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Echoes of the Haunted Woods: The Wilderness Whispers · Shallow Nights: Scary Bedtime Stories

• 0:04
  Hi, if you're a lover of all things spooky and eerie, then
• 0:08
  Untold True Crime Horror is the perfect storytelling podcast for
• 0:12
  a spine tingling experience. As you tune into this petrifying
• 0:17
  horror experience, do not forget to subscribe as your nightmares
• 0:22
  are about to get a whole lot scarier.
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  It was raised in the backwoods of western Virginia on the
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  foothills of the Appalachia. Scientists say it's one of the
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  oldest mountain ranges in the world at over 1.2 billion years
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  old. There's history in these hills,
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  is a common saying among Appalachian folk.
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  My father was born in Appalachia as well, and he is most
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  certainly a product of this place as much as anyone I've
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  ever known. Because we live so far away from
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  town, it was about a 20 minute drive to the nearest gas station
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  and another 30 to the town where I went to school.
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  My father did a lot of hunting to carry us through times when
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  we couldn't make a trip to the grocery store or when we didn't
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  have enough money. I never took up hunting the way
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  my father did. Computers were more my thing,
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  but even still, I remember the things he used to tell me about
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  where we lived and why it was so important to be careful when
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  you're alone in the wilderness. Always respect the forest, he
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  used to say, right after taking a long drag off his signature
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  Marlboro Red. I never understood how he could
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  hunt anything when he's always smelled of cigarettes.
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  I thought for sure the animals could smell him from a mile
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  away. Experience, it turns out, was
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  the answer. My father dropped out of school
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  at a very young age. He doesn't like to talk about it
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  very much, I think because he now regrets never finishing
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  school, so I never pressed the subject.
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  After he dropped out, he moved to his grandmother's nearby
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  farm, where he spent most of his childhood.
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  Hunting comes naturally to someone raised like that, I
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  suppose. Sometimes this will mean
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  respecting the fact that you won't always be welcome.
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  The forest was here before you, and it'll be here long after
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  you've left. You're a guest, act accordingly.
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  After the first time you told me this, I started realizing that
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  he always put his cigarette butts into his coat pocket,
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  never on the ground. At first I thought it was
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  because it's a fire hazard, which it is obviously, but I
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  never considered that he did this to be respectful to the
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  forest. There are many dangerous things
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  in these woods, but never make the mistake of assuming that the
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  most dangerous thing in the woods is yourself, especially
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  when you are armed. It is all too easy to let your
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  guard down when you think you are the apex predator.
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  Bears, wolves, mountain lions, those are the images that flash
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  through my mind when he told me this.
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  Which made sense. We live so far out into the
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  woods that bear and wolf sightings were not uncommon.
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  I don't think there are many mountain lions out there, but a
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  young me didn't know better. And never answer a call for
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  help, especially if it sounds like someone you know or if the
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  call uses your actual name. It's a trap.
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  Turn around and leave quickly. The last one always gave me
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  chills. He never said more than that.
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  Interestingly, despite everything my father had told
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  me, I never once felt unsafe when I was home alone, or even
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  when it was just my younger brother and I.
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  When you live that far out into the boonies, most of the time
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  you have to make your own fun. There was neither cell reception
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  nor Internet, so my brother and I would often be outside in the
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  woods or in the Creek. We built dams and skipped rocks
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  and climbed trees and sometimes just dug really big holes for no
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  reason, just like every other rambunctious brotherly duo would
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  if given a backyard that stretches as far as the eye can
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  see. The land, by official record,
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  was less than two whole acres. It wasn't much, but I'd been a
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  wedding gift for my grandparents, and it was where
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  my father began construction on her house.
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  My mother often told me stories about how she spent many nights
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  sleeping on an air mattress on the concrete foundation of her
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  house. The wind whistling through the
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  unfinished frame of the house kept her awake at night.
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  My father was a Carpenter by trade, and you built her house
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  almost entirely by himself with just the help of a few personal
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  friends when needed. My father was the kind of person
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  who thought it was foolish to pay someone for a service when
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  you're capable of doing it yourself.
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  The manifestation of that belief was a picturesque A-frame house
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  and where I would live for the 1st 16 years of my life.
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  But on once did I ever feel like a guest there.
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  That place was my home. Fast forward to last year, to
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  when I was hanging out with one of my good friends who similarly
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  lives far out in the boonies, although not in the same area.
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  He told me and a few other friends had started seeing weird
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  things in the wood line near his house.
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  They investigated but never found anything until one night a
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  few weeks after they had stopped seeing weird things for a while.
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  One person said he saw it. He had just stepped outside to
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  use the bathroom, It's the country people go #1 basically
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  wherever, and had walked up to the wood line, drawers unzipped,
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  when he heard his girlfriend's voice coming from deep in the
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  woods, calling his name, yelling for help.
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  He froze, recognizing it immediately.
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  He knew it couldn't be her. She had just dropped him off and
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  had left to go back home. But doubt crept in.
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  He looked up, searching for the origin of the voice, but
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  couldn't find it until he leaned a bit and his angle changed.
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  And there, peeking out from behind a thick dead tree, was a
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  figure. Freakishly tall with skin as
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  white as chalk. It looked thin and malnourished.
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  It's solid black eyes were fixed on him.
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  Neither he nor it moved for what he said felt like an eternity
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  until he had shaken off some of the shock and tried to slowly
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  take a step backwards. It followed In Sync.
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  He was too afraid to turn and run and so for every blind step
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  backwards he took, it took a measured step forward.
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  He took another step backwards, but instead of hearing the
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  crunch of dead leaves, this time he felt weightlessness.
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  There was a tall bank at the wood line and he just stepped
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  off the edge. He struggled to find purchase on
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  the muddy bank and fell onto the gravel Rd., but he shot back up
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  again and ran for the house. He said he never looked back to
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  see if it had chased him. After he calmed down and his
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  adrenaline had worn off, our collective curiosity got the
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  better of us. Except for him, since there was
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  no way he was stepping foot outside again until morning.
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  The rest of us crept into the kitchen and pulled back the
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  curtains on the window. Looking out at the wood line, we
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  didn't see anything. It wasn't until a few days later
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  that the puzzle pieces in my brain actually clicked together.
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  I think what my friend saw that night was the same thing my
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  father had warned me about all those years ago.
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  It's unsettling to think about, especially considering I never
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  put much stock into the paranormal or the otherwise
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  spooky and unexplained. I prefer the realm of science
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  instead, the realm where logic and math rule and things that go
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  bump in the night scurry away under the harsh light of
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  rationality and intuition. But despite my preference, I
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  find the paranormal absolutely fascinating and the scientist in
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  me is begging to know more. So we've decided that we are
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  going to investigate all of us and get to the bottom of some of
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  the strange things that happen around here.
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  They say curiosity killed the cat, but they also say cats have
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  9 lives. But not me.
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  I've only got one life and enough curiosity for all 9 cats.