the AT like the back of my hand, but somehow
I was back where I started. That was the first time I really
started to panic. I turned slowly, trying not to
make any sudden moves. Nothing but trees, nothing but
mist in the far off Pines. The sun had dipped below the
horizon completely now, and the forest was cast in that final
blue haze just before full dark. And then I heard the laughter.
Children not happy, Laughter not innocent.
This laughter was dry and mean, like kids daring each other to
poke a dead animal with a stick. It echoed weirdly, bouncing
between the trees in short bursts, rising and falling like
waves. I froze.
Then it got louder. One voice, then two, then more.
It sounded like they were running around me, fast.
Their footsteps were impossible, light but quick, circling,
weaving, closing in. I turned in a slow circle, heart
thudding, and still saw nothing. That's when one of them
whispered my name. Not screamed, not called,
whispered right into my ear. I spun, swinging wildly behind
me, but nothing was there. My flashlight nearly slipped
from my hand. Another whisper, this time from
the other side. Then a giggle, and another
voice, my own voice, mimicking the way I'd said I know the
trail back at Everett's house. Word for word, Same tone, but it
was wrong. A fraction too slow, the cadence
just slightly off, like it was trying to understand the way I
spoke but hadn't figured it out completely.
I started moving again, fast, not running, but not calm
either. Every shadow looked like it was
about to reach out and grab me. The trees leaned a little too
far into the trail, like they were listening, watching.
I pulled out my phone. No service, no signal, just a
blinking red battery icon. Figures.
Then, for a split second, I saw myself.
At first I thought it was a reflection, a trick of the
light, but it was me. My clothes, my face, everything.
Standing just off the trail to my right, head tilted, arms
limp. A mirror image.
Except it was smiling. A big, toothy, unblinking smile
that felt like a mask stretched too tight.
I didn't scream. I couldn't.
My throat locked up. I just stared, heart frozen in
my chest as it raised one hand and slowly mimicked a wave.
Then it walked backward into the woods.
Not turned, walked backward. Its knees bent the wrong way.
I couldn't help it. I ran.
I know Everett said not to, but every instinct in my body took
over. I tore down the trail, branches
slicing at my arms, my jacket snagging on thorns.
I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think.
I just ran. And then the trail disappeared.
It didn't end, it didn't split. It just vanished.
One moment it was beneath my feet, the next I was standing in
thick undergrowth, surrounded by trees that didn't look familiar.
My flashlight flickered. I turned in every direction.
No trail markers, no path. Just woods.
Endless swallowing woods. The stench returned, coppery,
rotting, thick in the air. It clung to the inside of my
nostrils. My flashlight flickered again,
then died. And that's when I heard it
again. The song.
Same voice, same lullaby. Only this time it was closer,
directly in front of me. And something moved.
I don't mean a shadow or a blur. I mean the space in front of me
shifted, like the air had folded inward and something stepped
through. A tall, spindly shape emerged
from between the trees, its body so thin it looked like it had
been starved for years. It walked with this slow,
graceful bend, like it was sniffing the air.
I didn't breathe. I didn't move.
Its head snapped toward me. It had no eyes, just sockets
filled with that same burning red glow.
The grin widened. Then it started humming.
I turned and bolted. I didn't care if I was making
noise. I didn't care if it was a
mistake. I needed out.
The thing didn't chase me with footsteps.
It chased me with sound. Every time I thought I'd gotten
some distance, it was there again, closer, louder, humming
in that same terrible tone that somehow knew every nerve to
twist. I stumbled, fell hard, slammed
my shoulder into a rock. My flashlight hit the ground and
cracked open, the batteries popping loose.
My vision swam. And then I felt it.
Of fingers, long, ice cold, wrapping around my ankle.
I kicked, screamed. My boot caught something solid,
and whatever it was let go. I scrambled to my feet and ran.
I don't remember the next part clearly, just flashes, trees
rushing past, blood running down my leg, a noise behind me like
someone breathing through a throat full of water.
Then pavement. Just like that, I was on
asphalt. The trailhead parking lot.
My car was there, empty, waiting.
I collapsed against the hood, crying, shaking.
I don't remember unlocking the door, don't remember driving
home. The next thing I remember
clearly is my bedroom, my bed, my ceiling fan slowly spinning
above me, my clothes still damp with sweat and dirt and
something else, something worse. A strip of dirty fabric in my
jacket pocket, red and frayed, soaked in something dark.
