Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcined stories all the time. Glad you are here.
Let's get into it. My name's Jonah's out. A few
years ago I spent a weekend I still think about
way too often out in this forgotten patch of eastern
Kentucky col Keenan Holler. Our great uncle Ruddy had passed
a week before, and the property he left behind was
sitting out there like some kind of forgotten time capsule.
Dad wanted it cleaned up so he could get it
on the market before winter hit. The plow was simple.
Mason's Dad would drive us out, drop us off with
some supplies, and we'd clear out of the shed and
get a feel for what kind of shape the place
was in. He said he'd be back the next night
before sundown. Now, Ruddy's house wasn't awful, just old. The
roof sagged a little on one side, and the porch
steps were warped, but it was standing, which is more
than I can say for a lot of places out there.
The real issue was the shed. It sat a good
fifty maybe sixty yards behind the house, tucked just enough
into the trees that it was half hidden from the
back porch. It looked like the woods were trying to
eat it. Tick lines called around the siding, and the
door was nearly fuse shut with ivy. We had to
yank and cut at it for solid five minutes just
to get it open. Inside was what you'd expect, a
pile of broken fishing raws, rusted tackle boxes, old milk crates,
full of screws and tills, with the handles falling apart.
It was like a gower's sail for ghosts. We weighed
back behind a stack of what plywood? We found something
we weren't expecting, a shrap door. It was built right
into the floor, wood stained dock with an old iron
ring handle. Not the kind of thing you accidentally build.
It was hand cut and reinforced, like someone really didn't
want it getting opened by accident. We both just kind
of stared at it. Mason knelt down and gave it
a tug. It was heavy, but it opened. The hinges
creaked like you'd imagine, and we both leaned over the
edge to look down. Narrow concrete stairs disappeared into black.
It smelt like damp earth, an old mouldy cloth. We
couldn't see the bottom, not even with the flashlight. Nope,
Mason said, standing up fast. That's to morrow's problem, and
that was that. We shut it, left it unlocked, and
got back to sorting through the rest of the mess
we crushed at the house that night. The electricity worked barely,
so we had a couple lamps in the space heater running.
We made dinner out of cann chili and saltines, and
spent most of the evening playing cards and jerking about
how much Uncle Ruddy must have hoarded you now, trying
not to think too hard about that trap door. Then
some time after eleven, we heard the first knock. It
was muffled, three doll thuds, not loud, but solid, like
someone knocking from inside the walls. We froze. Did that
come from under us? I asked? Mason didn't answer. He
grabbed the flasklight, flicked it on, and went outside. He
checked the porch, walked round the house, even shined a
light under it. Nothing. When he got back inside, we
both sat down again, trying to act normal. Maybe it
was pipes or animals or something settling. All houses make
words sounds right. Then came the second set of knocks,
three again, same rhythm, but this time it was clearer,
like it was coming from inside the floor. I didn't
even pretend to be come. We need to leave, I said,
walk to town. Mason looked at me like I had
suggested jumping into the Ohio River. It's ten miles through
pitch black woods. We've got one flashlight and no cel signal.
If something's out there, we're better often here. So we stayed.
Around midnight. The knocking stopped. Then the scraping started. It
wasn't frantic, it wasn't loud, just this low, steady drag,
like someone was pulling something heavy across the floor. It
made my skin crawl. The house didn't have any wooden floors.
It was linoleum over concrete. There was nothing underneath to
drag anything cross. I remembered the trap door. We'd never
locked it. We sat there, flashlight off, the propin heat
to hissen quietly in the corner. I felt every sound
like it was happening right next to me. Once, around
two in the morning, I thought I heard whispering, not
voices exactly, more like distant noise filtered through water. I
lean my head against a wall to try to catch it.
The surface was cold, not just chilly. I see. Then
something touched the other side, just for a second, like
a breath at dawn. We grabbed our boots and bolted
to the shed. The air outside felt safe for somehow,
even though I was shaking the whole time. The shrap
door was wide open. There were handprints on the underside,
smudged in dirt, long streaks were fingers had clawed upward.
I didn't want to go down there. I wanted to
turn and run, but Mason was already at the stairs.
He didn't say anything, just started descending. I followed. The
cellar wasn't big, six by six Maybee packed dirt walls,
old wooden beams holding up the ceiling. A few old
jaws broken in the corner. But the carvings with the
worst part, circles with little vertical lines inside them, carved
into every beam over and over again, like someone had
done them in a trance iron. In the middle of
the floor was a pile of bones. Some were clearly animal,
but a few not so much. One of them looked
like a femur, then too straight to be from anything
with hoofs. Then Mason whispered, don't move. I turned and
saw him staring past me. Up the hill. There was
some one there, a man, shirtless, barefoot, skin pill like
candle wax. He was standing perfectly still between two trees,
staring straight at us, no movement, no blinking, just locked
on to us like he was waiting. I called out, ah, nothing,
not even a twitch. We back toward the house, slowly,
Mason holding that krubolike he'd actually use it. I kept
glancing over my shoulder, afraid to take my eyes off
the guy for more than a second. By the time
we reached the back steps and looked again, he was gone.
Not walked away, not brown, just gone. We hadn't heard
a sound that night. We did everything we could, locked
every door, prop chairs into handles, pulled furniture in front
of the windows. It didn't matter. At two point four exactly,
the screen door creaked and then came the knock, three
of them, slow, measured, measured, but this time it was
in the front door. We didn't answer, move I could
hear Mason breathing shallow next to me, both of us
pretending not to exist. It never opened, the knox never repeated.
We just waited until sunrise. Mason's dad pulled up around
it the next morning, we were already packed, standing on
the porch like kids waiting for the school bus. He
asked if we were okay. Neither of us answered, We
just got in the truck. He made a joke about
us being jumpy city kids. Then he went to look
at the shed. He came back different, didn't say a
word the whole drive home, never board it up again.
Back in November, I was staying with my uncle Robin
at Tiany, half forgotten town in southern a polish cold
Tanner's Creek. The place barely showed up on maps anymore.
Rob had been living out there alone for a while,
tucked away in this old leaning trailer, just off a
crack gravel road with no street sign. A whole area
felt like it had stopped moving decade ago. No cell
reception for miles, no neighbors within shouting distance. Closest one
was a retired guy named Darby about a mile down
the hill, and even he was hardly year round. Rob
didn't mind the soliditude. He liked things quiet, said it
helped him think better. He few things before the coal
set in, mainly fixing some busted plumbing and patching up
the skirting around the trailer. Last winter had nearly frozen
his pipe solid, and he wasn't trying to repeat that.
I figured, sure I had time, and to be honest,
I kind of wanted to break. City life had been
grinding me down, and I thought maybe a little rural
quite would do me some good. Most nights followed the
same rhythm. We'd eat something simple, Rob made a kel
of corn bread and beans, maybe play a few rounds
of rummy, or just sit by the wood stove with
mugs of vincetent coffee. By nine point thirty we were
usually done for the day. It was the kind of
a routine you fall into without noticing. But this one night,
Rob stood up after dinner and said we needed to
take a walk. Something had messed with the fence near
the back edge of the property. When I asked if
it was coyotes, he gave a small shake of the head.
You'll see, was all he said. He grabbed two glass
lights from the drawer by the door, handed me one,
and we stepped out into the cold. It took sharp
and sudden, the kind of cold that makes your teeth
thick if you breathe in too fast. Wind cut through
my jacket carried this musty, dead leaf scent that smelled
like the woods themselves were rotting. We followed the path
behind the trailer, cutting through the patchy grass toward the
tree line. The fencing ran along the back, marking where
his property dropped off into the ravine below. When we
reached the spot, I crashed down to get a better look.
