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10 Hikers Heard Something Watching Them on Appalachian Trails | Horror Stories · Appalachian Horror | Horror Stories

• 0:00
  Speaker 1: Welcome back to another chilling episode of Park Ranger Files.
• 0:03
  Speaker 1: I'm your host, and tonight I've gathered 10 absolutely terrifying
• 0:07
  Speaker 1: true stories from deep within the Appalachian Mountains. But before
• 0:11
  Speaker 1: we dive into the darkness, I need your help. We're
• 0:15
  Speaker 1: racing toward 1,000 subscribers before my birthday next month, and
• 0:18
  Speaker 1: I can't do it without you. If you enjoy these stories,
• 0:21
  Speaker 1: please hit that subscribe button, smash the like, and drop
• 0:25
  Speaker 1: a comment telling me which story scared you the most.
• 0:28
  Speaker 1: Your support means everything to this channel, and every single
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  Speaker 1: subscriber brings us closer to our goal. Now, turn off
• 0:35
  Speaker 1: the lights, put in your headphones, and let's begin. Story one.
• 0:41
  Speaker 1: I used to drive long-haul trucks through eastern Tennessee and Kentucky.
• 0:44
  Speaker 1: Nothing fancy. Just moving furniture, appliances, whatever needed hauling from
• 0:49
  Speaker 1: one warehouse to another. The pay was decent enough to
• 0:52
  Speaker 1: keep a roof over my head and food on the table.
• 0:54
  Speaker 1: And I liked the solitude. No office politics, no small talk.
• 0:59
  Speaker 1: no pretending to care about someone's weekend plans. Just me,
• 1:03
  Speaker 1: the radio, and endless miles of asphalt, cutting through mountains
• 1:07
  Speaker 1: that had been old when the first Europeans arrived. I'd
• 1:10
  Speaker 1: been driving those routes for six years, knew every rest stop,
• 1:14
  Speaker 1: every weigh station, every diner that stayed open past midnight.
• 1:18
  Speaker 1: I knew where the state troopers liked to sit, which
• 1:21
  Speaker 1: roads got icy first in winter, and which stretches of
• 1:24
  Speaker 1: highway seemed to swallow radio signals for no good reason.
• 1:28
  Speaker 1: The mountains had a rhythm to them, a pattern I'd
• 1:31
  Speaker 1: learned to read like a book. That November, I picked
• 1:34
  Speaker 1: up a last-minute job on a Thursday night. The dispatcher,
• 1:37
  Speaker 1: a woman named Carol, who'd been doing the job longer
• 1:40
  Speaker 1: than I'd been alive, called me around 7 p.m. She
• 1:44
  Speaker 1: sounded off. Her voice had this tight quality, like she
• 1:47
  Speaker 1: was reading from a script she didn't quite believe. Got
• 1:50
  Speaker 1: an urgent furniture delivery, she said. Private residence up in
• 1:54
  Speaker 1: the hills near Harlan. Clients paying double rate, cash on completion.
• 1:58
  Speaker 1: You interested? Double rate meant I couldn't say no. Not
• 2:02
  Speaker 1: with my truck payment coming due. I asked for the details.
• 2:05
  Speaker 1: She gave me an address scrawled on what sounded like
• 2:07
  Speaker 1: an old piece of paper. 4782 Widow's Peak Road. No
• 2:13
  Speaker 1: GPS coordinates, no landmarks, just that name. Widow's Peak. I'd
• 2:18
  Speaker 1: been driving those mountains for years and never heard of it.
• 2:21
  Speaker 1: You sure that's right? I asked. That's what they gave me,
• 2:25
  Speaker 1: Carol said. Client prepaid in cash this morning. left it
• 2:28
  Speaker 1: in an envelope, no name, no note, just the money
• 2:32
  Speaker 1: and the address. That should have been my first warning,
• 2:35
  Speaker 1: but double rate is double rate. I loaded up around
• 2:38
  Speaker 1: 8 p.m. from a warehouse outside Lexington. A complete bedroom set,
• 2:42
  Speaker 1: boxes marked Fragile and Red Marker, and a grandfather clock
• 2:46
  Speaker 1: wrapped in quilted blankets and secured with enough straps to
• 2:50
  Speaker 1: hold down a small car. The whole load probably weighed
• 2:53
  Speaker 1: close to 800 pounds. Whoever was receiving it had money,
• 2:57
  Speaker 1: or at least had saved up for something special, the
• 3:00
  Speaker 1: drive started normal enough. I took Route 421 through the gaps,
• 3:05
  Speaker 1: watching my headlights carve tunnels through the November fog that
• 3:08
  Speaker 1: rolled down from the ridges like something alive. The radio
• 3:12
  Speaker 1: played classic country. Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, the old stuff
• 3:16
  Speaker 1: that sounds like it was recorded in another world. Around
• 3:20
  Speaker 1: 9 p.m., I stopped at a truck stop for coffee
• 3:22
  Speaker 1: and used the bathroom. The attendant, an older guy with
• 3:25
  Speaker 1: a face like worn leather, Asked where I was headed.
• 3:29
  Speaker 1: Widow's Peak Road, I said. You know it? His expression changed.
• 3:35
  Speaker 1: Just for a second, but I caught it. Something between
• 3:38
  Speaker 1: recognition and concern. Can't say I do, he said looking away.
• 3:44
  Speaker 1: Drive careful out there. Fog gets thick this time of year.
• 3:48
  Speaker 1: I paid for my coffee and left. In the rearview mirror,
• 3:52
  Speaker 1: I saw him watching my truck until I pulled back
• 3:54
  Speaker 1: onto the highway. Around 10.30, I turned onto a county
• 3:57
  Speaker 1: road that got narrower with each passing mile. The pavement
• 4:01
  Speaker 1: gave way to gravel, then to dirt packed hard as
• 4:04
  Speaker 1: concrete from decades of use and weather. Trees pressed close
• 4:07
  Speaker 1: on both sides, their bare branches scraping against the truck's
• 4:10
  Speaker 1: roof and sides like fingernails on sheet metal. The sound
• 4:14
  Speaker 1: set my teeth on edge. I almost missed the turn.
