Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 6 True Scary Appalachian Trail Stories For A Summer Night

Episode Date: August 9, 2024

These are 6 True Scary Appalachian Trail Stories For A Summer Night Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/ Timestamps: 00:00 Intro 00:00:18 Story 1 00:02:57 Story 2 00:23:11 Story 3 00:33:25 Story 4 00:44:24 Story 5 00:54:31 Story 6 Music by: 'Decoherence' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.au https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wM_AjpJL5I4&t=0s Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #appalachiantrail #deepwoods #forest 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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needing to use the bathroom. The site was a corner one, so there was a short trail at the back that led through the woods to the washroom. Although I could have taken the longer route around the front, I decided to cut through the back to save time, as I was tired and really needed to go. As I was halfway along the trail, I heard a very faint noise to my right, something that sounded almost like laughter. I didn't freak out. I knew that raccoons and porcupines can make a similar sound at night. Since it was dark, I couldn't see anything, but I kept moving toward the comfort station without a second thought. A few seconds later, I heard a woman's voice deep in the woods asking, Hello? To say I jumped was an understatement, but I was just startled, not scared.

I wasn't sure if she was talking to me or someone else. I responded with a friendly, hey, thinking that if a girl was out there freaked out by hearing footsteps in the middle of the night, I didn't want her to think I was creepy. However, after I spoke there was no response. By the time I reached the comfort station, I had managed to talk myself out of being seriously creeped out. I don't believe in ghosts, and I still don't. Despite the creepy timing and sudden silence, I rationalized that it was probably just another person as spooked as I was. So I headed back the same way, thinking that if I heard anything this time, I would just sprint. The trail was eerily quiet. When I was about three-quarters of the way back, still hoping I hadn't scared

the girl too much, I heard her voice again. But this time, it wasn't quite her voice. It sounded like her, but different in a way that made my skin crawl. When it said, come back, I ran faster than I ever had in my life. I dashed back to my tent so frantically that I woke everyone up. They kept asking what was wrong, but all I could say was that I had freaked myself out. There was no way they would believe me if I told them about the voice change. They'd think I was drunk, high, or just a scared little man, or maybe a bit of all three. We moved campgrounds the next day, and I didn't hear anything like it for the rest of the trip. I'm very glad that was the case, but I still wish I knew what I heard that night because I'd be lying if I said,

that question doesn't still keep me up at night. My grandpa grew up in a little town called Grapefield, Virginia. These days, Grapefield consists of just four streets, with a creek running through it, but it used to be much more. Walk about a mile out of town past a pair of old logging patches, and you'll find the Appalachian Trail right there on your figurative doorstep. I used to think growing up in that kind of place

would make for an idyllic childhood with its small-town values, strong sense of community, and the great green forest for a backyard. However, there was a reason Grandpa left there the first chance he got. They used to say they moved because of the Great Depression, and there might have been at least some truth to that. But if some of the stories Grandpa later told me are anything to go by, it wasn't just financial problems that made them want to move. Although it seems like a quiet and uneventful place,

Grapefield, Virginia has a real dark past, and some of the folks living there still say it's cursed. Now back before the Civil War, Grapefield was said to be a prosperous and promising little town, where the vast majority of people were employed by one of two plantation families who lived at opposite ends of the hollow. One family were slave owners, and employed white townsfolk as drivers, overseers, tradesmen, and clerks,

while the other family were staunch abolitionists and employed all the same, except their farmhands and technicians were white townsfolk. For the most part, this arrangement worked out just fine for both parties. But as the violence over in Kansas got more and more out of hand, still waters came to a simmer. Before long, the subject of slavery was no longer something that could be discussed politely, and by the time the first shots were fired at Fort Sumter,

folks in Grapefield weren't using words to settle arguments anymore. They were using bullets. Obviously, the abolitionists had what you might call the moral high ground. The only trouble was, Virginia was a slave state, and the profit margins of the slave-owning side of Grapefield were much higher than those on the abolitionist side, who paid all their people well and fairly. But this meant the slave owners had mountains of cash lying around,

cash they could use to hire all kinds of unsavory types to protect them from the abolitionists, and that protection usually involved violence, intimidation, and occasionally murder. Some of the abolitionists tried to fight back, but seeing as they were outnumbered and outgunned, most ended up hanging from their barns, and anyone with any sense fled for northern states before they could be targeted. This would have all worked out just fine for the slave owners if it wasn't for the fact that the Confederates would go on to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Once the Federals arrived in town, the slave owners had to parlay their way back into ownership of their own plantations.

Somehow, they managed to do just that, only this time they couldn't rely on free labor, and there were no more abolitionist farmers in town to help maintain the plantations. They had all the expertise they needed, just none of the manpower. Although they shipped in folks from out of town to try and fill the gaps, things were never quite the same as they were before the war. The head of the slave-holding plantation family had been cruel and conniving, but he was at least competent. But then, his replacement, his eldest surviving son, was a fool, a tyrant, and a drunk. He might not have owned slaves anymore, but he sure did treat his people like they were.

He didn't just treat them like his property. He treated their homes and their families like they were his property, too. The new plantation owner was always a little too fresh with Grapefield's womenfolk, but then one night, after a man's wife returned home, claiming the plantation owner had violated her, the townsfolk decided that enough was enough. A whole mob of them marched over to the plantation house. But instead of dragging the owner outside and hanging him from his own porch, the mob started going around nailing doors and windows closed.

Anyone who tried to escape was shot, and there were lots of folks in there too, not just the plantation owner and his family. They had maids, cooks, nannies for the children, all of whom learned to stay away from the doors or windows lest they face a hail of bullets. Once they had the plantation house locked down, the mob doused the place and set it on fire. The mob was liquored up, and they clapped and cheered as the plantation house burned. But that all stopped when they started to hear the screams of the women and children upstairs. It was then, and only then, that they realized. what a terrible thing they'd done.

One man tried to pry the nails out of one of the window frames in hopes that he might be able to rescue some of the women and children, but it was too late. There was no way back for them. They couldn't have any witnesses to attest what they'd done. The whole thing needed to look as much like an accident as possible, not so much for their consciences, but for appearances. No one could ever know the truth of what happened that night.