The wire wasn't pulled or chewed. It had been clipped
clean and straight through, like someone had taken bolt cutters
to it. No frayed edges, no teeth marks, just a
precise break. The fence posts was still standing, but the
line had been peeled back and tossed aside, almost carefully.
I was still staring at it when I heard something
behind us crunch, just one step, loud, deliberate, like a
heavy bee pressing down on frozen leaves. I spun around,
flush light, jerking wildly across the trees. Nothing just branches
and shadows. My heart gave a hard thud. Rob straightened up.
We're going in, he said, already stepping past the broken fence.
I hesitated, then followed. The wood swallowed us pretty quickly.
No trail, just uneven ground and tangled brush. We didn't speak.
Rob lad moving slow but steady, flasklight scanning from side
to side. I kept glancing over my shoulder, not because
I saw anything, just couldn't shape the feeling. That we
went lower. It got quite to the farther we went.
I've been in forest plenty of times, but this was different.
No wind through the trees, no rustling, no chirping, nothing,
just our own breathing and the occasional crunch underfoot. It
was the kind of silence that presses on your ear drums,
makes you feel like you're underwater. About a hundred yards
in the ground dipped when we reached the edge of
the ravine. Thus, when rob light caught something up ahead
out of us, it looked like a pale log or
rock dusted with frost. But then I saw the legs.
It was a deer lying on its side, but the
way it was positions stopped me in my tracks. The
legs were stretched out perfectly straight, like someone had taken
time to arrange them. The head was turned slightly, just
enough that it looked posed. The torsa had been cut
open straight down the middle, clean, precise a, almost like
it had been done with a scalpel. The ribs were untouched,
perfectly intact, but the cavity was completely empty. No blood,
no mess, just a hollowed up body resting on and
disturbed ground, and no drag marks, no paw prints, no
indication it had been killed or even moved, just placed there.
Rob crouched down beside it, flashlight trembling slightly in his hand.
This ain't the first, he said, it barely audible. I
didn't get a chance to ask what he meant. There
was another crunch, this time from higher up on the
ridge above us. We both looked up. That's when I
saw it. It was standing just between two popple trees,
maybe eight feet up the slope. Its eyes called the
light greenish reflective animal. Like with everything else about it
was wrong. It stood upright, but not in any way
that looked natural. Its limbs bent in strange places, legs
too long and angled backward, like the joints were on
the wrong way. Its torsa was stretched skin tight and pale,
like stretched plastic, and it was weighing subtly, like someone
trying to stay balanced on narrow beam. It didn't make
a sound, just shifted slightly, like it was thinking about moving.
Or maybe waiting for us to. I reached for Rob
without taking my eyes off it. He was already stepping backward.
Don't run, he whispered, don't turn. We backed our slow,
one step at a time. My light kept flicking between
the thing on the ridge and the path behind us
every few seconds. I glanced back up, but it didn't move,
just watched. Then suddenly it wasn't there. I stopped, instinctively,
looking around in every direction. Nothing. I turned to Rob,
but he wasn't looking at me. His flashlight was aimed
to our right, toward a thick tree trunk, maybe ten
feet away. There was something behind it, smaller this time
human sized, just a sliver of a head and his
shoulder peeking out. I lifted my light and a jerked,
a sudden twitch. He movement like a puppet yanked on
a string. Its head tilted way too far, as if
the neck had no clue word was supposed to stop.
Its mouth was hanging open, not wide, just enough to
show teeth, blunt, spaced too far apart, not sharp, not monstrous,
just wrong. Then it made this sand half a waz
half a laugh, like someone trying to mimic giggling without
knowing how it works. I couldn't move, couldn't speak. Rob
lean in close, go he said. Now. We didn't run.
We just walked steady, straight toward the brake and the fence.
Every step felt like a to canire. I was sure
if I turned round something would be right behind me,
breathing down my neck. I held the flashlight so tight
my hand cramped. When we finally reached the fence, I
reached for the latch and fumble dropped my flashlight. Bent
down to grab it, hand shaking so badly, I could
barely hit the wire. Back inside, we slammed the door,
locked everything. Rob let the wood stove back up and
sat in the old recliner by the window with his
shotgun across his lap. He didn't say a word, just
stared outside. We stayed up the whole night. When the
sun finally came up, Rob insisted we check the spot again.
I didn't want to, but he was going alone. The
dear carcass was gone. We patched the fence before noon.
By the end of the week Rob had listed the
train for sale. I was twenty six when this happened.
Lived in a quiet town called Dorsey, Falls right up
against the edge of White Hollow Forest. Not much goes
on out there. I wasn't into any of that. Didn't hunt,
didn't fish, didn't even drink much. My job was part
time delivery driver for holes water done in the valley.
Thursdays were my lawn hall days, where I'd loaded up
the back of the truck with belts, pads, alternators, and
whatever else people needed, then wind my way through the
back roads deliver into mechanics that seemed to live right
at the edge of nowhere. That Thursday was one of
those colt of Ember days where it feels later than
it is. The sun dips down behind the hills around
four point thirty, and by five it might as well
be midnight. I was already on my last regular stop,
Corver's Garage, just off Split Rage, when Mitch asked if
I could squeez him one more, said some guy called
earlier that morning needing a set of brake pads and
a serpentine belt for a ninety nine f mineres one
hundred fifty. Mitch had already rung up in everything, but
none of the other guys wanted to dry out that
far Milner County line, he told me, which was unusual.
I'd been up there plenty of times, said The guy
left a name something like Craig's, but Mitch didn't know him.
Personally offered me forty bucks cash and a six pack
if I dropped it off. I've figured sure still sunlight left,
and I'd driven every twist and turn in that county
a hundred times, or so, I thought. I made the
turn off er at nineteen and started the slow climb
up on the ridge. It was quiet, that kind of
un settling quiet, where even the birds seemed to have
called a day. About fifteen minutes in, I noticed I
hadn't passed a house in a while, or a mail wox,
just trees, leafless, bony things that clattered softly in the wind.
The fog was starting to pull and low along the
tree line, thick enough in spots that it looked like smoke.
That's when the g B has quit. No signal, just
a frozen screen in the little arrow stock in place.
I hit the dust a couple of times, like that
was going to do anything. It didn't. I was already
too far in to turn back, so I slowed down
and kept going. I scanning for any numbers and the
mail boxes that might match what Mitch had written down
in the receipt. Nothing matched, a few didn't have numbers
at all, some were barely upright. Then I saw a
guy standing just off the shoulder. I hadn't seen him
until I was practically next to him. He was just there.
Roll of a sudden like he stepped out from behind
one of the trees. Tall, thin, maybe late forties, wa
as dirty blue coat and jeans that looked stiff with mud.
He was standing by rusted out red mail books that
looked more like scap metal than anything used for mail.
His hand lifted in the slow, almost lazy wave. I
pulled over and rolled the window down halfway. Hey, I sat,
holding up the box. He waiting on these. He didn't
speak right away, just gave me a stiff nod and
pointed up a gravel path to my left. Ded I
swear hadn't been there two seconds earlier. It wasn't a
driveway in the usual sense, more like too muddy ruts.
The curve sharply upilled between the trees. Up there, he said,
I hesitated. You want me to leave him here? He
didn't blink. Up there, he repeated. Then he turned not
up the path, but into the woods, no hesitation, just
walked in like it was nothing, branches swaying around him.
I sat in a truck for a solid minute, trying
to make sense of that. Thought. Maybe he was taking
a short cut or didn't want to be seen getting
stuff delivered. People around here are private, some don't even
WANTEE knowing where they live. I'd seen weirder, so I
put the truck and gear and started up the path.
The incline was steeper than it looked. My tie spun
a couple times before catching, and I had to swerve
slightly to avoid them that crossed one of the tracks.