• 4:18
  Speaker 1: A wooden post leaned sideways in a ditch, nearly swallowed
• 4:21
  Speaker 1: by dead grass and briars. The words, Widow's Peak were
• 4:26
  Speaker 1: barely visible under decades of moss and decay. The paint
• 4:30
  Speaker 1: flaked away to almost nothing. The road beyond it looked
• 4:33
  Speaker 1: more like a logging trail, two deep ruts separated by
• 4:36
  Speaker 1: a strip of dead grass and scattered rocks. My truck
• 4:41
  Speaker 1: lurched and groaned as I eased forward, branches snapping under
• 4:44
  Speaker 1: the wheels with sounds like small bones breaking. The suspension
• 4:48
  Speaker 1: complained with every bump and hole. I kept my speed down,
• 4:52
  Speaker 1: watching the odometer. One mile. Two miles. Three. The road
• 4:58
  Speaker 1: kept climbing, switching back on itself, rising higher into hills
• 5:03
  Speaker 1: that seemed to lean over the path, like they were
• 5:05
  Speaker 1: curious about who dared to come this far. After 20
• 5:09
  Speaker 1: minutes of crawling uphill, fighting the steering wheel on the
• 5:12
  Speaker 1: uneven ground, I saw the house. It sat in a
• 5:15
  Speaker 1: clearing that felt too perfect, too circular, like someone had
• 5:19
  Speaker 1: carved it out of the forest with intention and precision.
• 5:24
  Speaker 1: The structure was old, clabbered siding weathered to a uniform gray,
• 5:28
  Speaker 1: a stone chimney leaning slightly to the left, a tin
• 5:30
  Speaker 1: roof spotted with rust, a single porch light burned with
• 5:34
  Speaker 1: a yellow glow, attracting massive clouds of moths that swirled
• 5:38
  Speaker 1: in the beam like living smoke. I parked and killed
• 5:41
  Speaker 1: the engine. The silence hit me immediately. No insects, no wind,
• 5:45
  Speaker 1: not even the distant sound of water or nocturnal animals.
• 5:48
  Speaker 1: Just a dead stillness that made my ears ring with
• 5:51
  Speaker 1: a high-pitched tone that came from inside my own head.
• 5:55
  Speaker 1: I stepped out and the ground felt wrong underfoot. Too soft,
• 5:58
  Speaker 1: too spongy, like walking on wet mattress foam instead of
• 6:01
  Speaker 1: solid earth. The front door opened before I could knock.
• 6:05
  Speaker 1: She stood there in a faded blue dress that might
• 6:08
  Speaker 1: have been stylish in the 1950s. Her gray hair pulled
• 6:11
  Speaker 1: back in a tight bun. Late 50s, maybe 60, with
• 6:14
  Speaker 1: skin that looked like parchment stretched over bone. Her smile
• 6:18
  Speaker 1: was pleasant enough, with thin lips and too many teeth showing.
• 6:21
  Speaker 1: But her eyes didn't move. They stayed fixed on my
• 6:24
  Speaker 1: face with an intensity that made my skin prickle and
• 6:27
  Speaker 1: the hair on my arms stand up. You're punctual, she said.
• 6:31
  Speaker 1: Her voice was flat, rehearsed, like she'd practiced the line
• 6:34
  Speaker 1: many times in front of a mirror. I appreciate punctuality
• 6:37
  Speaker 1: in a man. I nodded, trying to match her tone
• 6:41
  Speaker 1: and failing. Got your furniture, ma'am. Where would you like it?
• 6:45
  Speaker 1: She stepped aside without answering, gesturing into the house with
• 6:48
  Speaker 1: one pale hand. The interior was dim, lit by oil
• 6:51
  Speaker 1: lamps that cast trembling shadows across walls, papered in a
• 6:54
  Speaker 1: pattern I couldn't quite focus on. It seemed to shift
• 6:58
  Speaker 1: and move at the edge of my vision. The smell
• 7:00
  Speaker 1: hit me next, something sweet and rotten at the same time,
• 7:04
  Speaker 1: like fruit left too long in the sun mixed with
• 7:07
  Speaker 1: the chemical smell of preservatives. Upstairs, she said, pointing to
• 7:11
  Speaker 1: a narrow staircase that rose into darkness. The bedroom at
• 7:15
  Speaker 1: the end of the hall. You'll know which one. I
• 7:18
  Speaker 1: started unloading. The bedroom set went up first. Headboard, mattress,
• 7:23
  Speaker 1: box spring, frame. Each trip up those stairs made my
• 7:27
  Speaker 1: chest tighter, made breathing feel like work. The hallway was
• 7:31
  Speaker 1: too long, stretching farther than the outside dimensions of the
• 7:34
  Speaker 1: house should allow. I counted my steps. 27 from the
• 7:39
  Speaker 1: top of the stairs to the bedroom door. When I
• 7:42
  Speaker 1: came back down and looked at the house from outside,
• 7:45
  Speaker 1: it couldn't have been more than 30 feet from front
• 7:47
  Speaker 1: to back. Doors lined both sides of that impossible hallway,
• 7:51
  Speaker 1: all closed except the one at the very end. As
• 7:54
  Speaker 1: I passed them with each load, I could hear things. Breathing. Whispers.
• 7:59
  Speaker 1: The sound of someone pacing back and forth. Once I
• 8:02
  Speaker 1: heard what sounded like a child crying, then laughing, then
• 8:04
  Speaker 1: crying again. Inside the bedroom, everything was prepared. The walls
• 8:08
  Speaker 1: were freshly painted in a color that might have been
• 8:11
  Speaker 1: white once, but had yellowed with age or something else.
• 8:15
  Speaker 1: A vase of dead flowers sat on the windowsill. their
• 8:18
  Speaker 1: petals brittle and brown, but arranged with care. And in
• 8:22
  Speaker 1: the corner, facing the door with a direct line of
• 8:25
  Speaker 1: sight to anyone who entered, was a rocking chair. It
• 8:29
  Speaker 1: was moving, gently, rhythmically, back and forth, back and forth,
• 8:34
  Speaker 1: like someone had just stood up and the momentum was
• 8:37
  Speaker 1: slowly dying. But it didn't die. It kept going, maintaining
• 8:42
  Speaker 1: that same gentle rhythm. I set down the headboard against
• 8:46
  Speaker 1: the wall and turned to leave. That's when I saw
• 8:49
  Speaker 1: the photographs. Dozens of them, maybe 40 or 50, arranged
• 8:54
  Speaker 1: on a dresser I hadn't noticed before. They were old,
• 8:57
  Speaker 1: black and white mostly, with a few faded color photos
• 9:00
  Speaker 1: from the 70s mixed in. All showed the same woman,
• 9:04
  Speaker 1: the woman downstairs, wearing that same blue dress, standing next
• 9:08
  Speaker 1: to different men. Different faces, different heights, different builds, but
• 9:12
  Speaker 1: they all had the same empty expression, eyes that didn't
• 9:15
  Speaker 1: quite focus. smiles that didn't reach their faces. And behind
• 9:20
  Speaker 1: each couple stood this house, the same house, perfectly framed
• 9:24
  Speaker 1: in every single shot. My hands started shaking. I walked
• 9:28
  Speaker 1: back downstairs, forcing myself to breathe slowly, counting each breath, one, two, three, four.
