Speaker 1: They never gave the road a name. On state maps,
it appeared as a thin gray line that ended without
explanation mil marker, stopping at one two, as if the
surveyors had decided there was no reason to go farther.
Locals referred to it indirectly, the closed stretch, the bad
ten miles, the old cut, phrases spoken with a glance
towards the trees. Naming it outright felt unnecessary, almost rude.
The highway ran through a pocket of Pacific Northwest forest
so dense the canopy rationed. Daylight, cedar, fir and hemlock
crowded the shoulder. Sword ferns grew waist high in drifting waves.
In the wet months, fog pulled low and turned head
lights into dull colored cones. Even before the barricades went up,
drivers said the place felt tight, as if the forest
leaned inward. The land had been intact for thousands of
years before the road arrived. Construction began in nineteen fifty nine,
approved as a practical short cut meant to shave time
and fuel off regional travel to the state. It was
a straightforward project, blasting grating, paving to the men working
it the job changed once the nights set in. When
the machines shut down, sound carried down the valley in
ways no one expected. Men later described cries rising from
the timber after dark, long rough sounds that didn't resemble
any animal they could name, lower than elk, heavier than cougar,
with a straight quality that made conversation stop mid sentence.
Some called it screaming, others said it sounded like something
being forced to speak against its will. At first, they
laughed it off, proud men don't admit fear easily. But
small things began to stack up. Tools went missing overnight
and reappeared set carefully on rocks or tucked beneath roots.
Fresh saplings were snapped and laid across access tracks, not
blocking equipment outright, just placed where they could not be ignored.
Near a shallow ravine between what would later become mile
marker one forty one and one forty two, they began
finding what they called calamity smears, broad streaks of blood
pressed flat across soil and rock, sometimes showing the suggestion
of a shoulder dragged sideways. There were no bodies, no
tracks that matched the smear, no scat, just churned mud
and the darkness of the shine to it. Injuries followed.
One worker clearing brush near the ravine was found on
his back an impossible distance from where he'd been standing.
His hard hat was split, his boots were gone. He
couldn't explain how he'd moved, only that something had hid
him from the side with enormous force. Another man swore
he felt hands on his shoulders, hands too large, before
he flew, landing in BlackBerry with bruises blooming across his ribs.
Accident reports blamed uneven ground and fatigue. Privately, the men
believed otherwise. Near the end of the project, fear stopped
being quiet. A construction worker brought a rifle to the site.
He had stopped going home, sleeping in his truck instead.
He claimed something paced the tree line at night, just
outside the floodlights, and that the cries always came from
the ravine. One afternoon, he raised the rifle and shouted
into the woods. Then he fired several rounds, hard and fast.
No one saw what he hit. No body was found,
but the valley changed. The screaming stopped immediately, as if
a switch had been thrown. Birds fell silent, even the
wind seemed to hesitate. The rifleman stood shaking, staring at
the trees as if expecting something to step out. He
quit the next morning and left town without collecting his
full pay. Some of the crew believed he had killed
a creature. Others believed he had killed the wrong one,
its mate, its mother, something whose voice had carried through
the valley night after night. No proof ever surfaced. The
state finished the paperwork, paved the last section, and opened
the road. For years, traffic moved through without incident. Then
slowly the pattern returned. Cars did not stop because engines
failed without reason. They stopped because the road forced them to.
A dear cargo left in the lane just beyond a
blind curve, A pine trunk dragged partially into the roadway,
a rock striking glass high and sideways. Sometimes a shape
crossed the road at blinding speed, too tall, too broad,
gone before the mind could frame it. Drivers panicked, some swerved,
some braked hard and stopped, and sometimes people got out
of their vehicles. Those were the ones who fared worst.
Not every encounter ended an injury. Many drivers escaped with
damaged vehicles and no explanation that satisfied insurance adjusters. Windshiels
cracked inward as if punched rather than struck. Doors caved laterally,
not head on head lights broken cleanly, with no corresponding
debris on the road. One pick up was found spun
sideways near the ravine, its tires leaving black marks across
the asphalt at a ninety degree angle. There was no
skid leading into the turn, no reason the truck should
have moved that way at all. If a vehicle was
damaged badly enough that it would not start, most people
did not stay with it. The forest pressed close on
both sides, and realization came quickly. There were no houses,
no lights, no cell service. The nearest place where the
canopy pulled back and the sky opened again was nearly
ten miles in either direction, so people fled. They ran
along the pavement, sometimes in shock, sometimes in blind panic,
looking back more often than they looked ahead. Later searchers
found abandoned cars with broken glass, bent frames, and deep
dens that suggested force applied from the side. Drag marks
were rare, more often, there was nothing at all beyond
panic and distance. There was only one confirmed fatality. It
happened late near the ravine, when a sedan left the
roadway and rolled down an embankment. The driver was killed instantly.