Trees crowded on both sides. The higher I went, the
darker it got. My head lights barely cut through the fog,
just lit up a mess of trunks and brambles. Then
the path opened up into a small clearing, and the
truck coasted to a stop in front of an older
frame house. It looked abandoned, not decaying, not ruined, just
left behind boards gray with age, shatters hanging loose, and
a sagging porch that looked one got storm away from collapsing.
There were no lights, no movement, but there was a
blue pick apart crooked in the grass, driver's door wide open.
I left the engine running, sat there for a few seconds,
just staring at the house. No one came out. Eventually
I grabbed the box and stepped out. The air was
called to up here. Heavier porch steps creaked and gave
slightly under my weight, one of them dipping like it
was nieled them right. I knocked on the door light
at first, then louder. Nothing. That's when I noticed the
door was fully closed, just hanging there open maybe an
inch or two. I should have set the box down
and walked away. That would have been the smart thing
to do, but instead I leaned in and gave the
door a nudge. Hey, I called not stepping inside, bought
your part. Here. The smell hit me, not wrot, not mold,
something wetter for all, like wet fur and iron. It
clung to the back of my throat shop and run.
I didn't go in, just bent down and slid the
box inside with one hand. That's when I heard it upstairs,
a slow scraping sound, something heavy dragging across the floor.
I stopped breathing. The sound went on four or five seconds,
long enough for me to know it wasn't the house
set ling, and then at jus stopped. I backed off
the porch one step at a time and nearly slipped
off the last board. My boots hit gravel and I
bolted for the truck. Paddin sanned the door, locked at
horror pounding. As I shifted into reverse, the headlights caught
something at the edge of the woods. Same guy, but
he wasn't standing any more. He was crouched low, arms
resting on his knees. He had tilted, watching eye froze.
He moved just a twitch, but it was wrong, like
his limbs didn't quite know how to function. Jerked and
staid of foe. Then he rose slow and steady, and
his arms I sweat to ye. They didn't stop, or
arms I supposed to stop. They just kept going, elbows
too high, fingers at HM, way way too low, almost
brushing his knees. That's when I panicked. I slammed on
the gas tires, getting before they caught. The whole truck
bucked and I knew litt lost control going down that hill.
Didn't care. I bounced and slid and braked just enough
to avoid flying off the path. When the tires hit
the main road. I didn't stop to check for damage,
just kept driving, didn't look back. Once I got to
town and parked behind the shop, killed the engine, and
just sat there until Mitch came out with a smoke
in his mouth, asking where I got. When I told
him what happened, he looked genuinely confused. Said the guide
just left the name in number, didn't know anything about
a house. I couldn't sleep that night, kept ripling it
in my head, over and over, the smell, the dragging sound,
those arms. Next morning I called the Sheriff's office, gave
them the address Midch wrote down. They said there were
no homes listed past the thirty mile marcmmel the county line.
Sad dear frame that used to sit up there had
burned down back in ninety three. Faulty heater. Apparently the
whole thing went up overnight. No survivors. The blue pickupmashed
the description of a missing person's vehicle. A man named
Hartly Griggs went missing twelve years ago. Left for work
one morning, never showed up. Last ping on his phone
came from somewhere near the rage. I turned in my
notice a few days later, told Mitch I appreciated the work,
but I was done driving the ridge routs. He didn't
ask questions I've left in doors. He falls my whole life.
I've been on every back road from here to Green Hollow,
but I haven't been up Millner since, and I never
will again. A high school out in Eastmbian County didn't
offer much once the bell rang. No clubs, no theater,
nothing that held my interest. So I picked up a
side job through a family friend, clearing out old hunting
cabins tucked into the hills. I got and used to
working alone, especially in late fall when the brush thinned
out and the snakes went a problem any more. One
Sunday in early November, a guy named Marshall, he handled
property management for a few absentee owners, dropped off a
key and a hand sketch map. He always drew his
map's hands Sair GPS couldn't be trusted out there. This
one was for a cabin about a mile off the
old gas line near Ruger Doot. The owner left for
Arkansas or Missouri or somewhere years ago and just abandoned it.
But the land was finally going up for sale. I'd
have to do a full sweep and get it ready
for a photographer. He warned me his truck couldn't make
it all the way and said the last half mile
was due chewed up from spring runoff and dan lembs.
I'd have to walk, and I left after lunch. Hit
the rage Around to that time of year, the air
already had that sting to it, not snowy yet, but
you could smell a coming. The trail curved around a
few overgrown turns and dropped into this little hollow where
the cabin sat, leaning hard to one side like it
was giving up half so runk into the earth, like
it didn't want to be there any more. The windows
were streaked with grime and the door barely held on.
It was the kind of place that looked like if
you coughed hard inside something would fall off. Nothing unusual, honestly,
Inside it looked like someone had been living there. Torn
sleeping bags bunched in a cornered, empty cans of beans,
some cigarette butts mashed into the floorboards. It wasn't the
worst I'd seen, but it made me pause. The air
was thick and sire, old sweat and meldew, maybe a
bit of something else. I couldn't place. I made a
mental note to tell Marshall, maybe see if he wanted
the locks changed. Ied the trash, swept up and cranked
open two side windows. The air inside was thick, damp,
smelt like meldew and old flannel. Every time the wind
kicked up, the back door creaked open, so I dragged
over a rock from outside in whiched it behind the
bottom corner. While I worked, I kept thinking about those
sleeping bags. There were three of them, all flatten, dirty
and arranged in a weird kind of triangle. It didn't
seem like just one person had stayed here, but if
there were more, I didn't see this stuff. No packs,
no clothes, not even extra cans, just those three flattened
backs and a few scattered cigarette ends. Sweep went fast,
one big room, two little side rooms. One had a
busted cat, the other was mostly empty except for a
small desk and an old standing coat rack in a corner.
That room made me uneasy, though I couldn't say why.
There was something off about how clean it was, like
someone had recently been using it, but only briefly. No
des settled, no foot prints, just barewood and that coat
rack standing stiff as a person. I was just about
finished when I noticed something strange on a wood floor.
There were deep drag marks leading from the main room
into the back one. Not scratchy or ratic clean lines.
Why too wie for a person, too straight for an animal,
noticabrelye scattered, no sign of what made them. They ended
at the far wall, beneath the window, like something had
been pulled there and disappeared. No saines, no scratches on
the wall itself, just the marks. I stared for a while,
trying to make sense of it. Thought maybe furniture had
been moot but nothing in that room matched the width
of the tracks. I even measured it against the coat rack,
thinking maybe someone had dragged it, but the marks were
wider than its base. I turned to leave, and that's
when I noticed the back door wasn't cracked open any more.
It was shut, not just push shut, latched from the inside.
My first thought was that I'd somehow bumped to close,
But the latch was one of those old metal hooks,
and it was hooked through the eye. You can't latch
that from the outside, and the rock I'd wedged behind
it was gone, just gone. I stood there in the
doorway for a while, listening. Didn't even realize I was
holding my breath until I had to let it out
in a slow miss. The cabin felt suddenly heavier, every
creak of the old wood seemed louder. I checked every
room again, opened the closet, looked under the cot, even
checked behind the desk. Not then no footprints in the dust,
no signs anyone was hiding. I've tried to tell myself
I just missed someone earlier. Maybe they slipped out, but
it didn't track I would have heard them. I stepped outside,
and that's when I realized how quiet it was. No birds,
no wrestling, not even that usual wind sound through the pines,
just stillness, flat, un heavy, like the woods were holding
their breath too. Then I saw the footprints. They went mine.
They came in from the right side of the clearing,
bare feet, no shoes, no tread, just long, narrow princes
in this softrt toe spread white like someone had been
sanding there a while, watching the windows. They curved around
the back of the cabin and then just stopped. I
followed them a few steps, hot thudding, trying to see
if I missed something, but there was no return trail,
no scuff leaves, just a sudden dead stop, like the
person hemid them had stepped into the earth or been
lifted out. That's when the hair on my arms went up,
not like fear, more like something warning me to move.