• 9:35
  Speaker 1: She was waiting in the kitchen, standing perfectly still next
• 9:38
  Speaker 1: to an old wood stove. The clock, she said without
• 9:42
  Speaker 1: looking at me. Don't forget the clock. It was the
• 9:45
  Speaker 1: heaviest piece. It must have weighed close to 300 pounds.
• 9:49
  Speaker 1: I struggled to get it through the front door, up
• 9:51
  Speaker 1: those stairs, down that impossible hallway that seemed to grow
• 9:54
  Speaker 1: longer with each trip. When I finally set it in
• 9:57
  Speaker 1: the bedroom, positioning it against the wall, opposite the bed,
• 10:01
  Speaker 1: she was there standing in the doorway. I hadn't heard
• 10:04
  Speaker 1: her come up the stairs. Wind it, she said. Ma'am?
• 10:10
  Speaker 1: The clock, it needs to be wound. Three full turns,
• 10:12
  Speaker 1: no more, no less. I reached for the key that
• 10:16
  Speaker 1: hung from a small chain on the clock's side. It
• 10:18
  Speaker 1: was ice cold, so cold it burned my fingers. As
• 10:22
  Speaker 1: I turned at one, two, three, I heard something else.
• 10:25
  Speaker 1: Footsteps below us, slow and deliberate, moving through the first floor.
• 10:30
  Speaker 1: Heavy boots on wooden boards. A methodical pace that suggested
• 10:34
  Speaker 1: someone searching, looking for something. I froze, the key still
• 10:38
  Speaker 1: in my hand.' That' s just my husband,' she said, her
• 10:41
  Speaker 1: voice dreamy and distant.' He' s been waiting for this. Waiting
• 10:45
  Speaker 1: for you.' The footsteps started up the stairs. Each one
• 10:49
  Speaker 1: produced a heavy thud that vibrated through the walls. I
• 10:53
  Speaker 1: could track their progress. First step, second step, third step,
• 10:56
  Speaker 1: climbing higher, getting closer. I didn't wait to see who
• 11:00
  Speaker 1: or what was climbing them. I pushed past her, her
• 11:04
  Speaker 1: body cold and stiff like a mannequin, and ran down
• 11:07
  Speaker 1: the hallway that seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of me.
• 11:10
  Speaker 1: The doors on either side began opening as I passed,
• 11:13
  Speaker 1: revealing glimpses of rooms that couldn't exist. A nursery filled
• 11:16
  Speaker 1: with crying dolls, a bathroom where the walls were covered
• 11:18
  Speaker 1: in black mold that moved, a bedroom where someone lay
• 11:22
  Speaker 1: in bed facing the wall. Behind me, I heard the
• 11:25
  Speaker 1: clock begin to chime. Twelve times. But my watch said 1130.
• 11:31
  Speaker 1: I hit the stairs and nearly fell, catching myself on
• 11:33
  Speaker 1: the railing that felt like it was coated in something slick.
• 11:37
  Speaker 1: The footsteps were above me now, in the hallway, coming faster.
• 11:40
  Speaker 1: I burst through the front door and sprinted to my truck,
• 11:43
  Speaker 1: my lungs burning in the cold air. The engine turned
• 11:46
  Speaker 1: over on the third try, once, twice, then caught. As
• 11:49
  Speaker 1: I threw it in reverse, my headlights swept across the
• 11:52
  Speaker 1: upstairs window. Someone was standing there. Tall and possibly thin,
• 11:56
  Speaker 1: wearing clothes from another era. A dark suit with a
• 11:59
  Speaker 1: high collar. A hat pulled low over features I couldn't
• 12:02
  Speaker 1: quite see. He raised one hand and pressed it against
• 12:05
  Speaker 1: the glass. His palm was too large, fingers too long.
• 12:08
  Speaker 1: Joints bending in ways that weren't right, weren't human. I
• 12:12
  Speaker 1: didn't stop driving until I hit Interstate 75. Didn't slow down,
• 12:17
  Speaker 1: didn't look back, just kept the accelerator pressed to the
• 12:20
  Speaker 1: floor while my hands shook on the wheel and my
• 12:22
  Speaker 1: heart hammered in my chest. When I finally pulled into
• 12:25
  Speaker 1: a rest stop outside Knoxville, the sun was coming up
• 12:28
  Speaker 1: and I'd been driving for three hours straight. I checked
• 12:31
  Speaker 1: my delivery log the next morning after I'd gotten some sleep.
• 12:34
  Speaker 1: There was no record of the job. No address, no payment,
• 12:38
  Speaker 1: no customer information. The paperwork Carol had mentioned didn't exist.
• 12:43
  Speaker 1: When I called the company, she said there had been
• 12:45
  Speaker 1: no delivery scheduled for that night, that she hadn't called
• 12:47
  Speaker 1: me at all. She'd been home with her grandkids. But
• 12:51
  Speaker 1: in my truck, tucked under the passenger seat, and I
• 12:53
  Speaker 1: found something that stopped my heart. A photograph, black and white,
• 12:58
  Speaker 1: edges yellowed with age. It showed me standing next to
• 13:01
  Speaker 1: that house, next to that woman in the blue dress.
• 13:05
  Speaker 1: My face had the same empty expression as all the others.
• 13:09
  Speaker 1: And written on the back and careful script were two words.
• 13:12
  Speaker 1: Welcome home. I sold my truck the next week, started
• 13:16
  Speaker 1: working at a warehouse. Daytime hours, no deliveries. But sometimes,
• 13:21
  Speaker 1: late at night, I'll wake up and smell that smell.
• 13:24
  Speaker 1: Sweet rot and preservatives. And I'll hear the ticking of
• 13:27
  Speaker 1: a grandfather clock that isn't there, counting down to something
• 13:30
  Speaker 1: I don't want to understand. I never took another night
• 13:33
  Speaker 1: delivery in those mountains. And I never will. Story two.