Investigations ruled it an accident, speed over correction, poor visibility,
but the reconstruction raised quiet questions. Tire marks indicated lateral
movement before the vehicle left the pavement. The car had
shifted sideways, not spun. No one could explain how law
enforcement never suggested a mysterious cause. They couldn't. Instead, they
searched for vandals, delinquents, thrill seekers. Investigators debated whether fear
itself was driving the incidents, whether rumor and suggestion were
causing drivers to panic. Outreach programs were discussed. Statements emphasized
rational thinking. The law was very good at small things.
They were statutes left over from agricultural disputes that protected
against the defamation of milk. There were ordinances allowing citations
for criminal negligence if someone threw a candy wrapper from
a moving car. The legal system could punish litter, rumor carelessness.
It had no language for a car pushed sideways. Privately,
some officers understood exactly what they were seeing. Rocks were thrown,
not fallen. Logs were placed, not washed in. Trees appeared
in lanes where gravity alone could not explain them. Damage
repeated at the same heights, the same angles. It was vandalism,
undeniable vandalism, but vandalism without a person to charge. They
kept it on record. Cracked windows, dented doors, broken head lights,
vehicles shoved just far enough to terrify, not destroy. Every
report ended the same way. Cause undetermined, incident considered accidental.
The language was deliberate. To write anything else would have
meant admitting intent without a suspect, warning without a statute,
forcing without a name. So the truth stayed where it
was safest, unspoken. In the early nineteen eighties, after too
many damaged vehicles, too many frightened drivers, and one death
no one liked thinking about, the state closed the road officially,
erosion and cost made it unsafe. Unofficially, deputies refused to
patrol it after dark. Concrete barriers went up, signs were removed.
The ten mile cut was left to weather. The forest
reclaimed it patiently, and the incidents stopped, mostly because fewer
people tested the route. He had been there before. The road.
The valley was not sacred in human way. It was
useful cover pass it a place where paths overlapped, and
life moved quietly. Elk used it, Bear used it. Others
like him moved through it in seasons, following memory older
than speech. When the machines arrived, he watched from shadow.
Humans moved predictably. Their lights created blindness as much as vision.
Their noise made them careless. They cut trees with intent,
and intent mattered. The ground shook when they blasted. The
smell of hot metal replaced rain and cedar. The scream
came from deeper timber. At first, another of his kind,
answering the destruction, The voice mated, uttered, it spoke for
the valley, then it ended, the scream that never returned.
He felt the absence immediately, a silence that did not belong.
Something had been taken, not moved, not chased away, ended.
He searched the ravine afterward and found blood, but little else,
no body, no clear trail, only the knowledge that the
voice was gone. After that, the boundary hardened. When the
road opened, the metal beasts rushed through the valley. Most
passed without issue. That was tolerable. That corridor was scarred,
but not constantly violated. He stayed hidden and let the
forest work, moss creeping over stone, roots, splitting rocks, alder,
reaching back for ground. Trouble came when humans lingered, They stopped,
they stepped out, They wandered toward the ravine. Some carried fire,
some carried pointed sticks. Some laughed to prove they were
not afraid. He did not hurt them. Most nights, he
did nothing. When action was needed, he escalated carefully. A
log rolled from higher ground, A rock thrown near not
at a crossing, timed at a blind curve, so fear
bloomed before contact. Panic usually saw the problem. When vehicles
stopped and people stayed inside, they were allowed to leave.
When people fled on foot, the forest swallowed them, and
he did not pursue. Only when someone advanced toward the
ravine did force become necessary. He did not ram vehicles.
He braced and leaned, driving weight through legs and shoulder
using ground and momentum. Cars moved sideways because physics allowed it.
Because mass beat traction, the marks curved where they should not,
metal bent inward without impact scars. Death was never the goal.
When one happened, it happened because humans panicked, because speed
and terrain aligned badly. He did not follow the fallen
he did not take what the forest did not claim.
He left prince rarely, and only where the ground demanded it.
When they appeared, they were warnings written in weight. The
boundary was not held by one alone. Paths were watched,
lessons repeated. What the road had taken was remembered by
more than a single mind. When the state finally closed
the road, relief came, but not forgiveness. The scar remained,
and scars remember. Pressure. Silence returned in layers, and the
boundary held. Years later, curiosity reopened it in small ways.
An explorer seeking a legend, a hunter who believed he
could outwalk anything. A driver convinced the stories were exaggeration,
He still warned them first. Most turned back. The ones
who did not because part of the valley not out
of cruelty, but because the scream that ended would never
be answered, and the road that took it could not
be allowed to take anything else. He remained because someone
had to. And that's the end of tonight's story, The
road that took a scream. Remember not every road wants company,
and not every sound in the woods is just the wind.
Thanks for listening, explorers, keep your eyes open, your imagination
wide and if you hear something strange on the trail,
remember it's just Bigfoot saying good night, sleep tight, and
we'll see you next time in Bigfoot's wilderness,