Well, you can see how well that went. The mob must have done a decent job of covering things up when it came to the authorities because no one was hanged for burning down the plantation house. But I guess at some point someone talked, either to their wife or to a minister, maybe even on their deathbed. Because once word got out that the fire was no accident, it was like a darkness seeped into grapefield, one that never went away. The town's economy was completely torn apart. fear and suspicion became the norm. It took 40 years for the place to even start to heal. But even after things started to pick up again, folks talked of a curse hanging over the town.

All that guilt meant a lot of drinking, and all that drinking meant a lot of broken homes, a lot of anguish, and a lot of misery too. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the kind of town my grandpa grew up in, far from the kind of hallmark card upbringing that I imagined he had. As you can probably tell, Grandpa talked an awful lot about growing up in Grapefield, probably in an attempt to instill gratitude in myself and his other grandchildren. I can promise you it worked, because as much as my grandpa had stories from his childhood that had you laughing your butt off, he had one or two extremely creepy ones too. He wouldn't tell them often, and he didn't tell us any scary stories when we were kids,

but once I was old enough, and I happened to be picking his brain one dark October evening, he told me one story I'll remember for as long as I live. It all started when a hunter named Hiram Carter walked back into town one day, after spending all morning sitting in his blind out in the woods. This was back in 1934, just after prohibition ended, and someone had set up a little speakeasy kind of joint over on Apple Lane. Hiram walked straight into the speakeasy, drank a whole bottle of beer in four or or five gulps and chased it down with a double shot of whiskey.

Then, when both bottle and glass were empty, Hiram asked for another round. Obviously, a man doesn't drink like that unless something very good has happened, or something very, very bad has happened. So naturally, Hiram's fellow patrons were pretty keen to know what the occasion was, but Hiram didn't have any good news to share. In fact, he was more frightened than he'd ever been in his whole life. He'd been sitting in his blind, which for those that don't know, is basically like a camouflage shelter that hunters hide in, and Hiram was there for hours before anything came along.

But sure enough, he starts seeing this big old buck walking through the trees towards him. It's still some distance away, so Hiram's got to wait as it gets closer and closer so he can get the perfect shot. He's got that buck trained in his sights. He's steadying his breathing, then something spooks this. deer and it goes bolting off through the woods. Hiram lowers his rifle, trying to spot whatever it was that spooked his deer. Then suddenly, he sees it. Something darts through the trees in front of him, too skinny to be a bear, too big to be a dog, and it's moving so fast that it just about scared

Hiram half to death. He stays put in his hide for a few minutes, clutching his rifle with sweaty palms, and then he rushes out of his hide back to his truck and drives all the way back into town as fast as the engine could handle. He said that whatever it was, it was stalking him all the way back to his vehicle. It stayed just out of sight, but it was there, following him, and Hiram said it just about frightened the life out of him. The boys down at the speakeasy told him it was probably just some coyote or a mangy bear that didn't get enough food before hibernating, but Hiram said he was certain about what he saw, and he hadn't seen nothing like it before in his life. It was big, it was fast, and most importantly, it seemed smart. After finishing

his drinks, Hiram walked out of the speakeasy and made his way home, but not before warning every man in there to stay the hell out of the woods. Something was out there, and it was dangerous. When word got around about Hiram's encounter out in the woods, some folks took it with a pinch of salt, while the rest took, it with a whole shaker. See, Hiram was in the habit of telling tall tales after a few whiskeys. In fact, the only reason he was hunting in the first place was so he could spend half his grocery money on booze. Having the reputation that he did,

no one took Hiram's claims all that seriously and went about their business as usual. But just seven days later, Hiram's story was the talk of the town, and unlike the week prior, they took his claims much more seriously. By the time my grandpa was a boy, the site of the old plantation house, the one that had been burned down by the townsfolk, had been abandoned and overgrown for almost 50 years, with no heirs to inherit the property. The land had fallen under the temporary ownership of Bland County's controller, whose only task was to find the property a buyer.

But then, in the 40-plus years it had been up for sale, the county hadn't been able to find one. Even the carpetbaggers from up in New York and Chicago wanted nothing to do with it. They'd roll through in their fancy stagecoaches and top hats, take one look at the land, and the folks living on it, and say, thanks, but no thanks. As a result, the land was all waste,

high grass, wildflowers, and cypress trees surrounding the brick foundations of the old plantation house. Local kids were warned to stay away from the place, but I guess kids back then were no different than kids today because they ignored their parents' warnings completely. I guess on account of how mysterious and spooky it was, but kids around my grandpa's age, so about 10 or 11, would often sneak up to the old plantation to explore the grounds.

My grandpa said that he went up there once or twice himself, but that he always got a bad feeling whenever he was near that place. He'd heard the stories, everyone had, about the plantation being haunted, about the town being cursed, it just wasn't enough to keep the kids away. And for one little girl, ignoring those warnings almost cost her her life. One day, a little girl came running back into town with her even younger sister in tow, and they were both out of their poor little minds with fright.

They'd been taking their beagle pup out for some exercise, and decided to take it onto the old plantation grounds to run him around a little. They were there for no more than a few minutes before their dog suddenly tucked its tail between its legs and started to growl. The older girl gave the dog's leash a tug and it was only too happy to get the hell away from that creepy old place. But then, as they're walking,

the older of the two girls sees something moving in the trees surrounding the old plantation, something that scared the living hell out of her, something she later described as a monster. Later, when she was safe and a little calmer, the older girl was asked for more details on what she'd seen. She said that the monster had been creeping through the trees on all fours at first, but when it saw her, it raised itself up on its hind legs to watch her from across the clearing.

Then, when she and her sister started to run back towards grape field, the thing in the tree line dropped back on all four legs again, then started running in their direction, like it was trying to cut them off. The two girls ran as fast as their legs could carry them, with their dog doubling back every so often to bark up a storm in the hopes of protecting his owners. Thankfully, the girls managed to make it into town before whatever it was caught up with them, but when they arrived they were sobbing something fierce. The older of the two girls said the creature was huge, with shaggy hair all over its body, but none at all around its muzzle, which appeared horribly misshapen and deformed.