I didn't argue with it. I went back in, grabbed
my pack and stuffed the key into my coat pocket.
Didn't bother trying to wedge the door again. Jes pulled
it shut and locked the front, even though I knew
that latch was keeping anything out. The trail back fell longer.
About ten minutes la. I heard movement to my right.
At first it was soft branches, shifting under brush, crunching
just enough to notice I slowed down. It slowed down too.
I stopped walking. It stopped. I waited, turning slowly, trying
to catch a glimpse. Nothing, just words. I called out,
said something like hey, I'm still here, but even I
didn't believe the confidence in my voice. Then I started
walking again, and it picked up with me, same pace,
thin distance, just out of view. I told myself it
was an animal, maybe a coyote, a deer, but the
steps were too steady, nut scurrying or dotting, just matching me.
I yelled that I had a weapon. I didn't. The
only thing in my bag was a folding knife and
half a bottle of gateryriad. Nothing moved, nothing answered. I
picked up speed. The sound picked up too, still parallel,
still close. It didn't stumble, didn't break sticks or crushed
through the brush, just glided along with me, like it
knew the line better than I ever would. That's when
I broke into a joke. My heart was hammering, not
from the run, but because I could still hear it,
not behind me, nod a head right beside me, keep
in pace without try. Then came the sound. It was different,
whit ebby, like something being dragged through leaves, slow, sticky.
I didn't look curdn't. I bolted down the hell, not
caring how steep it got or how easy it would
be to trip. I saw the pipeline gate and didn't stop.
Climbed it in two steps, scraped my knee on the top,
didn't care. Ran down the gravel road until I saw
Marshall's truck park crooked near the bend, engine running window correct.
He looked up when I got close and let out
this laugh like he thought I was being dramatic, said
something like, what see a bearer or something. I didn't
say anything, just opened the passenger door, climbed in and
slammed it hard enough that he jumped. I think he
figured something'd spook me, but he didn't press it. Two
days later he called said some one had broken into
the cabin, asked if I had gone back. I told
him no. It was early November, the start of dear season,
and I'd taken two weeks off work to stay at
my uncle Cal's old trailer out near Windlow. That part
of the mountains doesn't really have street signs left alone
neighbors cow died about four years back, and no one
in the family ever bothered to sell the place. Honestly,
I don't think anyone really wanted to deal with it.
The roof sagged, one of the porch rails was busted,
and the propin heater made this god awful wheeze when
it kicked on. And after the year, I had two
deaths in the family, a break up and a department reordered.
That left me answering to a twenty three year old.
I needed quiet. First three nights were fine, nothing spooky.
I split firewood. Went out hiking during the day. It
badly and didn't care. I brought a generative a power
and I rotated between watching all dvdyum reading paperbacks I
hadn't touched in years. I think I slept twelve hours
a night. It felt good. Only strange thing in that
time was this black and white photo. I found. It
was in the bottom drawer of a desk COW used
to keep in the spare room. I was looking for
matches and came across a bunch of odds and ends,
paper clips, thumb tacks, one of those old plastic rulers
that always smell fintly of cigarette smoke, and underneath its
stuff was a frame photo. It showed a boy, probably
eight or nine, standing near the tree line, dressed in
all clothes of rolls and touched flannel. Something about the
picture looked off though. His head was turned slightly and
his face was blurred like he moved just as the
picture was taken, not super unusual for old film, but
the blur didn't look like motion. It looked smeared, like
someone had rubbed it with their thumb. I figured it
was just some old hunting by his kid or something.
Maybe even col himself. I put it back and didn't
really think about it again until later. Fourth night, things
got weird. It had started to drizzle that evening and
a temperature dropped fast. I had the heat up, the
generator chugging it on in its box outside, and I
was curled up in the old couch reading a Clive
bark and novel. Around nine, I heard what I thought
was an animal at side, some faint sound and a
potch real soft dabholese. Listened again and realized it didn't
sound like an animal at all. It sounded like footsteps,
not the heavy thump of boots, mole like bare feet, blight,
slow spaced out pacing, almost like someone was trying not
to be heard. To porch creaked a little on the way,
just once, like a board shifting. I didn't move a first,
just sat there listening, holding my breath without meaning to.
Then I leaned forward, picked up the short gun from
beside the couch, and stood up. My hands were shaking
a little, not from fear exactly, but from adrenaline, that
old instinct waking up in the back of my spine.
I opened the front door. No one was there, not
even tracks in the wet leaves, just a sharp pan
smell and the sighing sound of wind between the trees.
I scanned the woods, waited a full minute, then went
back inside, locked the door, double checked the windows, told
myself it was a raccoon or a bear, maybe even
when pushing branches against the siding. Next morning, though, I
stepped outside and saw something strange just off the porch,
in a little patch of barreth near the steps. Someone
had laid out a small spy or using smooth white stones.
Not natural placement. This was arranged tight and deliberate, culling
in perfect The eye stared at it for a long minute.
It didn't look like something inanimal. Would you look careful? Patient?
I crouched and brushed it away with my brute and
stood up fast. Looked around again. Still no one knows.
Signs of other people, No tire trucks, no wrappers, no
ber canes. Nothing. That afternoon, I was taking through the
closet in the back bedroom, mostly boorard, and found something
else I hadn't seen before. A portable seedy player, real
old school, the kind with the clunky buttons and the
lid that baily stayed shut still had batteries in it.
Next to it was a cracked jeal case with Otis
nineteen seventy two deno written in smuch black mark. I
thought maybe it was something col had recorded, like an
old garage bandemmer. He used to mess around with guitars,
so who knows. I figured I'd give it a listen.
So I laid down on the couch, had phones in
press play. It started with static. Then this low, dragging
organ came in, deep dissonant notes that didn't follow any
rhythm I could pin down. After about thirty seconds, the
voice joined in mail scratchy, kind of low and sleepy,
almost like someone singing through a bad dream. The words
were wrong, some of them in English, some nott They
sounded like children's songs almost but twisted the kind you
forget half way through and stopped making up lines to finish.
One track started with silence, then a pop, and then
I heard a child's voice, clear and close. Don't tell
him no, don't tell him no, don't tell him no,
over and over, same tone, falm, repetitive. I've RiPP the
headphones off, didn't listen to the rest. That night's sleep
didn't come easy. Every sound made me sit up. Around two,
I had to use the outhouse, took my floshlight, stepped outside, colder,
punching me in the chest. The woods were thick with fog.
Everything felt slow, like I was moving under water. As
I came back across the clearing, I swept the beam
of the flasklight across the trees and froze. Something was
standing just inside the edge of the woods, small, still
watching me. It looked like a kid couldn't have been
more than four feet tall, but the way it stood,
arms loose, had tilted slightly, completely motionless, made the hairs
on my arms stand up. I shouted, hey, no movement
for a second. Then it stepped back into the trees.
Not fast, just go and I didn't follow. I went
and side locked every dwn door set up in the
archer till the sky lightened the next morning. I didn't
even hesitate. I packed everything up. The whole place suddenly
felt run, like I'd stayed in a place I wasn't
supposed to be. I loaded my gear into the truck,
trot not to think about the foot of the music
the figure in it was. Then I runded the back
of the trailer and stopped cold. Another spiral, but this
time not stones. It was bones. It was bones, dear bones,
by the look of it, Cleay Mike vertebrae spiraled out carefully,
almost artfully. Two small hoofs were placed right in the center,
like punctuation. No signs of a caucas nearby, no blood,
just the bones. It felt like a message or a warning,
maybe birth. I didn't even lock the door behind me,
just drove until the trailer disappeared in the mirror. That night,
I crashed at a cheap motel Nickingsworth, kept the TV on,
didn't even bother brushing my teeth. I lay on top
of the covers, fully dressed, shock and propped against the wall,
barely slept. Next morning, as I was repacking my bag,
I found the CD player right there on top of
my clothes, which made zero sense because I was absolutely
certain i'd left it from the counter inside the trailer.