When I touched it, the humming started again, this time from
inside my closet. But that wasn't what woke me.
It was the humming, Low, barely audible, like it was coming
through the walls. I sat there for a full minute,
clutching my sheets, staring at the closet.
The door was cracked open, just an inch, just enough for
darkness to spill out. I got up slowly and crossed the
room. Every step felt like walking
into a minefield. I couldn't shake the feeling
that something was behind the door, crouched, waiting.
When I finally yanked it open, there was nothing.
Just clothes, shoes, the usual clutter.
But that smell, the rot, the wet copper, the scent of it still
hung in the air like fog. I slammed the door shut and
didn't open it again. Later that morning, I noticed
something else. My backpack was still zipped and
untouched from the night before, but when I opened it, there was
something tucked inside the main compartment.
A folded piece of old fabric flannel, torn, faded red Everett
shirt. I didn't pack that, and stitched
crudely into the corner, just barely visible in the light was
my name. Not written, not labeled.
Stitched. The thread was dark and stiff,
like it had been soaked in something thick.
Blood, maybe, or worse. I dropped it immediately and
backed away like it was a live grenade.
That was the moment I realized whatever I saw out there didn't
stay out there. It followed me.
The humming returned that night. Closer now.
Inside the house, I tried everything.
Lights on, windows locked, sage smudging, even salt across the
thresholds. It didn't matter.
The lights would flicker and dim, the salt lines would smear
on their own, and no matter how loud I played music or the tvi
could still hear it right underneath the same lullaby,
looping endlessly. And the laughter.
The children, they giggled from under my bed.
They whispered from inside the walls.
Once I walked into the bathroom and saw handprints on the fogged
up mirror. Child sized smudged, moving.
I stopped looking in mirrors after that.
Then Everett showed up unannounced just after sunset.
I don't know how he got there, His truck wasn't outside.
One second I was checking the window, and the next he was
knocking at my door. When I opened it, I almost
slammed it shut again. He looked off.
Not just tired, not just sick. Wrong.
His skin was almost Gray, his eyes sunken deep in their
sockets but somehow glowing faintly beneath the surface.
And he was smiling. Not a normal smile, one that
looked glued in place, like it was stretched too far, too wide.
I forgot to give you the final page.
He said, holding up a crumpled envelope.
I didn't take it. He tilted his head slightly.
You saw it, didn't you? I didn't respond.
Couldn't. My throat felt like it had been
stapled shut. Everett leaned in closer.
I told you not to run. His eyes flashed red.
Then he turned, stepped off my porch, and walked straight into
the woods behind my house. No flashlight, no hesitation,
and vanished. I didn't move for hours.
I just sat on the couch with every light in the house on,
clutching a fire poker like it would do any good.
When I finally stood up to check the yard, there were no
footprints, no sign he'd ever been there.
And then I saw it. In the backyard.
Something was standing just beyond the tree line, Tall,
Bony, silhouetted against the night.
It waved slowly, like it was learning.
I shut the blinds that night. I dreamed of it, of me.
But it wasn't me. It was my body.
Yes, my face, my voice, but inside it was something hollow,
Smiling, hungry. It walked through my house,
opened my drawers, touched my things, practiced my laugh, and
when it looked in the mirror it seemed to shudder with joy.
Then I woke up to find my closet open again.
The next few days were a blur. Time stopped making sense.
I'd lose hours at a time, black out while brushing my teeth,
only to come to with the water running and the room dark.
I'd hear myself talking in the other room, but I'd be alone.
Once I woke up outside, just lying on the grass in my
backyard, barefoot, my door still locked.
And always, always that feeling of being watched.
Like I wasn't just being followed.
Like I was being replaced. The final straw came three
nights ago. I caught it.
Not clearly, not in full, but in the hallway mirror.
I turned the corner and for a split second it didn't move the
way I did. It was just slightly off, the
head tilted too late, the smile too quick.
Its eyes glowed faintly before vanishing.
I smashed the mirror with a chair.
I've smashed every mirror in the house since, Covered the TV with
a blanket. I don't take photos.
I don't go near reflective glass.
I don't even look in puddles. When it rains, it's still here
somewhere. Sometimes I hear it pacing
upstairs. Sometimes I hear me humming in
the next room when I know I'm alone.
Once I swear I saw my own face staring back at me through the
window from the outside. I don't sleep much anymore.
I don't leave either. Something tells me if I try,
it'll take that as an invitation.
