Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 3 More Scary Appalachian Trail Stories

Episode Date: April 23, 2025

These are 3 More Scary Appalachian Trail StoriesLinktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepyStory Credits:►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/Timestamps:00:00 Intro00:00:18 Story 100:19:52 Story 200:39:48 Story 3Music by:►'Decoherence' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.auhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wM_AjpJL5I4&t=0s► Myuu's channelhttp://bit.ly/1k1g4ey ►CO.AG Musichttp://bit.ly/2f9WQpeBusiness inquiries: ►[e-mail]#scarystories #horrorstories #appalachiantrail #deepwoods 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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The can be a hotel's got it all. A rooftop ball, have a ball. Cocktails up here feel just right. It's Camry, you're amazing all right. Bring a date, your teen, or even your mom, book direct at choiceotails.com. See you on the roof. It was Drew's idea, like it usually was when we ended up doing something dumb but well-intentioned. He called me after eight months of silence, no texts, no memes, not even a Merry Christmas,

just a one-line message at 204 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 sounds like to be a road. It sounds like to be a fire road. It 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 first 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 the same. to a dry creek bed, just a flat enough patch to drop our gear. We cooked some ramen on my jet boil 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 firelight 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. Bootprints, 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 a.m. 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 occasion. 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 notice 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 two hours behind. No way to be. We 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 one 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. Three 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 it. 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'd been planted, and I swear they were closer together than they'd been yesterday. The light filtered through the branches in thin, pale streaks that didn't feel like sunlight. It looked like the glow off a TV 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'd 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 prints 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. 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, three 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. Mind'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'd 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 Trail Blaze. 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 grass. 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 I 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 road, 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. 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. Three days later, a rescue team found him wandering down a game trail, six 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. Three sharp whistles and my voice calling from the trees. You tell yourself, no one wants your college-era band teas,

but on Deep Hop, people are searching for exactly what you've got. You once paid a small fortune for them at merch stands. Now, a teenager who calls the kids, them vintage, will offer that same small fortune back. Sell them easily on Deepop. Just snap a few photos and we'll take care of the rest. Who knew your questionable music taste will be a money-making machine? Your style can make you cash. Start selling on Deepop where taste Recognize his taste. 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 doorframe. 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 a hundred 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 in 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 a quarter 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 underfoot. 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 two 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 untied 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 not, and started walking. Not running, just walking. That's whatever it 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 missed 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 loud. 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 a finger. 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's 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 to 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 TV, I 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 socks. He 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. 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 drain 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 Stagg Hollow, population maybe 200. Mostly older folks, a handful of younger ones who looked like they've been trying to leave since high school. It was one of those towns that had a single road, a gas station with a beer cooler, and a cafe that doubled 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 it. 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 seven, 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.

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 seven. 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 seven. 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

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 you, 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. Three 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 too 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 3.12 a.m. I 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 fourth 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, bird, chirping, normal enough. I even remember feeling silly, like maybe I'd overreacted. The woods looked 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 stills, 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 creek of the house. Sometime around 3 a.m., 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. One was charred. Another still had a chunk of fur clinging to it. They'd 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 moved 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 ten minutes up the trail at sunset. Lay these down on the dirt. Don't say a word. Don't say a word. Don't 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. 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 bone yard 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 point. and drove straight to town, running two 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 any. That's a countdown. There's a term the locals use, hollow ones.

They don't call them skin walkers or wendigows 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 kick 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 seven.

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 and 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, eight 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. two shotgun blasts, a hatchet to the neck, and Nolan emptying a revolver into its back. It melted, not like flesh, like candlewax, 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 mouth full 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. One by one 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 seven, 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 belonged 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 souls 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.