• 13:39
  Speaker 1: I worked as a freelance accountant, mostly doing books for
• 13:41
  Speaker 1: small businesses that couldn't afford full-time staff. It wasn't glamorous work,
• 13:47
  Speaker 1: more like cleaning up financial messes that had been ignored
• 13:49
  Speaker 1: for too long. But it paid the bills and let
• 13:51
  Speaker 1: me set my own hours. I could work from coffee shops,
• 13:55
  Speaker 1: my apartment, wherever I could spread out a laptop and
• 13:57
  Speaker 1: a stack of receipts. That winter, early February, when the
• 14:01
  Speaker 1: cold settled into the valleys and didn't move, I got
• 14:04
  Speaker 1: a call from a man named Dutch, who ran a
• 14:06
  Speaker 1: small mining operation outside Hazard, Kentucky. His voice on the
• 14:11
  Speaker 1: phone was rough. worn down by years of cigarettes and
• 14:14
  Speaker 1: coal dust, but friendly enough. He needed someone to organize
• 14:17
  Speaker 1: 40 years of financial records, receipts, payroll documents, tax forms,
• 14:22
  Speaker 1: everything that had been stuffed into boxes and filing cabinets
• 14:25
  Speaker 1: and forgotten. He'd pay cash, a daily rate that was
• 14:29
  Speaker 1: better than my usual clients offered, and provide a workspace
• 14:32
  Speaker 1: on site. The catch was that I'd have to work
• 14:35
  Speaker 1: at the old mine office. a building they'd closed down
• 14:38
  Speaker 1: when operations shifted to a newer facility a few miles away.
• 14:43
  Speaker 1: It's quiet out there, Dutch said. No distractions. You can
• 14:47
  Speaker 1: work at your own pace. I took the job. I
• 14:51
  Speaker 1: needed the money, and isolation didn't bother me. Sometimes it
• 14:55
  Speaker 1: was easier to work without people looking over your shoulder,
• 14:58
  Speaker 1: asking questions, interrupting your focus. Dutch met me there on
• 15:03
  Speaker 1: a gray Monday morning, the kind of day where the
• 15:05
  Speaker 1: clouds hang so low They brushed the tops of the hills.
• 15:09
  Speaker 1: The office was a single-story concrete block building, squat and utilitarian,
• 15:14
  Speaker 1: with a flat roof and narrow windows set high on
• 15:17
  Speaker 1: the walls. It sat alone in a clearing, surrounded by
• 15:20
  Speaker 1: rusting equipment and piles of tailings that had oxidized into
• 15:24
  Speaker 1: shades of orange and red. He handed me a key
• 15:27
  Speaker 1: on a plain metal ring. Everything's in there, he said,
• 15:31
  Speaker 1: pointing to a metal door marked RECORDS in faded stencil letters.
• 15:36
  Speaker 1: Coffee maker still works. Bathroom's functional. Lock up when you
• 15:39
  Speaker 1: leave each day. The office was exactly what I expected.
• 15:43
  Speaker 1: Fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead. Cheap tile floors. Metal desks.
• 15:47
  Speaker 1: Filing cabinets. Painted that institutional beige that was popular in
• 15:52
  Speaker 1: the 70s. It smelled like dust and old paper and
• 15:55
  Speaker 1: something chemical I couldn't identify. The records room was in
• 15:58
  Speaker 1: the back. A windowless space about 20 by 20 feet.
• 16:02
  Speaker 1: Lined floor to ceiling with filing cabinets and cardboard boxes.
• 16:06
  Speaker 1: I started with the earliest records I could find. 1952,
• 16:09
  Speaker 1: handwritten ledgers in fading ink that documented every purchase, every paycheck,
• 16:14
  Speaker 1: every expense. The handwriting was meticulous, almost obsessive. Each number
• 16:19
  Speaker 1: and letter formed with care. Someone had taken pride in
• 16:22
  Speaker 1: this work. By noon, I'd made decent progress, organizing the
• 16:26
  Speaker 1: ledgers by year and creating a digital index. The coffee
• 16:30
  Speaker 1: was terrible, burned and bitter, but it was hot and caffeinated.
• 16:34
  Speaker 1: I barely noticed the silence. After years of working in
• 16:38
  Speaker 1: busy offices, I'd learned to appreciate quiet. Around 2 p.m.,
• 16:42
  Speaker 1: I heard the door open. Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
• 16:46
  Speaker 1: Heavy boots on tile, a deliberate pace that suggested someone
• 16:49
  Speaker 1: who knew where they were going. I assumed Dutch had
• 16:52
  Speaker 1: come back to check on me. In here, I called out,
• 16:55
  Speaker 1: not looking up from the ledger I was examining. The
• 16:58
  Speaker 1: footsteps stopped, then started again, slower now, moving past the
• 17:02
  Speaker 1: doorway without pausing. I stood up and looked into the hall. Empty. Empty.
• 17:07
  Speaker 1: The front door was still locked from the inside. The
• 17:10
  Speaker 1: deadbolt engaged. I walked to the end of the hall
• 17:12
  Speaker 1: and checked every room. A small break room with a
• 17:15
  Speaker 1: sink and microwave. Two offices that looked like they hadn't
• 17:18
  Speaker 1: been used in decades. A bathroom with a toilet and sink.
• 17:22
  Speaker 1: All empty. I told myself it was the building settling.
• 17:26
  Speaker 1: Old places make noise. Pipes expanding, wood creaking, metal shifting
• 17:31
  Speaker 1: with temperature changes. Nothing unusual. I went back to work.
• 17:37
  Speaker 1: An hour later, it happened again. The footsteps started at
• 17:40
  Speaker 1: the front of the building, moved down the hallway, past
• 17:43
  Speaker 1: my door, and stopped outside the bathroom. I could see
• 17:46
  Speaker 1: the shadow beneath the door, two feet standing perfectly still,
• 17:50
  Speaker 1: work boots by the shape of them. Old style, with
• 17:53
  Speaker 1: thick soles. I waited for a knock, for the door
• 17:56
  Speaker 1: to open, for whoever it was to identify themselves. Nothing.
• 18:00
  Speaker 1: The shadow just stood there, not moving, not making a sound.
• 18:04
  Speaker 1: I counted to 60 in my head. The shadow didn't move.
• 18:08
  Speaker 1: When I opened the door, the hallway was empty, but
• 18:10
  Speaker 1: the air felt different, colder, and there was a smell,
• 18:13
  Speaker 1: sulfur and damp earth, like someone had tracked mud inside
• 18:16
  Speaker 1: after rain, like someone had been deep underground and brought
• 18:20
  Speaker 1: the smell back with them. That night I mentioned it
• 18:23
  Speaker 1: to Dutch when he came by with supplies. He was
• 18:26
  Speaker 1: dropping off fresh coffee in a box of folders, and
• 18:29
  Speaker 1: I asked him casually if anyone else worked in the building.