I started at it for a long time, then, without
really thinking, I opened the lid. Inside was a different
to snow label, just a shiny black surface with a
single scratch down the middle. I don't know what made
me do it, but I hit play the Kid's voice again.
Don't tell him no. Don't tell him no, don't tell
him no. Then a pause, then another voice whispery lo,
almost like it came from behind the headphones. Bokhere. I
stood up, walked outside and dropped the whole thing into
the motel dumpster. Didn't even look to see if anyone
was watching, just turned and walked back in. Drove home
without stopping again. This this trail that cuts through the
woods behind my parents place. Nothing official, no signs or maps,
just something the locals know about. I've been walking it
since I was a kid. By the time I hit
my teens, I probably knew every tryst and bent better
than I knew our own back yard. That morning was
called early November, the first weekend of dear season. If
you're not from a place like mine, that probably doesn't
mean much, But around here it's a whole event. Parked
along grounds, guys in orange wandering into the woods before sunrise,
the whole deal. I was going out to hunt. I
just needed to be alone. We buried my uncle a
week before, and since then the house had been stuff
walked to wall with family castle rolls, mammon prayers, and
too much silence between the talking grief makes people weird.
They either don't talk at all, they talk too much.
I needed to breathe there that hadn't passed through some
one sobbing, so I slipped at early. Didn't even tell
any one, just took my thermos, a sleeve of crackers,
and my pocket knife, the kind of clips onto your belt,
not meant for much more than whitling bark or peeling
an apple, but it made me feel better heavy. My
phone was useless up there anyway, no service. That was
the point. I walked slow, took the long path, let
the quiet settle in. It was nice for a while,
leaves crunching, frost still clinging to the grass, and the shadows,
the kind of cold that stings a little when you
breathe too deep about an eyere in I came up
on the thaird shack, the one I never liked. I
stopped there, not sure why, may be just curious to
see how much worse it had gotten. It looked the same,
like something had tried to claw its way up from
underneath and then given up halfway through. I was standing
beside it, sipping coffee and staring at the collapsed roof
when I noticed the boot prints. They were fresh, still
sharp around the issues, big two like warp boots, and
they wore mine. They cut behind the shack and headed
straight into the woods, off the path, in a direction
no Saint hunter would go. I just stood there looking
at them. The prints were deep, like the person had
been carrying something heavy or just moving with real purpose.
I told myself it had to be another hunter, probably
someone taking a shock out or chasing after something. I
tried not to let it get to me. Still, I
didn't follow. Instead, I took the long way around the
ridge loop, thinking the walkward clear my head. But the
whole time I couldn't shake the feeling that I had
seen something I wasn't supposed to. It wasn't just the Prince,
it was how wrong they felt out there in a
place I'd always had to myself. And then I saw
the marker. It was maybe twenty minutes later. I just
come down a slight slope when I saw it, off
to the right side of the trail, five stones, neatly
balanced way too precisely, with a small rabbit skull placed
carefully on the very top. It looked recent clean. I froze.
I hadn't passed it earlier. I knew that for sure,
there's no way it would have missed something like that.
Trail isn't wide, and I'm always paying attention when I'm
up there. That stack was there before. For a second,
I just stared at it, like maybe I was misreading it,
like maybe some kid had built it. But it wasn't
a game. That skull was too clean, too perfect. It
wasn't just a pile of rocks. It was a message.
I turned around right then, no slow walk, no second thoughts,
just turned on my heel and started back the way
I came. My heart wasn't pounding yet, but I was
locked in focused. Every twenty steps I started hearing something
behind me. Nothing I could point to. No snapping branches,
no voices, just little movements like leave shifting, like someone
trying real hard not to be noticed. At first, I
told myself it was just my nerves. I kept walking
faster now, but the sands didn't stop. They matched me
step first step. By the time I reached the fort
near the ravine, I was on edge. I glanced down
the slope and that's when I saw them again, BeO prints,
but this time they were heavier, deeper and they were
overlapping mine. Whoever it had been behind me, not beside
the trail, not somewhere else directly behind me, walking where
I just walked. I didn't think. I just ran. I
veered off the main path and cut into a narrow
gully that did down toward a dry stream bed. I
knew the area well enough to think I could loop
around and reach the road without being seen. It was
the perfect plan, but I figured I'd be harder to
follow that way. Big mistake. The moment I hit the
bottom of the gully, I saw them more markers, not
Stone's time. These were made of sticks tied together with
rough twine, jammed into cracks in the rock face, three
of them, all different. One had something dangling from it,
a little strip of denim in a single human tooth,
threaded like a bead. My knees almost gave out. I
stumbled back a step and just stared at it, trying
to make sense of what I was seeing. There was
no good explanation none. I scrambled back up the slope.
My legs were shaking so badly. I slipped twice and
tore my pums in the loose gravel. I didn't care
I didn't even look behind me. I just got to
the top and ran. Then I saw him. He was
standing just off the trail, near the old deer blind,
still a stone. He had a thick canvas jacket on
the hood, pulled up green pants, no gloves. His face
was raw red, like it had been scraped with sand paper,
except for this one pale strip around his eyes. The
skin there was in touch, clean, like it had been
protected like goggles or something. His mouth was shut, but
his jaw kept moving, twitching, grinding, like he was chewing
something over and over again. We locked eyes, and I
didn't wait. I just bolted into the trees, crashing through
brush like a deer with a bullet in it. I
heard him move, heavy steps, breaking branches. I didn't think
about where I was going. I just ran in the
direction of the only place I knew, the third leven shack.
I dove through the doorway, half clapsed as it was,
and curled up behind the old stove, tucking myself into
the broken timbers like I was trying to disappear. My
whole body was buzzing with adrenaline. My hands were shaking
so hard I nearly not my thermis over. Then I
heard him outside, slow, steady footstep circling the shack, not rushing,
just facing, listening, waiting. At one point he leaned against
the wall. I saw the shadow of his boots through
a gap between the boards. He just stood there and
then nothing. I didn't move for a long time. It
felt like iurs, but it was probably twenty minutes when
I finally called out the back. I didn't go near
the trail. I stuck to the trees and stayed low,
cutting behind the rodg until I hit the edge of
the neighbor's pasture. My station was a profab shed metal walls,
one tiny window propin heater that only worked when it
felt like it. Inside. I had a chair, clip board,
a seabe radio and not much else. No Wi Fi,
barely a signal on my phone unless I hiked a
pill with both arms out like I was praying to
the sky. The point of the job was basic. I
logged anyone who came through the area, hikers, ranger, maintenance crews.
If they showed up, they signed in. If they left,
they signed out. I kept a paper, look radioed in
anything unusual, and that was about it. By mid November,
Traffa dropped off almost completely. The weather turned, the casual
hikers stopped coming, and the hunters stuck to more interior rotes.
I started bringing books, crosswood puzzles, even the sketch bed,
just to stay busy. Then about half way through the month,
I noticed something off. There was a signature in the loebook.