This time, people took the claims much more seriously, but they still thought that it must have been some kind of mangy bear that had attacked the girls after their hibernation period. If a bear can't find itself a snack quick enough, they can get really hungry, and you better believe that a hungry bear is a very dangerous bear. And having something raid a few chicken coops or butcher a few hogs, that was one thing,

but having the thing hunting the town's children, that could not be tolerated. The most accomplished hunter in grapefield, a man named Rufus Robinson, volunteered to head out into the woods with his Australian Shepherd. He said he'd come back with the beast's head, or he wouldn't come back at all. Well, a few days later, Rufus's Aussie Shepherd came hobbling back into town, all on its lonesome. It walked right over to Rufus' cabin, but then, instead of sitting on his porch, the dog went and laid down on his neighbors, almost like it knew that Rufus wasn't coming home. Folks said Rufus's dog might have run ahead, gotten itself lost, then simply walked back home to wait for his master.

They'll be back in a few days, they said. Ain't no Mangee Bear got the better of old Rufus. But Rufus never came back with no Mangee Bear's head. In fact, Rufus Robinson never came back at all. And there was no sending a search party in after him, unless he was not. its first and foremost task was hunting down the bear that took him. And that's when the town's folk formed a hunting party. Six of their best men would head out into the woods, with shotguns, and rifles, and bring home Rufus's body, and end the threat that that mangy bear posed once and for all. Well, according to a member of the hunting party, they were out there for less than 24 hours before they found the thing that had been stalking the town's children, and it wasn't

no bear. One night, they set up a real simple trap, just laid some fresh meat as bait out in the open. Then all they had to do was wait. Well, they waited, and they waited, but nothing showed. Then, just when someone gets up to collect the meat so they can move it someplace else, bingo. The thing comes tearing through the trees and attacks the man who approached the meat. It almost took a chunk of his arm before he managed to stick a knife in the thing. once he was free of its grip, his hunting buddies emptied almost every shell they had into it, and they didn't stop firing until the beast stopped moving. Once they were quite certain the thing was dead, the hunters approached,

shining their lanterns on the creature to get a better look. Only then did they realize what they were looking at. It wasn't any kind of bear. It was a man. His hair and beard were long and shaggy, his unclothed body so filthy in parts that the dirt and mud appeared as a second kind of skin. Wherever there was bare skin, such as his face, his chest, and his shoulders, there were hideous webs of burn scars, so much so that the man beneath had been robbed

of his human appearance. His spine was arched and contorted, his hands and feet bore heavy calluses, and at the ends of long bony fingers, sprouted sharp, filth-encrusted claws. Obviously none of the men had ever seen anything quite like it, so they'd dragged the man's body out of the woods, then woke up the town's doctor to come inspect their quarry. Now, this doctor had been Grapefield's resident physician for the better part of 50 years. He treated everyone in town and had lived there since the 1870s, including the old plantation owner and his family. It was him who realized who the man was, why he was covered in burn scars, and why he'd been living like a wild animal for what must have been decades. It was

one of the plantation owner's sons. Back on the night of the plantation house being burned down, the mob encircled the building to make sure no one could escape. They took shots at anyone who came near the windows or doors, at least all except one. The plantation house was huge, so the dozen or so men that made up the mob had to space themselves out real wide to cover all the angles.

One man stationed just off the east wing sees someone scrambling out of a small cellar grate. He raised his rifle, got ready to fire, but then saw it was just a boy. His skin all scorched and blistering, and he didn't have it in him to execute a child. Besides, he was so burned up that there was no way he'd survive more than a day or two out there in the woods all alone. So instead of filling him full of lead like they did with the others who tried to escape, the man let the boy go, having no idea that in decades to come, his decision would come back to quite literally haunt them.

No one knows how the boy survived out in the woods for so long, or why he'd chosen to live out in the trails of Appalachia instead of trying to settle down someplace. Most suspect that the grief of losing his whole family so suddenly drove him insane, and that fear of mankind kept him living in the woods like some type of animal. But there are few who agree on how he came to look the way he did. Obviously, the scars were present all over his body, being from the fire. But what wasn't so clear was how the boy had come to be so comfortable running on all fours like some type of dog.

Some said that he must have been born that way, and his appearance was probably why he couldn't settle down anywhere. They figured that since he got treated like a monster, he started acting, like one too, but others said that he was perfectly healthy, and that in slowly losing his humanity, he learned to run and hunt like an animal. Honestly, I don't know what to make of any of this, and neither did my grandpa. He always thought it was some myth or legend, until his own ma and pa could confirm that it was indeed the truth. They said that the boy's death was just another in a long line of murders that never saw justice,

and since they couldn't stand another one, they decided to move. Grandpa raised the point that it couldn't have been murder if the hunters were just defending themselves, and his paw responded with what I think are some wise words. He said that the boy never really survived the plantation fire that night. He was probably wandering around the woods, living like an animal, never truly being a person. Whether he came back to Grapefield for revenge, or just to revisit the place he grew up, killing him meant finishing off a murder that started 30 or 40 years earlier. And that's why people say the town is cursed, not because there's some evil spirit lurking around the place, but because those who came before condemned those who came

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what could go wrong? The eastern Tennessee woods echoed with a kind of stillness you'd pay top dollar for in therapy. Sam and I weren't the hardcore hiker types. No, our hikes were punctuated with, detours to whatever local haunts we could find. The plan was to walk the trail, sure, but also to soak in as much of the local color as we could. Our packs were stuffed more with comfort than survival gear, a decision that felt right every time we pulled out a pair of dry socks

or a snack that wasn't just trail mix. By the third day, our easy pace brought us into Hancock County. We entered with the innocent aim of stocking up on beer and maybe a bottle of Jack to toast to our adventures. I still remember the chuckle from the lady behind the counter at the general store when we asked where the liquor aisle was. You boys aren't from around here, are you? She asked. Her smile lined with the wisdom of someone who knew the punchline to a joke we hadn't heard yet. We're just passing through, Sam replied, looking to pick up some supplies. Well, you'll find plenty of supplies, but if it's booze you're after, you're out of luck. This here's a dry county