• 18:33
  Speaker 1: He frowned, set the box on a desk, and tapped
• 18:35
  Speaker 1: his fingers on the metal surface. No, he said. Nobody's
• 18:40
  Speaker 1: been in there for three years except maintenance, and they
• 18:43
  Speaker 1: only come when I call them. I heard footsteps today,
• 18:46
  Speaker 1: I said. Twice. Heavy boots. Walking through the building. His
• 18:51
  Speaker 1: expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Recognition, maybe.
• 18:56
  Speaker 1: Or resignation. Yeah, he said quietly. Sometimes the old foreman
• 19:01
  Speaker 1: shows up. Nameless Kowalski. Walter Kowalski. Worked here from 59
• 19:06
  Speaker 1: till 72. Died in a cave-in on the south shaft.
• 19:10
  Speaker 1: I laughed, thinking he was joking. Trying to spook the
• 19:13
  Speaker 1: city boy who'd come to organize his paperwork. He didn't
• 19:17
  Speaker 1: laugh back. He just looked at me with those tired
• 19:19
  Speaker 1: eyes that had seen too much. Just ignore him, Dutch said.
• 19:23
  Speaker 1: He doesn't like interruptions. Never did. He'll walk through, check
• 19:27
  Speaker 1: that everything's in order, and move on. Don't acknowledge him
• 19:29
  Speaker 1: and he'll leave you alone. I asked if he was serious.
• 19:33
  Speaker 1: He nodded once and left. I went back the next day.
• 19:37
  Speaker 1: The work needed finishing, and I needed the money. I
• 19:40
  Speaker 1: brought headphones, thinking music would help me focus and drown
• 19:43
  Speaker 1: out any weird noises. I told myself it was all
• 19:46
  Speaker 1: in my head, that the isolation was playing tricks on me,
• 19:49
  Speaker 1: that there were perfectly rational explanations for everything. But at
• 19:53
  Speaker 1: 2 p.m. exactly, the footsteps started again. Even through the music,
• 19:57
  Speaker 1: Led Zeppelin, turned up loud enough that the guitars filled
• 20:00
  Speaker 1: my head, I could hear them. Steady, rhythmic, moving through
• 20:05
  Speaker 1: the building like a patrol. Like someone checking rooms, making
• 20:08
  Speaker 1: sure everything was where it should be. They stopped outside
• 20:11
  Speaker 1: my door. I could see the shadow beneath it, those
• 20:14
  Speaker 1: two feet in work boots. I took off the headphones
• 20:17
  Speaker 1: and listened. Nothing. Just that presence. Standing there. Waiting. This time,
• 20:26
  Speaker 1: I followed. The hallway ended at a door I hadn't
• 20:29
  Speaker 1: noticed before, partially hidden behind a tall filing cabinet. The
• 20:33
  Speaker 1: door was propped open with a brick, and a sign
• 20:35
  Speaker 1: screwed into the metal read, Lower level. Authorized personnel only.
• 20:41
  Speaker 1: Against every instinct I had, every voice in my head
• 20:44
  Speaker 1: telling me to walk away, I went down. The stairs
• 20:47
  Speaker 1: descended in the darkness that my phone's flashlight could barely penetrate.
• 20:51
  Speaker 1: The beam seemed to stop a few feet ahead, absorbed
• 20:55
  Speaker 1: by the dark like it was physical, like it had substance.
• 20:59
  Speaker 1: At the bottom, a tunnel stretched forward, shored up with
• 21:02
  Speaker 1: rotting timbers that looked like they might collapse if you
• 21:04
  Speaker 1: breathed on them wrong. Water dripped somewhere, a steady rhythm
• 21:08
  Speaker 1: that echoed off the walls. and at the far end,
• 21:11
  Speaker 1: maybe 50 feet away, a light was moving. Not a
• 21:14
  Speaker 1: flashlight beam. Not an LED. A lantern. The old-fashioned kind,
• 21:19
  Speaker 1: burning with what looked like kerosene, swinging gently in a
• 21:22
  Speaker 1: hand I couldn't quite see. I called out, Hello, someone
• 21:26
  Speaker 1: down here? The light stopped. Then it started coming toward me,
• 21:31
  Speaker 1: faster than a walk, but not quite running. A measured
• 21:34
  Speaker 1: pace that ate up the distance between us. The footsteps echoed,
• 21:37
  Speaker 1: no longer heavy boots, but something else. Something wet. Something
• 21:42
  Speaker 1: that squelched and sucked with each step, like feet walking
• 21:45
  Speaker 1: through thick mud. I ran. Hit the stairs and didn't
• 21:49
  Speaker 1: stop until I was back in the records room, door locked,
• 21:52
  Speaker 1: chest heaving, heart hammering against my ribs. Through the small
• 21:56
  Speaker 1: window set high in the wall, I saw Dutch's truck
• 21:58
  Speaker 1: pulling away down the access road. He'd left without checking in,
• 22:02
  Speaker 1: without saying goodbye. I worked until 5 p.m., my hands
• 22:06
  Speaker 1: shaking every time I turned a page, packed my things...
• 22:10
  Speaker 1: Locked up, I walked to my car, on legs that
• 22:13
  Speaker 1: didn't feel quite steady. As I unlocked the driver's door,
• 22:16
  Speaker 1: I glanced back at the building. In the narrow window
• 22:19
  Speaker 1: of the records room, a figure stood silhouetted against the
• 22:22
  Speaker 1: fluorescent light, tall and naturally still, watching me with a
• 22:26
  Speaker 1: patience that suggested it had all the time in the world.
• 22:30
  Speaker 1: I finished the job remotely. Dutch agreed to mail me
• 22:33
  Speaker 1: the remaining files, boxes at a time, and I worked
• 22:36
  Speaker 1: from my apartment. Every week a new box would arrive
• 22:39
  Speaker 1: with records I needed to organize and digitize. The work
• 22:43
  Speaker 1: went slower, but I didn't care. I wasn't going back
• 22:45
  Speaker 1: to that building. But sometimes, late at night, I'll hear it.
• 22:50
  Speaker 1: Footsteps in my apartment hallway. Heavy boots on hardwood. They
• 22:54
  Speaker 1: stop outside my door, wait exactly one minute, I've timed it,
• 22:57
  Speaker 1: then walk away. I live alone on the third floor.
• 23:01
  Speaker 1: There's nobody else up here. I've moved three times since then.