Everett warned me not just about the rules, but what happens if
you break them, if you speak, if you run, if you bring it back.
Tonight I found something in my drawer, a piece of old flannel
stitched into the edge. Everett's name.
I think it's learning to switch hosts.
So if you're reading this and you're thinking about hiking the
Appalachian Trail, do yourself a favor.
If the woods go quiet, stop. If you hear singing, don't
answer. And whatever you do, don't look
into the trees, because if it sees you, it won't forget your
face, and it always finds its way home.
I moved into the cabin on a cloudy Thursday, the kind of
overcast that turns everything dull and flat, like someone
drained the color out of the sky.
No fanfare, no welcome basket from the town.
Just me, two duffel bags and a rusted U-Haul trailer that
barely made it through the switchbacks.
The real estate agent ghosted after the final payment cleared
and the previous owner hadn't left so much as a note.
Just dust, mold, and the weirdest goddamn feeling every
time I looked out the back windows into the trees.
But still, I liked it. It was quiet.
The property backed right up against an old section of the
Appalachian Trail. Not an official part anymore
from what I gathered, but the ridgeline snaked through dense
old forest just past the fence. No neighbors, no noise, no cops.
I figured it was perfect, a place to disconnect, reset.
Turns out there was a reason it was so cheap.
I didn't meet anyone in town until the weekend.
Place was called Stag Hollow. Population maybe 200.
Mostly older folks, a handful of younger ones who look like
they've been trying to leave since high school.
It was one of those towns that had a single Rd., a gas station
with a beer cooler, and a cafe that doubled as a post office.
Most people didn't say much to me, they just stared.
Except for Nolan, He ran the bait shop that also passed for a
general store. I was grabbing a few basics,
eggs, ramen batteries when he finally spoke up from behind the
counter. You the one bought that cabin up
by mile seven. I nodded.
Yeah, moved in a few days ago, you know it.
He grunted. Everyone knows it.
Something about the way he said it made my skin itch.
You planning on hiking that trail behind it?
He asked, voice low and even. Yeah, I said that's kind of why
I picked the place. Figured it'd be nice to have it
right in my backyard. Nolan stopped bagging my
groceries and met my eyes. If you go past mile marker 7,
don't stop. And if you see bones, skulls
especially, you go around them. Don't touch them.
Don't even look too long. I laughed, just a little.
He didn't. The hell does that mean?
I asked, trying to keep it light.
He didn't answer, just handed me the bag and said good luck out
there. The first week was uneventful.
The house creaked like it was alive, pipes groaned when I ran
the water, and there was a spot near the fridge where the floor
dipped just enough to trip me every time.
But the forest. The forest was beautiful.
Thick trees, big mossy stones, and the kind of quiet that
settles in your chest like a long exhale.
I started hiking every morning, just an hour or two, following
the trail behind the property, deeper into the woods.
The blazes were faded and half the trees were overgrown, but
the path was still there, pressed into the earth like a
vein. I passed mile marker 5 on the
second day, a slab of old wood nailed into a tree, barely
legible. By the end of the week, I
reached marker 7. That's when things started to
feel different. There was nothing obvious at
first. No jump scares, no sudden storm
clouds. Just stillness.
The kind that feels heavy, like the whole forest is waiting for
something. That's also when I saw the first
bones. It was a squirrel, I think.
Hard to tell. The skull was small, teeth still
intact. The body was gone, but the bones
had been arranged into a little circle.
Skull right in the center. Deliberate, precise.
I stopped, bent over, stared at it for a moment.
Then I remembered what Nolan said.
I stood, walked around it. It rattled in my head for the
rest of the day. Who the hell stacks animal bones
in the middle of the trail like that?
Kids. Hunters.
Something about it felt wrong, like it was meant to be there.
I didn't sleep great that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I'd
see that little skull staring back at me.
By the following week, they were everywhere.
Bird bones strung up in little stick cradle nests hanging from
tree branches. A row of raccoon skulls lined up
along a log like they were on display, and always at or just
beyond mile 7. The deeper I went, the more
intricate the displays became. Bones stacked like Cairns,
arranged in spirals. Sometimes there were symbols
carved into the dirt, circular, jagged, impossible to make out
unless you were looking right at them.
I told myself it was some weird forest art thing, that I was
being paranoid, but I kept walking around them.
Then came the deer skull. Big, clean, no blood.
It was resting in the exact center of the path, perfectly
positioned, antlers intact, both eye sockets pointed directly up
the trail toward me. I stopped cold.