A dry county The words hung between us An unexpected barrier to our evening plans We bought what we could Snacks, more snacks And a few more snacks And on her advice Asked around town if someone could help us out

With our particular dilemma The townsfolk were friendly enough Each person we asked Met us with apologetic smiles And polite declines Wish I could help you boys out but I'm staying local today, seemed to be the theme of the responses. Disappointed, we trudged back toward the trail, the lack of liquor weighing heavier than our packs. That's when we saw him,

stepping out of the same general store, a guy about our age with a face that looked like it knew its way around a good time. He had that lean, rugged look, someone who spent more time outdoors than in, his shirt faded from the sun, jeans dusted with the telltale signs of the low red clay. Hey, excuse me, I called out, my voice cutting through the quiet of the early evening. He turned, eyebrows raised in a mix of curiosity and caution. I'm Mike, and this is Sam. We heard you might be heading out of town?

Any chance you could help us pick up some beer? His guarded expression shifted to a grin. Sure, I could use the company. You guys okay with a bit of a drive? It started as a simple question, a minor plea for assistance, was about to lead us down a path neither of us expected. As we climbed into his truck, the setting sun cast long shadows over the road, hinting at the darker journey ahead.

As we rolled away from Hancock County, the landscape shifted, the dense canopy giving way to open skies. Our new friend, who introduced himself as Jake, had a truck that smelled of leather and earth, And his easy demeanor as he drove made the miles slip by like creek water over smooth stones. So, how long you boys been hitting the trail? Jake asked, his eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror. About three days now, I replied. It's been more about the escape than the hike, really.

Jake nodded, as if he understood that perfectly. Sometimes you just got to get away from it all, huh? The conversation meandered through topics as varied as the landscapes we passed. Jake talked about growing up in Tennessee, about the trails and the towns and what it meant to live with the rhythm of the seasons. He spoke with that blend of pride and resignation you hear from people who love their home, but know its limits intimately. It was when the topic turned to our futile quest for alcohol, that Jake's tone took on a

conspiratorial edge. You know, he began, glancing at us through. the mirror. There's another place I know. Not exactly legal, mind you, but if you're looking for real local flavor. His voice trailed off, inviting our curiosity. I exchanged a glance with Sam. The thrill of the forbidden added an edge to our adventure we hadn't anticipated but were not opposed to exploring. You mean moonshine? I asked. Jake's smile was all the answer we needed. real moonshine made by a guy who knows his craft. But it's in a dry county too.

You're not cops, are you? He half joked. But his eyes searched ours for any sign of deceit. We laughed, shaking our heads. No, just a couple of guys looking for a good story to tell. That seemed to put him at ease. Well then, if you're up for a bit of a detour, I can introduce you to some of the best shine you'll ever taste.

The decision didn't take long. Curiosity. That relentless driver of human folly nudged us forward. Let's do it, Sam said, and I nodded in agreement. Jake turned the truck onto a less-traveled road, the setting sun casting long shadows across the gravel. As we bounced along, the woods closed in around us, and I couldn't shake the feeling that we were diving deeper into the unknown. We'll be there in a bit, Jake said, his voice now lower, almost reverent. Just a heads up, this isn't your typical reason. roadside stand. What we saw as we pulled up wasn't what I'd pictured. No quaint, hidden shack with

barrels and a smoking still, but a larger building, rough and imposing. It looked more like a community center abandoned by time, except for the row of motorcycles lined up out front. My heart sank a little. Uh, Jake, are you sure this is the place? I asked, the first twinge of real apprehension squeezing my chest. Trust me, he said with a grin. that didn't reach his eyes. You wanted authentic, right? Doesn't get more real than this. As we stepped out of the truck, the sound of our boots on gravel felt ominously final. I looked at Sam, his face mirroring my unease, as we followed Jake towards what promised to be much more than just an illicit transaction. The door to the clubhouse swung open with a

groan that felt too cinematic, like the first note of a score meant to unsettle. inside the air was thick with the scent of oil and tobacco an undercurrent of adrenaline lacing through as we stepped into the biker's domain jake led the way casual as if he was walking into his own home but sam and i hung back just slightly our senses heightened to every movement around us the walls were adorned with signs of allegiance and brotherhood patches and memorabilia that told stories of loyalty and wilder days. Make yourselves at home, Jake said, a bit too cheerfully. His voice bounced oddly off the concrete and wood.

A dozen pairs of eyes turned toward us. Their looks ranging from curious to downright hostile. The warmth of the day outside didn't reach this place. We barely had time to take a tentative seat at the bar when a hush fell over the room. Through a door at the back, a man emerged, broad and commanding, his presence alone demanding respect or fear. He locked eyes with Jake, and without a word, the air shifted, charged with an electricity that felt like a storm about to break.

Jake approached him, speaking in low tones we couldn't catch over the hum of conversation that resumed, nervously, around us. Sam leaned over murmuring, Mike, I've got a bad feeling about this. Before I could answer, the quiet exploded into chaos. The sound of a fist-meeting flesh was startlingly clear. Jake reeled from a blow by the biker president, his earlier confidence shattering like glass under a boot. Panic clawed at my throat as the president dragged Jake back by the collar,

his shouts filling the room, punctuated by Jake's grunts of pain. Are you trying to get us busted? You bring cops in here! The accusation was a slap of reality against my already racing heart. Sam and I stood, our chairs scraped. loudly against the floor. The room's attention pivoted to us, and for a moment I felt like a deer caught in too many headlights. No, we're not, I started, but the president cut me off, pointing fiercely towards the exit. Get out, now! Relief was immediate and overwhelming, but it was tangled with a nauseating

guilt. Jake was still being held, now quieter, the fight gone out of him as quickly as it had escalated. We can't just leave him, I said, my voice low, urgent. He's not your problem, one of the bikers said, stepping aside to clear our path to the door. The president's eyes were on me, hard and unyielding. He was robbing you. Get out while you can. Outside the night air was a cold slap to my heated face. Sam and I didn't speak as we hurried away, the sounds of the clubhouse fading behind us. Guilt gnawed at me for Jake, for the thrill that had led us here, for every step we took away from that place. The drive back was silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. It was only miles later, the clubhouse a nightmare in the

rearview mirror, that I could breathe again, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from my veins. Next time we stick to the trail, Sam finally said, his attempt at a weary joke doing little to lift the heavy cloak of what-ifs and maybes that settled around us as we drove back into the night, leaving behind a story we'd never forget, but never wanted to relive. You tell yourself, no one wants your college-era band teas, but on Deepop, 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 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.