• 23:05
  Speaker 1: Different cities, different states. trying to put distance between myself
• 23:09
  Speaker 1: and whatever I woke up in at mine office. It
• 23:12
  Speaker 1: doesn't matter. They always find me. And each time, the
• 23:17
  Speaker 1: footsteps stop a little longer. Wait a little more patiently.
• 23:21
  Speaker 1: Like whatever's out there knows that eventually, one night, I'm
• 23:25
  Speaker 1: going to open the door. Before we continue, I have
• 23:28
  Speaker 1: to ask for your help. If these stories are giving
• 23:30
  Speaker 1: you chills, if you're enjoying the content on Park Ranger Files,
• 23:34
  Speaker 1: please take a second to hit that subscribe button. We're
• 23:37
  Speaker 1: so close to 1,000 subscribers before my birthday next month,
• 23:40
  Speaker 1: and every single subscription means the world to me. Drop
• 23:44
  Speaker 1: a like on this video and leave a comment telling
• 23:46
  Speaker 1: me what you think so far. Which story has scared
• 23:48
  Speaker 1: you the most? I read every comment and your engagement
• 23:51
  Speaker 1: helps this channel grow. Now, let's continue. Story three. I've
• 23:56
  Speaker 1: been fixing electronics since I was a kid, taking apart radios, televisions,
• 24:00
  Speaker 1: anything with circuits and wires, trying to understand how signals
• 24:04
  Speaker 1: became sound, how electricity became light and image. It was
• 24:08
  Speaker 1: like magic, but magic you could learn, magic that followed rules.
• 24:12
  Speaker 1: By the time I was 30, I'd opened my own
• 24:14
  Speaker 1: repair shop in a small town called Pineville, right where
• 24:17
  Speaker 1: Virginia meets Kentucky, in a storefront that had been vacant
• 24:20
  Speaker 1: for two years before I signed the lease. Most of
• 24:24
  Speaker 1: my business came from older folks who refused to throw
• 24:26
  Speaker 1: away their vintage radios and record players, people who remembered
• 24:30
  Speaker 1: when things were built to last and could be fixed
• 24:32
  Speaker 1: instead of replaced. I'd get tube radios from the 40s
• 24:35
  Speaker 1: and 50s, turntables that needed new belts and cartridges, occasionally
• 24:40
  Speaker 1: a reel-to-reel tape deck that someone had found in their
• 24:43
  Speaker 1: grandparents' attic. One afternoon in late September, when the leaves
• 24:47
  Speaker 1: were just starting to turn and the air had that
• 24:50
  Speaker 1: first hint of autumn cold, a man walked in carrying
• 24:53
  Speaker 1: a wooden radio that looked like it belonged in a museum.
• 24:57
  Speaker 1: It was beautiful. Art deco styling, carved mahogany case with
• 25:02
  Speaker 1: brass fittings that had developed a greenish patina. cloth speaker
• 25:06
  Speaker 1: grill yellowed with age but intact. The dial was made
• 25:10
  Speaker 1: of real glass, etched with numbers and station call letters
• 25:13
  Speaker 1: that didn't exist anymore. Found this in my grandfather's attic,
• 25:17
  Speaker 1: he said, setting it carefully on my workbench. The wood
• 25:20
  Speaker 1: made a solid thunk against the surface. Think you can
• 25:24
  Speaker 1: get it working? I examined it and turning it over
• 25:27
  Speaker 1: in my hands, checking the back panel. The chassis was
• 25:30
  Speaker 1: in decent shape, no major rust, no obvious damage. The
• 25:35
  Speaker 1: tubes would probably need replacing, and I'd have to check
• 25:38
  Speaker 1: the capacitors, but it was definitely a restorable. I'll give
• 25:42
  Speaker 1: it a shot, I said. Might take a week or two.
• 25:45
  Speaker 1: These old radios need to be brought back slowly. Can't
• 25:47
  Speaker 1: just plug them in or you'll blow everything. He nodded,
• 25:50
  Speaker 1: filled out the repair slip with his name and number,
• 25:52
  Speaker 1: and left. Said he'd check back in a couple weeks.
• 25:56
  Speaker 1: I worked on it that evening after closing, when the
• 25:58
  Speaker 1: shop was quiet and I could focus. The guts were
• 26:01
  Speaker 1: actually in better shape than I'd expected. Tubes were old
• 26:04
  Speaker 1: but functional. Some wiring had corroded, but nothing I couldn't replace.
• 26:09
  Speaker 1: I cleaned everything carefully, replaced a few capacitors that looked suspicious,
• 26:13
  Speaker 1: tightened some connections. Around 8 p.m., I decided to test it.
• 26:17
  Speaker 1: Plugged it into my variable transformer, brought the voltage up
• 26:20
  Speaker 1: slowly to let everything warm up gradually. Static filled the shop,
• 26:24
  Speaker 1: that warm analog hiss that digital radios just can't replicate.
• 26:30
  Speaker 1: I started tuning, searching for a station, turning the dial
• 26:34
  Speaker 1: slowly and watching the indicator slide across the glass. At 8.47 p.m. exactly,
• 26:40
  Speaker 1: I remember checking my phone because the time seemed oddly specific.
• 26:43
  Speaker 1: The static cut out completely. A voice came through, clear
• 26:47
  Speaker 1: as if the speaker was in the room with me.
• 26:49
  Speaker 1: Missing since October 4th, 1952. If anyone has information regarding
• 26:55
  Speaker 1: the whereabouts of Michael Garrett, please contact the sheriff's office
• 26:58
  Speaker 1: in Lynch, Kentucky. The family is offering a reward. Michael
• 27:02
  Speaker 1: was last seen, then static again. Just static, filling the
• 27:08
  Speaker 1: shop with white noise. I checked the dial. It was
• 27:11
  Speaker 1: set to 1490 AM, a frequency that didn't have any
• 27:14
  Speaker 1: active stations in our area. It hadn't for years. I
• 27:18
  Speaker 1: turned it off, made notes in my repair log, and
• 27:21
  Speaker 1: went home. The next night I tested it again. Same time,
• 27:24
  Speaker 1: 847 PM. I'd finished replacing the last few components and
• 27:29
  Speaker 1: wanted to do a final check before calling the customers.
• 27:32
  Speaker 1: I turned it on, let it warm up, waited. At
• 27:35
  Speaker 1: exactly 8.47, the static cut out. Same voice. Michael Garrett,
• 27:41
  Speaker 1: last seen wearing a gray work shirt and denim pants,
• 27:44
  Speaker 1: approximately six feet tall. Brown hair, blue eyes. Birthmark on
• 27:49
  Speaker 1: left forearm. Family desperate for answers. Please, if you've seen
• 27:53
  Speaker 1: this man. Static. I felt a chill run down my spine.