I didn't remember writing k hole, just that write above mine,
same handwriting every time, perfect uniform block letters, like someone
was using a stencil. At first, I figured maybe a
ranger had passed thure early and didn't bother checking him
with me, which wasn't unheard of. But when I brought
it up with Dale, my supervisor at the main outpost,
he said, nobody by that name had clearance for our sector,
not even across the broader region. I got word about it,
started double checking everything. I kept the clipboard of me,
even when I woke the thirty feet to the outhouse,
lock the shed behind me. Every time I left, even
just to stretch my legs. Still the signature kept showing up,
always before mine, always neat, never smuged a rushed. One
morning I decided to get in early. I don't even
know where. I just had this an easy feeling. It
was still pitch black out when I got the snow
had fallen overnight, light and powdery. I remembered that clearly
because I was thinking how and toutch It all looked
except it wasn't. There were bootprints coming from the woods
straight to the shed, no side trails, no signs of
an animal, no scoff marks, just clean, deliberate tracks heading
to the door and then heading back the same way.
Only one set. They weren't mine, smaller than mine, but deep, heavy,
like you ever made them, was carrying something or wasn't
walking quite right. I stood there for a while, just
stirring at them, feeling that cold, creepy get when your
body figures something up before your brain does. Inside the shed,
the clipboard was right where I had left it, and
the lock had a new entry Kayhall seven point thirteen
a m. I checked my watch it was seven point fifteen.
I hadn't even unlocked the shed until two minutes ago.
That night, I brought in one of my old trail
cams from home. I didn't tell Dale, didn't mention it
to any one. I mounted it under the awning, facing
the door. It was low profile, nothing fancy, but it worked.
I'd use it for dearer tracking before, and it had
picked up everything from herccoons to hickers with GoPros. Three
days later, I took the st card home to check.
What I found wasn't just blank footage. It was like
the camera had never been there. No birds, no wind
in the trees, no crutters, no images of me unlocking
the door or walking pass just motionless still frames iOS
of them. But the locks eyned again. K hall Ate
forty two a M. K Hole nine hundred six a M.
I finally called Dale Dale tolt in. Something weighed was happening,
that some one might be tampering with the shade of
the logs. As response, probably some local screwing around changed
the lock. If it bothers you, that was it. So
I did. Bought a new padlock the next day from
a hardware store out in Dry Branch, made sure it
was sturdy. Only two keys existed, mine and the backup
that went straight into the lock books at the main
station twenty miles out, nobody else. Next morning I pull
up and something's already wrong. The lock is different, like
totally different, not just tampered with, replaced. It was now
one of those keeped locks of no keiol I didn't
own one, I didn't install it, and I know for
a fact Dale wouldn't have driven out in the middle
of the night just to swap hardware. The shed door
was cracked open, like it had been left in a hurry.
Inside every single document was gone, the hiker logs, the maps,
the maintenance notes, even the emergency checklist I had pinned
to the court board in their place tip. Dead center
to the window was a single sheet of printed paper,
plain white black text, you're not logging out. I left,
didn't shut the door, didn't call it in, just walked
to the truck, got in and drove. I don't even
remember most of the drive out. I didn't stop until
I cut cell service again and pulled off the road
nearer Dinah to Coldale. He said some one would go
out and look. Told me to take the rest of
the week off. I didn't argue. That weekend, I stayed
at my cousin lives place in Crossbind She had a
two bedroom house tucked near the Ridge Good Privacy. I
I didn't give her all the details, just said I
was feeling burnt out and needed a break. Saturday night,
she went out with some friends and I stayed back.
Around eleven, I stepped outside for a smoke. It was
cold when I remember that pop because I was just
standing there, kind of zoning out when I saw someone
near the tree line, not close, maybe fifty yards back,
just standing there. I froze, thought maybe it was a
neighbor or someone lost. I called out nothing. I tried again.
Still nothing. Then they moved not toward me, not toward me,
just sideways, real slow, almost like they were floating, just
along the edge of the woods, weaving through the gaps
in the trees. I flipped the porch light on do
I checked the trail camp I'd brought it with me
just in case, and set it a pointing in to
live's back out. I pulled the card. Nothing again, no footage,
like it hadn't even turned on. I barely slept them night.
Every time the wind moved, I got up to check
the window. Nothing out there, but I couldn't shake the
feeling that something was watching. The next morning, Lift came
back around ten. First thing she asked was if I'd
gone into her room. I told her no. She paused
for a second, then said some one had written something
on her bedroom mirror, just one word stay. She wiped
it off without thinking, but it rattled her, rattled me too.
We left that afternoon, packed our bags, and drove to
a motel in Freighton, three towns over nowhere near the forest.
Back then, I was renting this narrow little dupleix just
outside a town called Crossford in western Pennsylvania. If he
blinked while driving through, he'd missed the exit. The place
was bowed between wooded ridges and sat maybe two hundred
feet off an old state highway that hadn't seen proper maintenance.
In News. I found it through a friend of a friend. Cheap,
barely insulated, and not the kind of home you'd invite
people over to, but for me it worked. I worked
swing shifts at a machine shop about forty minutes away
in Slatonville, and all I really needed was a quiet
place to crash an half way decent water heater. My neighbor, Everett,
lived on the other side, retired maybe late sixties, kept
his grass short and his blinds closed. We didn't talk
beyond the occasional nod he gave this slow little wave
if he happened to be outside. When I pulled an
after work. That was pretty much our entire relationship. The
weird stuff started around the second week of November. I
came home after a long shift closed to midnight and
noticed his porch light was on just his side. Mine
stayed dock unless I flipped the switch. His light wasn't
just on, though, it was pulsing, like he couldn't decide
whether it was dying or trying to stay alive, just
the slow, irregular flicker. I stood in the driver for
a second watching it, waiting for movement inside, but his
place looked silled up tight, not t he be glow,
no sand. Eventually I just shrugged it off and went inside.
Heated up some left of resteer and crashed on the couch.
The next morning, when I stepped out to head to work,
I noticed something weed right outside my front door, A
circle of dump leaves maybe three feet wide. I laid
out neatly, like someone had taken their time with it.
Right in the middle was a dead bird, a little
bound thing, completely intact, no signs of trauma, just lying
there with his feet cold and like it had been placed.
I checked a round for any sign that someone had
been there. Everett's place was still shut. Tight curtains drawn,
porch light off. I ended up backing the boat in
a grocery sack and tossing it in the bin out back.
Kicked the leaves away with my boot and choked it
up to some neighborhood kid being weird, or maybe even
ever it playing some kind of quiet prank that it
didn't fit what little I knew of him. But the
next morning another circle showed up, smaller this time, no bird,
just a cluster of smith stones and a torn but page.
The paper bloated with moisture. It looked like it had
been ripped out of a dictionary or an encyclopedia. Most
of the print was mudge, but one word stuck out, murmuration.
That word rattled around in my head all day, even
though I couldn't have told you what it meant at
the time, it just felt pointed like it was meant
for me. After that, I stopped cleaning the circles up.
I think some part of me wanted to see if
they'd keep coming, like testing a pattern, and they did.
Every day, just before sunrise, a new one, bits of twine,
old keys, dried fruit buttons. One morning it was a
row of flatten bottle caps all lined up like a spine.
That same day, ever, it came out for a smoke
while I was locking up. I figured maybe you'd seen something,
so I called over, Hey, you notice any one strange
walking around that night? He didn't even glance at me,
just exhaled in mutter. He didn't tell them to stop.
Then he turned and went back inside without another word.
That night was the first time I felt real and
easy in that house. Not fear exactly, just that deep
stomach not kind of alertness, like when you're walking through
a parking garage and realize you're the only one there.
I kept the TV on while I tried to fall asleep.
Around two in the morning, I heard footsteps outside, slow,
deliberate steps on the gravel driveway, not hurrying, not trying
to sneak, just walking. I slipped out of bed and
crept to the window, pulling the curtain back just a
little nothing, but the steps kept going, passed under the window,
paused near the porch. Then I heard it, this light
scraping sound across the front door, like something rigid, maybe
a nail, maybe a stick, was being dragged across the
wood in one lawn careful stroke. I didn't move, I
didn't even breathe. The scraping went on for thirty seconds,
maybe more, then stopped. I stood there in the dark
for ten minutes before I turned in the lights. I
kept every bulb in the house burning and left the
tee bee running all night. I didn't even pretend to sleep.