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Living in Clinch Valley meant being surrounded by the kind of beauty that could take your breath away. The lush green mountains rose around our little cabin, their tops hidden by the morning fog that seemed to hold secrets of its own. I, Willa Mae Martin, stood on the porch of our home, my eyes tracing the familiar ridges and valleys that I had come to know so well. life here was supposed to be peaceful, a perfect place for Alden and me to start our family. But peace was as fleeting as the morning missed. We married young, both of us just 17.

It was a shotgun wedding pushed forward when we found out I was expecting. The joy of our soon-to-be expanded family brought a fleeting harmony. Alden, with his strong hands and warm smile, promised me the moon. And I believed him. I believed that our little cabin, with its creaky wooden floors and the fire always burning in the hearth, would be filled with laughter and love. But as the leaves turned golden and fell to the ground, so too did our happiness. I lost the baby midway through the pregnancy.

The loss devastated me, but Alden, he took it differently. He blamed me, said it was my fault for not being careful enough, for not loving him enough. His words cut deeper than the cold wind of Appalachia, and his warm smile turned cold. Alden worked as an oil driller, a job that took him down to Texas for two weeks at a time. Those two weeks he was away were my respite, my little slices of heaven. I cherished the silence that his absence brought, the way the house seemed to sigh in relief with me. But the dread of his return grew with each passing day he was gone, knowing that the man who would come back, through that door was not the one I married. His return marked the beginning of my two weeks of

hell. He drank. The whiskey seemed to fuel his anger, his disappointment in me, in us, and he lashed out leaving marks no one could see, hidden beneath my sleeves and skirts. I learned to flinch at the sound of his boots on the porch, at the turn of the door handle. It was during one of these dark times that Silas came into the picture. Alden had asked his brother to to check on me while he was away. At first I was wary, unsure if Silas was just another spy for Alden. But Silas was different. He had a gentleness about him that Alden had lost long ago. He did the chores without needing to be asked, fixed the broken steps, the leaking roof, and sometimes, he just sat with me, listening to the radio and talking about everything and nothing. One evening,

as the sun dipped behind the Appalachian Mountains, sending long shadows across the the valley. Silas asked me if I was happy. It was a simple question, but one I hadn't asked myself in a long time. Tears welled up in my eyes as I shook my head. No, I was not happy. That was the first time I admitted it out loud. Silas listened as I poured out my heart, telling him of the abuse, the loneliness, and the despair. In the flickering candlelight of our kitchen, I saw something in Silas' eyes that I hadn't seen in anyone's for a long time. Genuine concern. It was then that I began to feel a glimmer of hope,

a whisper of something that might resemble happiness. As we sat there talking into the night, I realized that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a way out of this darkness. And maybe, just maybe, Silas would be my beacon. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange as I stood at the kitchen window, watching the day awaken. Each morning brought a new sense of dread, but also a flicker of hope, especially since Silas had become

part of my life. Those days when Alden was away working in Texas were my sanctuary, my brief escape from the nightmare my life had become. Silas started coming by more often, under the pretense of helping around the house, or just checking in on me as Alden had. had asked, but we both knew these visits were more than that now. We talked about everything, the books we liked, the places we dreamed of visiting, and sometimes just the simple beauty of Clinch Valley that seemed so untainted, unlike our lives. One afternoon, Silas brought a small radio, and we sat on the porch listening to music from faraway places. It was during one of those moments, with a soft country melody playing in the background, that Silas took

my hand. It was a simple gesture, but it felt like a lifeline. I looked into his eyes and I didn't see Alden's brother. I saw a man who made me feel safe, understood, and importantly, valued. I care about you, Willamay, Silas said softly, his voice barely above the whistling wind. I hate seeing you hurt like this. His words warmed a part of my heart that I thought had gone cold forever. We sat there for what felt like ours. Our hands entwined. Letting the music envelop us in a cocoon where the harsh realities of my marriage couldn't reach us. But with each visit, the weight of our secret grew heavier. We were both aware of the sanctity of the vows I had made to Alden,

however broken they might have become by his own cruelty. It felt as if every stolen moment with Silas was both a salve to my wounds and a new cut to my conscience. One evening, Silas stayed later than usual. Alden would be returning the next day, and a sense of urgency hung between us. Willa, we can't keep doing this, he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. It's not right to you or even to Alden. I knew he was right, but the thought of not having Silas in my life was more painful than any

physical wound Alden had inflicted. What are we going to do? I asked, my voice barely a whisper, fearing even the walls might hear. We have to decide, Willa man. Either we stop this now, or you have to leave him. You deserve happiness, not this. Not a life filled with fear and pain, Silas said, his tone resolute. That night I lay awake, thinking about everything Silas had said. By morning my decision was made.

I couldn't and wouldn't live in fear any longer. With Silas's love giving me strength, I began to plan my escape from Alden. The next few days were a blur as I packed my things see. Each item stashed away a silent testament to the years of suffering. I wrote a letter to Alden, telling him everything I felt, sparing no detail of the pain he had caused, and my resolve to leave him. When the letter was done, I felt a mix of relief and overwhelming sadness. I knew there was no turning back now.