Something about it chilled me. My gut screamed.
Don't touch it. I thought about Nolan's voice,
the way it dropped an octave when he warned me, But I was
tired, sweaty, annoyed. I grabbed a long stick, hooked
it through one of the antler holes, and shoved it off the
trail into the brush. Not today, I muttered, like I
was doing a chore. And that's when the forest got
quiet. I didn't notice it right away.
I was already walking again, maybe 20 or 30 yards down the
trail, when I realized there were no birds, no crickets, no
breeze. The only sound was my boots
crunching dead leaves. Everything else had vanished.
I turned around and stared back at the path.
I couldn't see the skull anymore, but I felt it, like
something was still looking at me.
That night the house groaned louder than usual.
The kind of creaks that sound like footsteps, floorboards
flexing, underweight. At first I chalked it up to
wind. Then I heard it.
Breathing slow, wet, coming from directly beneath my bed.
I froze, didn't even breathe, just laid there in the dark,
muscles locked, ears straining. The breathing stopped, then the
laughter started. High, raspy, like a man
pretending to laugh. 3 short bursts, then silence.
I didn't move until morning. I tried to pretend it was a
dream, tried to shake it off, told myself I'd imagined it.
Stress, isolation. Maybe the house had mice or
raccoons or something. Happens in old cabins all the
time. But when I opened the front door
the next morning, there were muddy footprints on the porch.
Bare, human shaped, each toe 2 long and curved.
They led straight up to the door and stopped.
The porch light burned out two nights after the deer skull.
I hadn't even touched it, just opened the door after sunset to
check on a noise and pop gone. The bulb was brand new.
That wasn't what got to me, though.
It was what I found underneath it, a handprint.
It wasn't mine. Too big, too long, smudged into
the dust on the door like it had pressed hard, slow.
The fingers dragged downward before pulling away.
That night I locked every window and slept with the kitchen knife
under my pillow. At 312, AMI woke up choking on
the smell of wet dog and copper. Something was breathing at the
bedroom window. Slow animal breaths with the
occasional hitch, like it was trying to remember how I didn't
dare look. My curtain was thin enough to
see movement through, and I could already make out the
silhouette. Too tall, hunched shoulders like
Spears. It stayed there for 20 minutes,
just breathing. Then it tapped the glass once
and laughed. I was already losing it, and I
knew it. I didn't go back into the woods
for days. I stayed inside, paced circles
around the house, and kept a hammer next to me.
When I showered on the 4th day, I convinced myself it was over,
that maybe it had just been some, I don't know, wild dog
drifter messing with me. Rationalizing was easier than
thinking about the alternative, so I went back on the trail.
Mid afternoon, sunny, birds chirping.
Normal enough. I even remember feeling silly,
like maybe I'd overreacted. The woods look just like they
always did, Still quiet, peaceful.
But then I got to the spot the deer skull was back exactly
where it had been the first time.
Clean, dry, antlers perfectly intact.
Like I'd never moved it, like it never left.
I stared at it for a long time. I didn't touch it this time,
just stood there, heart thudding, that pressure again,
like the trees were leaning in, holding their breath, watching
to see what I'd do. I walked around it, didn't say a
word, didn't even curse under my breath, just got off the trail
and stepped wide into the undergrowth, ignoring the
briars, and got back home fast. That night, it followed me.
It started with the scratching. Not at the windows, not under
the bed, inside the walls. Soft at first, like a mouse,
then deeper, wet, like something was digging with claws.
By midnight, the scratching turned into thuds, something
slamming itself against the drywall.
I called the sheriff. They sent Deputy Roach.
Guy couldn't have been older than 25.
Showed up with a flashlight and an empty notepad, asked if I'd
been drinking. I showed him the muddy handprint
still smudged on the front door. He squinted at it, said it
looked like just some smudge. I asked if it looked like a
raccoon. He said I should get a dog.
He left. After that, I didn't sleep.
I stayed on the couch with a flashlight and my hammer
twitching at every groan and creak of the house.
Sometime around 3:00 AM, the power flickered and my
flashlight dimmed. Not died, just dimmed, like the
batteries were being slowly drained.
Then I saw it through the back window.
It was standing at the edge of the woods in full moonlight,
arms dangling. Its shoulders reached higher
than its head. The face was long, too long, a
stretched mask of skin pulled taut over something that wasn't
a skull. Not anymore.
Its mouth hung open like it had never learned how to close it.