• 27:58
  Speaker 1: I googled the name on my phone. Found a newspaper
• 28:00
  Speaker 1: archive from 1952 scanned pages from the Lynch Daily News.
• 28:05
  Speaker 1: Michael Garrett had been a coal miner, worked the deep seams,
• 28:08
  Speaker 1: disappeared after his shift on October 4th. They'd searched for weeks,
• 28:13
  Speaker 1: never found him. The case went cold, family moved away,
• 28:17
  Speaker 1: the mine eventually closed. That was 72 years ago. I
• 28:22
  Speaker 1: kept testing the radio. Every night at 8.47, like clockwork,
• 28:26
  Speaker 1: the same broadcast, word for word, same tone, same cadence.
• 28:31
  Speaker 1: I started recording it on my phone, comparing the recordings.
• 28:33
  Speaker 1: They were identical. Not just similar, identical. Same background hiss,
• 28:38
  Speaker 1: same vocal inflections, same pause before please. On the fourth night,
• 28:42
  Speaker 1: something changed. The broadcast started the same way. Missing person,
• 28:47
  Speaker 1: Michael Garrett, family desperate. But then the voice said something new. Update.
• 28:53
  Speaker 1: They found him. Dear God, they found him. What they
• 28:56
  Speaker 1: did to him. Then screaming. horrible, wet screaming that sounded
• 29:00
  Speaker 1: like it was being torn from a throat that was
• 29:02
  Speaker 1: coming apart. It lasted exactly 15 seconds. I timed it
• 29:06
  Speaker 1: before cutting to static. I yanked the power cord out
• 29:09
  Speaker 1: of the wall. My hands were shaking so badly I
• 29:12
  Speaker 1: could barely hold it. The radio went dark, tubes fading
• 29:15
  Speaker 1: from orange to black. But I could still hear it, faintly, impossibly.
• 29:20
  Speaker 1: The screaming continued from inside the case, quieter now, muffled,
• 29:24
  Speaker 1: but unmistakable. I should have thrown it away right then,
• 29:28
  Speaker 1: Should have smashed it with a hammer, thrown the pieces
• 29:30
  Speaker 1: in a dumpster. Instead, I opened it up. I needed
• 29:34
  Speaker 1: to understand. I needed to know what was causing this,
• 29:38
  Speaker 1: what impossible mechanism could play sounds with no power, no signal,
• 29:42
  Speaker 1: nothing but old tubes and wire. Inside, tucked behind the
• 29:46
  Speaker 1: speaker cone, held in place with yellowed tape, was a photograph.
• 29:51
  Speaker 1: Black and white, edges burned like someone had held it
• 29:53
  Speaker 1: close to flame. It showed three men standing in front
• 29:57
  Speaker 1: of a mine entrance. dressed in work clothes from the 50s.
• 30:01
  Speaker 1: I recognized one of them immediately from the newspaper article
• 30:04
  Speaker 1: I found. Michael Garrett. Tall, clean-cut, smiling at the camera.
• 30:09
  Speaker 1: The other two had their faces scratched out, deep gouges
• 30:12
  Speaker 1: cut into the photo with something sharp, obliterating their features completely.
• 30:18
  Speaker 1: On the back, written in pencil and careful script, they
• 30:21
  Speaker 1: knew what was down there. They sent him anyway. That night,
• 30:24
  Speaker 1: I had a dream. I was standing in a mine shaft,
• 30:28
  Speaker 1: ankle-deep in black water that was rising. The walls were
• 30:31
  Speaker 1: timber and stone, glistening with moisture. Somewhere in the darkness ahead,
• 30:37
  Speaker 1: someone was calling my name, not shouting, calling it softly,
• 30:40
  Speaker 1: almost gently. When I turned toward the voice, I saw him.
• 30:45
  Speaker 1: Michael Garrett. Exactly as he appeared in the photo, except
• 30:50
  Speaker 1: his eyes were gone. Just empty sockets, weeping black fluid
• 30:55
  Speaker 1: that ran down his face and dripped into the water.
• 30:59
  Speaker 1: His mouth moved, words coming out that didn't match the
• 31:01
  Speaker 1: movement of his lips. Tell them where I am. Tell
• 31:05
  Speaker 1: them what they did. Make them understand. I woke up screaming,
• 31:09
  Speaker 1: tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, my heart racing so fast I
• 31:12
  Speaker 1: thought I might be having a heart attack. The radio
• 31:15
  Speaker 1: was on my nightstand. I lived alone. I'd left it
• 31:18
  Speaker 1: at the shop. It was glowing faintly, tubes warming up,
• 31:22
  Speaker 1: though it wasn't plugged in. As I watched, frozen with fear,
• 31:26
  Speaker 1: It began to hum. Then the voice came through clear
• 31:29
  Speaker 1: and close. Tell them, please, tell them where I am.
• 31:35
  Speaker 1: I tried to get rid of it, left it by
• 31:37
  Speaker 1: a dumpster behind a restaurant, drove away and didn't look back.
• 31:41
  Speaker 1: Two days later, it was sitting on my workbench when
• 31:43
  Speaker 1: I opened the shop in the morning. I drove it
• 31:46
  Speaker 1: to a landfill 30 miles away, watched the bulldozer push
• 31:49
  Speaker 1: it under tons of garbage. The next morning it was back,
• 31:53
  Speaker 1: not damaged, not dirty, just sitting there, waiting. Finally, in desperation,
• 31:58
  Speaker 1: I contacted a historian in Lexington who specialized in mining disasters.
• 32:03
  Speaker 1: I told him everything. The broadcasts, the photograph, the dreams.
• 32:08
  Speaker 1: He went silent for a long time after I finished.
• 32:11
  Speaker 1: There were rumors, he said finally, his voice careful, about
• 32:15
  Speaker 1: the lynch mine. In the early 50s, they found a
• 32:17
  Speaker 1: tunnel that went deeper than the map showed. Way deeper.
• 32:22
  Speaker 1: Didn't match any of the excavation records. Some of the
• 32:25
  Speaker 1: men said they heard things down there. Voices calling to them.