I was leaving to meet Silas, clutching not just my suitcase, but the fragile hope of a new beginning. As I rode the wagon to Bean Station where Silas and I planned to start our journey to California, I felt the chains of my old life breaking, link by link. The cool morning air nipped at my cheeks as I stepped off the wagon at Bean Station. My heart pounded with a mixture of excitement and fear. Today was the day I would start anew with Silas. My eyes scanned the small, bustling station for his familiar face,

but instead, a chilling sight caught my breath. It was Silas's favorite felt hat and jacket, but the man wearing them was not Silas. As the figure turned toward me, my heart sank into the pit of my stomach. Alden. It was Alden wearing his brother's clothes. My mind raced, trying to piece together how he could have known where to find me. Panic clawed at my throat as he approached, his steps steady and sure, his eyes cold and unreadable. Alden, what?

How did you... My words stumbled out, tripping over my shock and fear. Thought you were smart, eh, Willamay, leaving me for my own brother? His voice was low, laced with a bitterness that sent shivers down my spine. I stepped back, but he was too quick, grabbing my arm with a grip that promised pain. He didn't wait for my response. With a forceful pull, he led me away from the station, away from the public eyes that might have offered some semblance of safety.

We rode in silence, the only sound the clopping of the horse's hooves and my heart pounding in my ears. I didn't know where we were going until we turned up the path to Silas's house. As we approached, my worst fears were confirmed. Hanging from the porch beam was Silas, lifeless. A scream tore through my lips, a sound of pure agony and despair. Alden dismounted, dragging me closer to the horrifying sight. Look at him, Willamay. Look at what you did. Alden's voice was a harsh whisper in my ear. I couldn't tear my eyes away from Silas, from the man I loved, now gone forever, because of the

twisted path my life had taken. Tears blurred my vision, and grief overwhelmed me as Alden continued his cruel taunts. Finally, he forced me back onto the horse. We're going to the sheriff. You're going to tell them everything. But Alden's plans changed quickly. Upon arriving in town, he didn't head for the sheriff's office, but instead handed me over to the deputies, telling them where to find Silas's body. He confessed to his actions, his words cold and detached. They took him away, leaving me alone with my grief.

The next few days were a blur. I was lost in a fog of sorrow and shock. When they went to collect Silas's body, it was gone, vanished as if it had never been there. And with him, I felt my last connection to this world slip away. That night, I made my decision. I couldn't stay in Clinch Valley, not with the ghosts of my past haunting every corner. I left, under the cover of darkness, leaving behind the pain, the sorrow, and the love that had turned so tragically wrong. The morning after I left, they found a cart in front of the sheriff's office.

Underneath a tattered sheet lay Silas, embalmed and pristine, with a wedding band on his finger, a band I had never seen him wear. It was a final message, a sign that perhaps Silas was still with me, in some way, guiding me as I fled from the horrors of my past, searching for peace that I hoped still existed somewhere in the world. This episode is brought to you by Netflix's remarkably bright creatures. What if a Pacific Octopus held the key to a mystery that could heal your heart? Well, that's Tova's reality. An elderly widow working at an aquarium.

Tova forms an unlikely friendship with the cramudgeonly, Marcellus, whose remarkable intelligence leads her to a life-changing discovery. Watch remarkably bright creatures with your remarkable moments this Mother's Day weekend. Only on Netflix May 8th. The regions surrounding the fabled Appalachian Mountains are home to some fascinating but often misunderstood myths and legends. Many are already familiar with the likes of the Mothman, the red-eyed harbinger of doom who lurks at the locations of impending disasters,

or the Flatwoods monster, who many believe is an example of extraterrestrial visitation. Yet, fewer are familiar with another Appalachian legend, which, after some research, might just be rooted in a very unsettling truth. In certain parts of southern and eastern Appalachia, some folks still talk of an eerie, nocturnal race of imp-like humanoids known as the moon-eyed people. The moon-eyed people are said to be around four feet high with pale, ghostly bodies and large, slightly bulbous eyes. They are mostly harmless, and only ever come out at night due to their general fear of humanity.

But go walking on the trails where the moon is big and bright, and you might just spot a moon-eyed person bathed in silvery light. To most, the moon-eyed people sound like nothing but a quaint, rural folk tale. But like many so-called myths and legends, there can be varying degrees of truth. to them, and in the case of nocturnal gnomes, that degree of truth might be very large indeed. Prior to the removal of 1838, North Georgia and other parts of the Appalachians were still part of the Cherokee nation. In 1782, the region's governor was a man named John Severe. That same year, Severe paid a visit to the Cherokee Chief Okoda at Fort Mountain,

who had recently reached the ripe old age of 90 years old. Given his status as the regional governor, Severe and Okoda dedicated a great deal of their discussion to local politics. Severe sought the old chief's wisdom, yet he also sought his experience, and before long, the conversation turned to history. Severe and Okoda began discussing the origins of the Cherokee, with the old chief describing how his people had migrated to Appalachia from the northern Great Lakes region. Okoda claimed his ancestors had arrived to find another people had settled the area, a people so sophisticated that they turned the mountain into a veritable fortress, hence why it was given the name. The Cherokee fought hard to conquer the indigenous tribe,

but eventually prevailed and drove their enemy from the region before settling it themselves. Severe then asked the old chief if he knew anything of the vanquished tribe. What he was told shocked him deeply. Chief Okoda's forefathers told him that those who had occupied Fort Mountain before the Cherokee were, and I quote, white men from across the Great Sea. The chief went on to describe how these moon-eyed people earned their name. Not only did they have huge, disk-like eyes, much larger than any humans, but they evolved to be viciously effective nocturnal hunters with natural night vision so strong that it struck fear into the hearts of the Cherokee, who didn't dare venture away from their camps. after dark. Governor Severe was stunned and assumed that these Caucasoid tribespeople were merely the stuff of legend, yet Chief Okoda assured him that his account was no mere myth. Severe

promised to return the following spring, and in the company of a historian so that the chief's account could be officially recorded. Yet sadly, when Severe returned in the spring of 1783, he discovered that the elderly chief had passed away. Despite Chief Okoda's death, rumors of the moon-eyed people did not abate. In fact, almost every band of Appalachian Cherokee was familiar with the legends, so much so that it attracted the attention of a man named Benjamin Smith Barton. Born in 1766 in the British colony of Pennsylvania, Dr. Barton was one of the early United States most prominent physicians. He studied at the Philadelphia School of Medicine, but also at Scotland's University of Edinburgh and Germany's University of Goddingen.