It lifted a finger, one long black claw, and pointed at me.
I didn't move. I couldn't.
Then it smiled. Not like a human, not even like
a dog. Just something that had seen a
smile once and tried to mimic it.
That's when the howling started again.
High, twisting, A chorus. Not just one.
A dozen voices layered over each other, echoing through the
forest like a siren made of teeth.
I dropped the hammer. I ran to the bathroom, locked
the door, crawled into the tub and cried.
When morning came, I walked outside.
The porch was covered in skulls, not just animal ones, a mix.
Squirrels, foxes, a fawn. Some of them were still wet. 1
was charred. Another still had a chunk of fur
clinging to it. They've been arranged in a
spiral leading to the front step, like a message, a
countdown. I called Nolan, didn't even wait
to say hello. Just, it came back.
I think I made it mad. There was a pause on the other
end. Then he sighed.
You move the bones. I nodded, like he could see me.
Once with a stick. The second time I.
Yeah, I tossed it. Another pause.
You need to feed it. I didn't know what that meant,
not at first. You owe it something now.
He said you disturbed the path, broke the order.
That means it sees you. And when they see you, they want
you. What is it?
He didn't answer, just said, come to the shop, I'll tell you
what to do. The drive to town felt like
years. Trees blurred by, and I kept
catching movement in the rearview mirror.
Not cars, not animals, something running alongside me, just out
of frame. When I pulled into the gravel
lot behind Nolan's store, he was already outside, smoking,
pacing. He handed me a grocery bag,
slick and wet. Inside were raw stakes, bloody
reeking. You're going to walk 10 minutes
up the trail at sunset, Lay these down on the dirt.
Don't say a word. Don't look back.
No matter what you hear, feel or think you see, you walk home,
you lock your doors and you wait.
That's it? I asked, clutching the bag like
it might bite me. That's your apology, he said.
Won't fix what you did, but it might buy you a little time.
I waited until sundown. The woods were colder than
usual, dead quiet, no insects, no birds.
Even the wind felt muffled. I walked past marker 7 and kept
going. 10 minutes in, I stopped at a clearing just off the
trail, laid the stakes on the ground, backed up slowly.
Then I heard it. Breathing fast, hungry, wet,
followed by something heavy crashing through the
undergrowth. Then a laugh.
It started right behind me, then it multiplied.
Laughter from every direction, high pitched croaking giggles
and gurgling chuckles that made my teeth ache.
I walked faster, then ran. The sounds followed.
Something thumped through the brush beside me, matching pace.
I could feel it, hot breath on the back of my neck, twigs
snapping inches from my heels. But I didn't look, not once.
When I burst through the tree line and reached the porch.
I turned the handle, slammed the door, and locked it.
Something slammed into the wood, hard enough to knock the
pictures off my walls. It didn't stop for hours.
I didn't sleep that night. I sat by the front window with
my hammer again, watching, waiting.
Sometime near dawn, the forest quieted, and then it stepped
onto the porch. Not the creature, a skull, just
one, placed neatly at the center of the welcome mat.
But this one. This one had a name carved into
it. Mine, the skull with my name
carved into it, didn't bleed, but I swear I could still smell
the iron. It was fresh, not boneyard dry
like the others. The letters were carved deep,
John rough and jagged, like whatever did it had claws
instead of fingers. I left it on the porch and drove
straight to town, running 2 red lights and nearly skidding out
on the gravel at the bottom of the hill.
I didn't stop at my usual spots. I didn't even glance at the gas
station. I went straight to Nolan.
When he opened the door and saw me, he didn't look surprised.
He didn't even ask. They gave you a name, Skull,
didn't they? I nodded, jaw locked, knuckles
white on the steering wheel. That means they're keeping
track. You're marked now.
That's not a warning anymore, that's a countdown.
There's a term the locals use. Hollow ones.
They don't call them skinwalkers or wendigos or demons, just
hollow ones, because that's what they are.
Empty vessels for something that doesn't belong in this world.
Things that slip through when the veil thins, old forest
spirits turned feral, or maybe something older than spirits.
Whatever they are, they collect. Not for food, not for trophies,
Just to collect skulls, bones, names, souls.
Maybe. Nolan told me they've been
showing up for centuries. Usually when someone breaks the
rule. Sometimes it's a hiker,
sometimes it's a hunter. Sometimes, like this time, it's
a dumb city transplant who thinks he's found peace in a
place that doesn't want him. The hollow ones don't always
come in numbers, but when they do, it means they're preparing
for a harvest. And I kicked the damn door open
for them. The town held a meeting that
night at the diner. It wasn't advertised.