Next morning, the circle on the porch was made of coins, rusty,
tarnished things, all laid heads up, like some one had
flipped them on purpose. That's when I booked a room
at a motel. There was a place and level about
twenty miles out, just behind an old diner. They have
one of those neon signs with most of the letters
burned out. I paid for three nights and brought a
duffel bag in my work clothes. The first night there,
I had a dream that I was lying in a field,
flat on my back. All around me were birds, not flying,
just sitting watching, their heads turned light eyes fixed on me.
They weren't dead, and they weren't moving, just waiting. I
woke up a round free to find the t B
in the motel room, playing some love budget kid's cauto
in with a squeaky voice, bare hopping through a forest.
I hadn't turned the tee be on. I got up
and plugged it from the wall and didn't sleep again
until morning. When I got back to the duplex three
days later, ever, it was gone, no car in the driveway,
no light, mail piling up in his box. A knocked
just to be sure nothing. I ended up calling the landlord.
He said, ever, it hadn't given any notice, hadn't contacted
him at all, just disappeared. That night, the colt came
back hot. I was lying in bed, half dozing when
I heard it again. Three sharp knocks in the back window,
then silence, then softer, this time a kind of heston tapping,
like someone using just the tip of a finger. I
stayed frozen in place, listening to the household is breath.
Sometime around four I heard the front door lush press down,
just the latch, not the dead bolt, like someone testing
it gently. I got up, walked quietly to the door
and looked through the peep hole. Nothing. I flipped the bolt,
said the chain, and went back to bed with the
hallway light still on. I didn't sleep, just waited for
light to come. The final time it happened was maybe
a week later, during the first real snow of the season,
just flours, nothing sticking yet. I was in the basement
doing laundry when I heard distinct footsteps up stairs, just
across a kitchen, heel to toe. I froze. It was
the kind of sound that leaves no doubt some one
is up there with you. I stood by the driver
what felt like forever, just listening, not even breathing. Then,
after a long stretch of silence, I heard burst on outside,
a soft, distant flutter. It was the only reason I
let myself go up. When I stepped into the kitchen,
every single drawer was open, not ransacked, just open, pulled
out to full extension, neat, almost surgical. On the counter,
on a white in a plate was the berth that
same stiff, dried up bird I had thrown out weeks earlier,
same cold feet, same ingle, same size. I didn't stay.
I didn't stay. I grabbed my bag and laughed, drove
to my cousin, Marla's place in Akron, and slept on
her pilot couch for a month. I didn't tell how why.
She just said I needed to clear my head. When
I went back to get the rest of my staff,
the place felt hollow, no sign of anything missing or moved.
Everett's side was still empty. Never saw him again. My
uncle Aaron had a stroke the week before Halloween. It
hit him out of nowhah while he was chopping wood,
and for a while it looked like he might not
make it. While my parents ran back and forth between
hospitals and we have centers, they decided I'd stay with
my grandma for a bit, not just for a night
or two. They packed my duffel and said ividare for
a little while. Grandma Almah lived way out in Wilburn Hollow,
about an hour outside of town that barely had a
grocery store. Her house sat past the old Strip mine.
Way backward, a pavement turned to gravel and then to
nothing at all. The last sign I remember seeing was
half rusted and crooked, just a green arrow pointing to
Gilby Fork. I named nobody ever actually said out loud.
Almah was already waiting on the porch when we pulled up.
She had her coat on, even though it wasn't a
cold yet, just stood there with her arms folded, squinting
at the road, like she already knew what we were
going to say. She barely spoke, just nodded when one
told to thank you, and gave me a quick pat
on the shoulder. Then they were gone, the car disappearing
in a trail of dust that hung in the air
for way too long. Inside the house hadn't changed since
I was little, still smelled like woodsmoke and dried herbs.
She had strings of what I thought were old bean
pots hanging from the ceiling, and jaws of pickled vegetables
lined up like trophies along every window sill. A horse
shoe hung above the door, nailed in with three big
iron spikes. She pointed me to the front room. It
had the big cast iron stove, a colt covered couch,
and that old Winchester rifle over the fireplace that no
one ever touched. The kind of place where you noticed
the silence more than anything else. No hum of appliances,
no distant traffic, not even when through the trees, just stillness,
the kind that presses in on you. I didn't fall
asleep easily that first night, but I must have eventually
dozed off. What woke me was to sound. It was
a feeling, the kind nut gets you before your brain
catches up. I opened my eyes to see the door
cracked open, just a hair moonlights built across the floor,
and something was moving out in the porch. I couldn't
see it clearly, just a shape shifting behind a curtain.
But what really got me was the window. The frost
and the glass had started to melt in this narrow,
perfect streak, like some one had leaned in close, face
pressed to the pane. I could see the trail of
condensation slowly sliding downwards, still wet, like it had just happened.
I sat up and stared at it for a long time.
Next morning, Alma was already in the kitchen when I
came in. She was stirring cornmeal mash in a big
black pot, steam fogging up the window behind her. I
told her what I saw I thought I saw. She
didn't blink, didn't even turn. She just said if a knox,
don't speak to it. No explanation, no concern, just that.
I wanted to ask more, but she didn't offer anything else.
So I sat down and it quietly, trying not to
think about it. That evening, the wind picked up just
before sunset, not a normal breeze. It came all at once, loud, strange,
like something had snapped loose from the ridge. Branches scraped
across the roof, and something heavy knock against the siding.
The boorge groaned under the strain. The house felt smaller somehow,
like the pressure outside was pushing everything inward. I tried
reading a book I brought, but I couldn't focus. The
noises just wouldn't stop. Right after I crawled into bed,
I heard it knocking, not banging, not pounding. Three soft,
careful knocks. They came from the front door. I didn't move.
My hand went clammy, and I felt every inch of
the colt wrap tight around me. My body went cold
all at once, like the warm had been sucked out
of the room. I remembered Almah's voice. Don't speak to it,
so I didn't. Next morning she asked if i'd heard anything.
I lied, I said no. She looked at me for
a long second, then said, then it ain't interested yet.
She said it like she was testing me, like she
already knew the answer. We spent most of that day outside.
She and me help chopkinnink, sweep out the smoke, and
clear some debris near the garden fence. The woods felt different,
everything was darker, even though the sky was clear. The
leaves were in golden or cursed like they should have been.
They look water logged, bruise, already half rotted. There was
no smell of autumn, just this damp, metallic scent in
the air. Nearer the edge of the woods as all
them stacks of rocks, little towers, maybe a foot tie,
balanced in weird shapes, too precise to be random, but
too messy to be decorative. There were five or six
of them, all arranged just before the tree line. I
asked Alma what they were markers. She said for what.
She didn't answer, just kept walking like the question didn't matter.
That night, I heard the knocks again, same soft tapping
three times, then after a long pause, three more, slower,
like it was giving me time. I stayed absolutely still,
my chest barely moved with each breath, and I kept
my eyes shut tight, even though I wasn't asleep. I
counted in my head, counted past a hundred before I
drifted off. I dreamed again. This time I saw a man, tall, bony, baffed,
skin like bark, rough and splitting in places. He had
no eyes, just smooth gray skin where they should have been.
He stood inches from me, close enough to feel something
radiating off him, not heat, something else. He leaned down
and moved his mouth like he was whispering, but I
didn't hear words. I just felt hollow. The next morning,
the door was open, the frost had crept half way
into the house, almost had nothing. By the fourth night,
it wasn't just a front any more. I heard knocks
from the back too free up front, then a pause,
then three behind the house, like it was circling. I
lay there still, a stone swept pulling under my arms
and along my spine. The room felt too quiet, like
it was holding its breath with me. Then came the slap.