He was also such a famous and well-respected figure that he received honorary diplomas from both the Lisbon Academy and Kiel University. At one time, Dr. Barton specialized in botany, and after corresponding with naturalists throughout the United States and Europe, he published the first American textbook on the subject. Yet, around the end of the 18th century, Barton became fascinated with the subject of anthropology, and more specifically, the origins of humanity. After many years of study, Dr. Barton published his 1797 book, New Views of the Origin of the Tribes and Nations of America.

The book includes excerpts of an interview with a U.S. Army colonel named Leonard Marbury, fluent in the Cherokee language. Colonel Marbury acted as an intermediary between the government and the natives for the better part of 20 years, and in that time had heard many a story regarding the so-called moon-eyed people. The Cherokee tell us that when they first arrived in the country which they inhabit, they found it possessed by a certain moon-eyed people, Colonel Marbury explained. These wretched people could not see in the daytime and were expelled following a brief but bloody war. At first, Dr. Barton theorized that there had been some kind of miscommunication and that these pale moon-eyed people were not some previously undiscovered race of stunted humanoids,

but rather a collection of French settlers. The Cherokee had sometimes described the moon-eyed people as possessing what they described as alien or unfamiliar weaponry. Yet when Dr. Barton interviewed one frequent visitor to the Cherokee, he claimed these alien weapons were little more than hose, axes, guns, and other metallic utensils that had been brought to the New World by the French. Many others have supported this assertion, claiming the moon-eyed people were no more than rogue European settlers who specialized in hunting by night rather than by day. Yet when South Carolina historian B. R. Carroll interviewed merchant explorer James Adair, he refuted any and all claims that the moon-eyed people were European.

Born in the Irish County of Antrim in 1709, Adair sailed to the New World with a British trade mission at the age of 26. He spent the next 40 years living among the natives, chiefly among the Chickasaw and eastern Choctaw, while being almost entirely cut off from the outside world. In 1775, when Adair was in his 60s, he was encouraged to pen an account of his experiences with the native tribes, titling the book, A History of the American Indians. The book cemented Adair's status as one of the most knowledgeable Indian experts of his generation, hence why he was sought out by the author B. R. Carroll. And when asked if he was familiar with the so-called moon-eyed people, he replied in the affirmative.

Adair claimed that almost all of the Appalachian tribes had stories concerning this primordial race of albino-humanoids, but it was not the frequency with which he encountered these stories that convinced Adair of their veracity. It was the consistency with which they were described. Each and every tribe spoke of the moon-eigh-ean-either. people being stunted, nocturnal, and incredibly pale, and what's more, most tribes agreed that the cause of their malformation was that they chose to live underground. Scientifically speaking, the moon-eyed people's wide-eyed form is entirely consistent with an offshoot of humanity having taken to living underground, especially if they've done so for thousands upon thousands

of years. And while this all might sound like the stuff of science fiction, it is firmly rooted in truth. Back in 2003, a team comprised of local and Australian archaeologists began excavating in an Indonesian cave known as Liang Bua, in the hopes of uncovering pre-modern human remains. Two years later, the team was undertaking a routine dig when they discovered evidence of a human skull. When a section of this skull was sent away for analysis, Indonesian scientists believed that due to its relatively small dimensions, the skull must have belonged to a child. Yet after more of the person's skull was uncovered and analyzed, it was discovered that their teeth were that of a full-grown adult.

The remains they discovered were not those of a Homo sapien. They belonged to a previously undiscovered relative, Homo Florysensis, named after the island of Flores, in which they were found. Homo Floresiensis were determined to be an extinct species of small, archaic human that inhabited the island until the arrival of modern humans, about 50,000. years ago. The remains found in the Liangboa Cave belonged to an adult female, believed to have stood at three feet seven inches tall, which earned her the nickname, the Little Lady of Flores. If the Cherokee did indeed migrate to Appalachia around 12,000 years ago, which is when the last of the Flores, Hobbit people,

are believed to have died out, it's frighteningly feasible that they encountered a prehistoric race of subhuman cave dwellers, against whom they waged a terrible and ultimately genocidal war. But then again, how could the Cherokee be so certain that every last one of the moon-eyed people were extinct? Perhaps they simply took shelter in the deepest recesses of their subterranean settlements and became even more cautious following the arrival of European settlers. Maybe the stories of stunted, ethereal-looking beings roaming the Appalachian Trail aren't just stories, but rather an aspect of ancient anthropology that we have yet to fully explain. After all, if the little lady of Flores and her kin were only discovered in 2003,

what else has mankind yet to discover regarding our ancient and mysterious origins? It said everything happens for a reason, but maybe everything happens for a recess. Take noise-canceling headphones. Do they block hearing to heighten taste? Hmm. That sound seems to show. Everything happens for a recess. I remember the day we moved to the holler like it was yesterday. even though it was a bunch of years ago. My dad said we were going to live in Kentucky,

right in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. I didn't know much about it then, but I learned fast that life there was different from anywhere else. We lived in what everyone called a holler. It's kind of like a cul-de-sac, but instead of being surrounded by other houses, we were nestled between big old hills covered in thick trees. Our house was a cozy double-wide trailer in the middle,

with family homes scattered around, but none directly behind or across from us. It was just us in the woods. My grandma, who everyone called Grams, was pretty serious about her rules. At first I thought they were kind of silly, like something out of an old storybook. Don't mess with the wild animals, she'd say,

or, never go into the woods by yourself. Those made sense, kind of, but then there were the weirder ones. Don't whistle at night. If you hear your name called from the woods, don't answer it. and the strangest of all, if you see someone you know in the woods pretend you didn't. I figured maybe these were just things old folks believed in, like superstitions,

but there was something about the way Grams looked when she said them. It made my stomach twist a little. Life in the holler was quiet mostly. My dad worked a lot, and when he was home, he liked to spend time outdoors. We'd often take walks along a path he'd mowed through the tall grass and bushes just left of our place. He said it was good to know our own patch of land well. Sometimes on special nights, we'd camp out there, just a stones throw from our house, so we could still keep an eye on grams.