No one posted Flyers. People just knew to come.
There were maybe two dozen of us in total.
Men with rifles, women with revolvers tucked into their
coats. Even the priest was there,
holding a box of shotgun shells and a bottle of holy water, like
they were equally sacred. Nolan stood at the head of the
room. Last time this happened, he
said, we lost four people. Three never came back.
One did, but not all of him. No one laughed.
No one asked for details. He pointed at me.
He opened the door. But we're all going to pay for
it. The room didn't argue.
They started handing out weapons.
I got a sawed off 12 gauge and a bandolier of shells with
carvings on each slug. Crosses, runes, symbols I didn't
recognize. One woman, Ruth, handed me a
flask and told me to drink. It tasted like ash and burned
all the way down. For protection, she said, and to
make you smell wrong to them. What happens if it doesn't work?
I asked. Then you'll scream less when
they drag you. We headed out before sunset.
The forest didn't wait. Halfway up the trail, the birds
stopped. Then the wind died, and then the
trees began to groan, Not from wind but from pressure, like
something massive was pressing down on the whole mountain.
We set up a perimeter near the clearing, past mile marker 7,
six men and women to a ring, the priest in the center murmuring
over a makeshift altar made of stone and bone.
And then we heard it. Laughter.
Not from One Direction, from all of them.
High pitched, too human to be animal, too wrong to be human.
Some laughed in gasps, others mimicked cries for help.
Then the lights died. Flashlights blinked out,
Lanterns guttered. The fire pit blew cold.
In a split second, they were here.
The first one we saw was tall, 8 feet, easy, thin as a scarecrow,
arms dangling to the knees, skin like ash bark, a skull for a
face but not worn like a mask fused to it, bone where cheeks
should be empty, sockets leaking black.
Ruth shot first. The blast shredded the thing's
chest, but it didn't fall, just screamed, the sound like a train
screeching against metal, and charged.
It took four people to bring it down to shotgun blasts, A
hatchet to the neck and Nolan emptying A revolver into its
back. It melted, not like flesh, like
candle wax, dripping into the dirt and hissing as it vanished.
The others came after that, fast, loud hundreds of footsteps
pounding through the underbrush, shapes flashing between trees,
crawling, leaping, dragging twisted limbs behind them.
Some ran on all fours, some walked like humans.
One slithered. All of them had faces like
cracked porcelain and jaws too wide.
We fought. It wasn't war, it was survival.
Bullets tore through the trees. The priest screamed until
something dragged him away mid prayer.
Someone else got taken up into the trees so fast they didn't
even get to fire a shot. I saw Nolan go down.
One of the creatures leapt onto him, tore into his shoulder with
a mouthful of glass like teeth. I got there just in time to
shoot it off him. He was bleeding bad.
Don't stop, he said. Don't let them get behind you.
I dragged him toward the center of the clearing, where the altar
had been, but it was gone now, just shattered stone and blood
all around us. The hollow ones laughed.
It wasn't just a hunt. It was a game to them.
They pushed us back, herded us, cornered us like cattle, 1 by 1.
The others fell. Some vanished in a blink.
Some didn't even scream. I fired until I ran out of
shells. Nolan handed me his last one.
This won't kill them. He whispered, But it'll make
them think twice. Then he shoved me into the
trees, down the slope. I tumbled through brush and
blood and mud until I hit a ditch.
When I looked back, Nolan was standing alone, hands raised,
staring down three of them as they circled.
He never cried out, just stood there, silent, until they
swallowed him whole. I ran through the forest, past
the skulls, past mile marker 7, past my own porch.
I didn't stop until I hit the road, until I reached my car.
I didn't drive home. I went back to town, back to the
diner. There were five of us left, Just
five. All of us silent, bleeding,
staring at our hands like they belong to someone else.
Someone laid out a map. Another grabbed salt.
Someone else began carving fresh rounds.
We're going back out tonight. We have to, because the forest
didn't just whisper this time. It screamed.
I haven't seen Nolan since that night, but sometimes when I wake
up with the taste of ash in my mouth and blood on the soles of
my feet, I wonder if he made it, if maybe somehow he struck a
deal or became something worse. The town is quieter now.
Fewer people walk the trail, and those who do they know the rule,
don't touch the skulls because the hollow ones are still out
there and they're still collecting.