One shot hit against the side of the house, wet, heavy,
like a handful of mud hitting the boards. The next
morning I told all I wanted to leave. She just
looked at me and said, it's November. You brought it
with you. I stared at her, waiting for a joke
or anything, but she turned and walked out the back door.
Later that day I went to the outhouse when I
saw the prince coming from under the house lawn, narrow,
bare feet pressed deep into the mud. The toes looked
too far apart. Each step left a gouge, like it
was dragging something behind it. That night, no knocking, but
I heard something worse. Whispers, not outside, from inside the walls.
They weren't loud, but they were clear, and they said
my name. Only it was my name exactly. It was
like someone trying to say it, stretching it out, pulling
the syllables too long, like they didn't quite remember how
words worked. I screamed. Almah rushed in with a shotgun.
She saw me pointing at the wall. Didn't even ask
what happened, She just said, come on. We walked barefoot
out into the cold hern just her shawl, me and
my pajamas. She didn't bring a flashlight. We went to
the family sanitary at the bottom of the hill. Fog
was rolling in from the creek, hugging the ground like smoke.
The girl us had gone gray, dead, quiet. She knelt
by one of the oldest graves and took out something
from her coat, a dried corn husk. She whispered into it, soft,
like she didn't want the fog to hear. Then she
buried it in the frozen ground and stood up without
a word. We didn't speak the whole way back. I
slept through the night and sweared to never look back.
At the time, I was crashing in the speed up
old hunting trailer on the edge of a timber site
near Downley County, way out where the trees had numbered
people by a few thousand to one. My cousin Mark
at a small time logging operation going, and he needed
help clearing some plots before the ground froze up. I
figured it was a good way to make some cast
before winter, and maybe get a bit of breathing room
from the usual chaos back home. Mark lived a good
twenty minute drive away, but I liked staying closer to
the job site. Gave me a break from people. It
sat on a narrow patch of clearing, just off a
back trail, surrounded by pintenbirch so thick he could lose
sight of it ten feet out. Inside was bare bones
or cat a small folding table, a couple of hooks
on the wall for jackets and gear. Marked set it
up years back for deer season, but no one had
really used it in a while. You could tell by
the way everything had a faint dust to smell, like
dry bark in old wool. The first couple of weeks
went by without anything strange. It was early November. The
mornings were crisp, afternoons just warm enough to sweat through layos,
and nights cold enough that you could see your breath
inside before the fire got going. I got into a rhythm.
Wake up early, whole brush and cut logs with Mark
all day. Get back to the trailer after dark, heat
up a kin of super beans, maybe listen to the radio.
Then crash hard, that kind of tide where your body
doesn't give you the option to stay awake. Then came
the tenth night. I remember checking the old wristwatch I
kept hanging on a nail near the stove. It' said
two point fifteen. I hadn't heard anything, and I didn't
remember dreaming. I just opened my eyes and felt chop.
Not anxious, not scared, just typer aware, like my brain
had flipped to switch on its own, the kind of
waking where you don't know what's wrong, but you're damn
sure something is. They sat up on the cot and
glanced out the small window over the stove. There was
a light in the woods. We all maybe a few
hundred feet out. It was faint, barely visible through the branches,
but it was definitely there. It pulsed slowly, reddish, like
an old brick light stuck blinking in the distance, except
there was the road that way, not even a trail,
just solid forest. I stared at it, trying to figure
out what it could be. A lost hunter, maybe, but
no one else was supposed to be out there. Mark
would have told me maybe a reflection, but from what
There was no moon that night, and I didn't keep
any lights on inside the trailer. I watched it blink,
slow and steady, one pulse every few seconds for nearly
ten minutes. It just kept going, never moved, never got
brighter or dimmer. Eventually I pulled the curtain shut and
lay back down. I don't think I fell asleep again
until some time around dawn next morning. I hiked out
in the direction of the light. Took me about fifteen
minutes to reach the general area. I was expecting to
find much, but I figured i'd at least spot something,
maybe a flashlight some one left behind, or a fire pit,
or even just tire tracks. But there was nothing, no
signs of anyone, no light source. The ground was indisturbed,
covered in old pine needles and patches of moss. I
was just about to head back when I noticed something
up in the trees, about thirty feet off the ground.
Wrapped tied round a thick branch was a piece of twine,
just dangling there, swaying a little. It looked old, faded, frayed,
like it had been there for years. No idea how
anyone would have gotten it up there. It was tied
in a tight loop, almost like a use, but I
didn't want to dwell on that idea. That night, I
barely slept. There were no lights this time, but around
midnight I started hearing something moving outside the trailer. Not
crashing through the brush or anything loud, just slow, careful footsteps, pacing, circling,
the kind of movement that says someone's trying not to
be heard but isn't quite pulling it off. I stayed
in the caught hot thudding, listening. At one point I
sat up, broad my flask light and swung the door open.
Nothing but cold air and trees. The steps stopped as
soon as I moved. I stood there for a long time, watching,
but there was nothing. Two nights later, I got back
after work and something fell off. It was small stuff,
but noticeable. My thermos, which I always left on the
table by the stove, was gone, just gone. The cot
had been shifted slightly, a couple of inches at most,
but I knew exactly how I left it. I told
myself maybe Raccon got in, But the latch and the
door was still hooked. Nothing else was disturbed. My pack
was untouched. The food I'd left in the cool oa
was still there, just the thermis missing, and the cought
a little out of place. I didn't say anything to Mark.
What was I going to tell him that my coffee
thermost ghosted me. I just started latching the door tighter
and wedging a piece of fire behind it at night
made me feel a little better, even if it probably
wouldn't do much. That night, I heard it again, the
pacing a little after three this time, but then it stopped,
and I heard three knocks, soft, deliberate against the far
wall of the trailer, near where the propin tanks sat outside.
Then nothing. I didn't move, didn't breathe just sat there
staring at the paneling. A minute later, three more knocks,
same rhythm, and then silence again. By the fourteenth I
was praying physically mentally, I wasn't sleeping more than a
couple ears, and that eye was just be scattered. I
nearly took a chunk out of my iron hand with
the chain soil that morning because I wasn't paying attention.
Lock cast if I was sick. Eye told him I
was just tired. He nodded, but gave me that looked
like he didn't quite buy it, but wasn't gensbrush. That night,
I didn't even bother changing. I left my boots on
and kept the axe from the wood pald next to
the cot, just in case. Round midnight, I woke up
to the sound quiet, breathy humming, like someone trying to
sing a lullaby. While struggling to remember the tune, short
broken gasps between the notes, I froze. It wasn't outside,
it was inside the trailer. I couldn't see anyone the
darkness and there was thick like it was pressing against
my eyes, but I could feel it. I wasn't alone.
The humming moved closer, then stopped. My mouth was dry,
I couldn't even swallow. Then I felt it. The cot
shifted just slightly, like someone had eased down on to
the other end. I didn't think. I just moved, rolled
off the cot, grabbed the axe and yanked or open.
I ran barefoot through the coal, stumbling over roots and rocks.
I didn't stop until I saw Mark's porch like glowing
between the trees. My feet were bleeding by the time
I got there, and I couldn't get the words out
for a solid minute. When I finally told him what happened,
he didn't laugh, just handed me a towel and told
me to sit down. We went back the next morning.
The trailer door was still lutch. Everything looked pretty normal,
but inside the ice melbourne like singed hair and plastic,
and carved into the wall above the cotton jag of
that ourse was a single word stay. I didn't. I
packed my things that saon afternoon, tossed everything into the
truck bed and didn't look back. And that is the end.
Thank you for listening, and I will see you in
the next one.