One night Dad decided it was perfect for camping. We set up our old green tent and gathered some wood for a campfire. As the sun set, the sky turned a deep orange, then purple, and finally black. The stars came out, but they were often hidden by the towering trees around us. We roasted marshmallows, and Dad told me stories about his childhood adventures in these very woods. It felt magical, like we were part of the wild. The sounds of the night were loud around us, crickets chirping, the occasional rustle of small animals in the underbrush, and the distant hoot of an owl.

It was peaceful, and for a moment all of Graham's strange rules seemed unnecessary. As the fire crackled, Dad checked his watch. I need to head back to the house for a bit. Check on Grams. You going to be okay here for a few minutes? He asked, tossing another log onto the fire. Yeah, I'll be fine, I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. He nodded, gave me a pat on the shoulder, and walked back up the path towards the house.

Sitting there alone, the fire's warmth felt good, but the woods seemed to close in around me. The noises of the night grew softer, and a chill crept up my spine. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, staring into the flames, wondering if maybe, just maybe, Grams' rules were there for a reason. There I was, sitting by the campfire, trying to remember the exact way the stars looked because Dad had once told me that no two nights under the sky are ever the same. The woods were alive with sounds, just like they always were. Crickets were singing, and somewhere far off an owl was hooting like it was talking to the moon.

But then, something weird happened. It was like someone had turned down the volume of the world. The cricket stopped mid-chirp, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath. I shivered, not from cold, but because the silence felt wrong. It was too quiet, too still. I scooted closer to the fire, hoping the crackle of the flames would make things feel normal again. That's when I noticed the taste. It was like I had a mouthful of pennies.

that sharp metallic tang that made me want to spit. I didn't know what was happening, and I really wish Dad was there instead of back at the house. The fire popped, a spark flying up into the dark, and I jumped. Just the fire. Just the fire, I told myself, trying not to think about Grams' rules or what might be out there beyond the light of our camp. Then, out of nowhere the first drop of rain hit my forehead. It startled me and I looked up just as the same.

sky opened up. The rain wasn't heavy yet, but the sound of it hitting the leaves brought some noise back to the woods. I felt a little relieved until the first flash of lightning lit up everything. The whole world seemed to freeze in that white light. For just a second, I saw past the stream, beyond the yard, and over the road. There was something standing there. It was too far, and too quick to see clearly, but it looked like a person, only wrong. The next rumbulled. The next rumbes. of thunder was distant, but it felt like it rolled right under my feet. I squinted into the darkness, trying to see if the figure was still there, but it was too dark, and the next flash of lightning was a long time coming. When it did, the figure was closer, near the first line of trees. It didn't

move like a person, it sort of wobbled, like a shadow that didn't know how to be real. I stood up, the fire was behind me, my only source of warmth and safety, but it didn't feel safe anymore. It felt like a beacon, calling attention to me standing there alone. Dad, I whispered, but the wind swallowed the sound. I wanted to run, but my legs didn't want to move. They knew running in the dark, in the rain, wasn't a good idea. Then the figure was in the middle of the road. The last flash of lightning before the storm really hit showed it standing there, looking right at me. I couldn't see its face, couldn't see much of anything really, but I felt it watching me.

That was enough. I turned and ran, not caring about the rain or the mud or anything. I ran all the way back to our house, burst through the door, and slammed it shut behind me. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would break my ribs. Grams was at the sink, washing dishes.

She looked up, surprised to see me so wet and scared. I tried to tell her about the figure, but my words came out all jumbled. Before I knew it, Dad was there, locking doors and pulling curtains. I didn't sleep in the tent that night. I didn't sleep much at all. The next morning felt different. The sun was out and the birds were singing again,

like they were trying to make up for being so quiet during the storm. But even with the sunlight streaming through the windows and the normal sounds of the holler filling the air, I couldn't shake off the fear from last night. Dad and I went out to check on the campsite. the path was muddy from the rain and our footsteps squelched loudly as we walked. When we got there, the first thing we saw was our tent, or what was left of it. The door of the tent looked like something had ripped it off.

It wasn't torn or cut, more like it had been pulled apart by something strong. Dad frowned as he examined it. This wasn't an animal, he muttered, more to himself than to me. I just nodded, not knowing what to say. The image of that strange figure by the trees flashed in my mind, and I felt that weird metallic taste creeping back into my mouth. We didn't stay long at the campsite. Back home, Grams was waiting for us.

She had heard about what happened from Dad, and she had that look on her face, the one that said she was worried but trying not to show it. The next few weeks were strange in the holler. I wasn't the only one who felt uneasy. Something had shifted. Even the adults were acting differently. they started accompanying us kids to the bus stop every morning, which never used to happen before.

Dad had to go to work late because he was one of the adults who stayed with us until the bus came. I tried talking about what I saw that night a few times, but it was like the adults had made a pact not to discuss it. Whenever I brought it up, they'd change the subject or tell me not to worry about it. It was frustrating. It felt like they knew something they weren't telling me. years passed and I grew up but I never forgot about that night it wasn't until I was in my 20s at a family gathering for Halloween that I got some answers I started telling my cousins about what happened thinking it was just a spooky story for the occasion but my aunt overheard me and got really upset don't you tell them that she snapped don't you put that evil on them

Her reaction shocked me. It was the first time an adult had reacted so strongly to the story. Later, she calmed down and explained why she had been so angry. She told me about the goat man, a creature from local legends, known for causing fear and mischief. It was the same name she had shouted at me during the party. Suddenly, all those years of being shushed and brushed off made sense. The adults hadn't been trying to ignore the problem. They had been trying to protect us for.

from it, from the fear and the truth of the goat man. I wish I could say knowing the name made everything better, but it didn't. It did give me a sense of closure, though, to finally understand what I had seen that night. And now, whenever I visit the hauler, I make sure to remember Grams' rules, because some things are better left alone. Looking for the best place to shop this Mother's Day? Go with the brand that makes it easy to send something thoughtful to everyone on your list. 1-800flowers.com. Right now at 1-800 flowers,

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