• 32:28
  Speaker 1: Scratching sounds on the walls. Management sealed it off with concrete,
• 32:33
  Speaker 1: but not before three miners went missing. Garrett was one
• 32:35
  Speaker 1: of them. What about the others? I asked. The other
• 32:39
  Speaker 1: two in the photograph? Never officially identified. The records were
• 32:44
  Speaker 1: destroyed in a fire in 1957. Very convenient fire. Came
• 32:49
  Speaker 1: right after some of the miners started asking questions about
• 32:51
  Speaker 1: what was down there. What the company knew. I asked
• 32:55
  Speaker 1: him what I should do with the radios. He told
• 32:57
  Speaker 1: me to bring it to him, that he had a
• 32:58
  Speaker 1: secure archive at the university where they kept objects with
• 33:02
  Speaker 1: complicated histories, objects that needed to be preserved but not used.
• 33:08
  Speaker 1: I packed it carefully, wrapped it in newspaper and bubble wrap,
• 33:11
  Speaker 1: drove to Lexington and handed it over. He signed a receipt,
• 33:14
  Speaker 1: promised to keep it locked away, told me I'd done
• 33:17
  Speaker 1: the right thing. That night I woke up at 8.47 p.m. exactly.
• 33:22
  Speaker 1: My alarm clock was flashing, stuck on that time no
• 33:25
  Speaker 1: matter what I did. And from somewhere deep in my apartment,
• 33:28
  Speaker 1: maybe the walls, maybe beneath the floor, maybe inside my
• 33:31
  Speaker 1: own head, I heard static. And beneath the static, a voice.
• 33:37
  Speaker 1: Thank you. The radio never came back. Professor kept his word.
• 33:42
  Speaker 1: But sometimes late at night, I'll catch a glimpse of
• 33:45
  Speaker 1: my reflection in a darkened window or a turned-off television screen.
• 33:49
  Speaker 1: And standing behind me, just over my shoulder, there's someone else. Tall,
• 33:53
  Speaker 1: wearing a gray work shirt. When I turn around, there's
• 33:57
  Speaker 1: nothing there, just the faint smell of coal dust and
• 34:00
  Speaker 1: the distant sound of dripping water. And sometimes if I
• 34:03
  Speaker 1: listen very carefully in the absolute silence of 3 a.m.,
• 34:06
  Speaker 1: I can hear it, scratching, coming from deep underground, from
• 34:11
  Speaker 1: a place that shouldn't exist, where three men are still
• 34:14
  Speaker 1: looking for a way out. Story four, I managed a
• 34:17
  Speaker 1: small motel off Route 23 in southern West Virginia, a
• 34:21
  Speaker 1: place that had been built in the 60s and hadn't
• 34:23
  Speaker 1: changed much since. Twelve rooms arranged in an L-shape around
• 34:28
  Speaker 1: a gravel parking lot, a small office with a buzzing
• 34:31
  Speaker 1: neon sign that said VACANCY in red letters, and a
• 34:36
  Speaker 1: Coke machine that hummed all night long. Nothing fancy. Nothing memorable.
• 34:42
  Speaker 1: The kind of place truckers used when they needed to
• 34:44
  Speaker 1: sleep for a few hours, where hunters stayed during deer season,
• 34:48
  Speaker 1: where people passing through would stop if they didn't want
• 34:51
  Speaker 1: to drive another 40 miles to the next town. It
• 34:53
  Speaker 1: was easy work most of the time, check people in,
• 34:57
  Speaker 1: hand them a key attached to a diamond-shaped piece of
• 34:59
  Speaker 1: plastic with the room number stamped on it, make sure
• 35:02
  Speaker 1: they didn't steal the towels or break the furniture. The
• 35:05
  Speaker 1: owner lived in Fort Lauderdale and barely checked in, sending
• 35:08
  Speaker 1: me checks twice a month and calling maybe once every
• 35:11
  Speaker 1: few weeks to ask how things were going. I had
• 35:14
  Speaker 1: the place to myself most nights, sitting in the office
• 35:16
  Speaker 1: watching an old television that only got three channels clearly,
• 35:20
  Speaker 1: reading paperbacks from the thrift store, drinking coffee that I
• 35:23
  Speaker 1: made too strong because there was nobody around to complain
• 35:25
  Speaker 1: about it. Room 7 was different. I noticed it after
• 35:29
  Speaker 1: the first month. People would check in fine. No complaints,
• 35:32
  Speaker 1: no issues with the key, no questions about amenities. The
• 35:35
  Speaker 1: room was clean. I made sure of that, cleaning it
• 35:38
  Speaker 1: myself like I did all the rooms, vacuuming the carpet,
• 35:41
  Speaker 1: scrubbing the bathroom, making the bed with tight hospital corners
• 35:44
  Speaker 1: like my mother had taught me. But they never stayed
• 35:47
  Speaker 1: the full night. Sometimes I'd find the key on the
• 35:49
  Speaker 1: office desk in the morning, left there at 3 or
• 35:51
  Speaker 1: 4 a.m. based on the security camera timestamps, with a
• 35:55
  Speaker 1: note scrawled on a piece of paper saying, Had to
• 35:57
  Speaker 1: leave early. Other times they'd knock on my door at
• 36:00
  Speaker 1: 2 or 3 in the morning, white-faced and shaking, saying
• 36:03
  Speaker 1: they'd changed their minds, that they needed to leave right now,
• 36:07
  Speaker 1: that they'd rather drive through the night than stay another minute.
• 36:12
  Speaker 1: At first I thought maybe there was a smell I
• 36:14
  Speaker 1: couldn't detect, or noise from the highway that bothered people,
• 36:18
  Speaker 1: or maybe the bed was uncomfortable in some way I
• 36:20
  Speaker 1: hadn't noticed. I checked everything, sniffed the carpet, Ran my
• 36:26
  Speaker 1: hands over the walls looking for dampness or mold. Laid
• 36:30
  Speaker 1: on the bed for 20 minutes, seeing if there was
• 36:33
  Speaker 1: something wrong with the mattress. Nothing unusual. Standard motel room.
• 36:38
  Speaker 1: Double bed with a floral comforter that had been washed
• 36:42
  Speaker 1: so many times the pattern was fading. A dresser with
• 36:45
  Speaker 1: a television bolted to the top. A bathroom with a sink, toilet,
• 36:49
  Speaker 1: and shower stall. The carpet was worn but clean. That
• 36:53
  Speaker 1: industrial brown that shows every stain The walls were thin.
• 36:58
  Speaker 1: You could hear conversations from neighboring rooms, but no thinner
• 37:01
  Speaker 1: than the others. One night in October, about three months
• 37:04
  Speaker 1: after I'd started noticing the pattern, a woman checked in
• 37:08
  Speaker 1: around 11 p.m. She looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes,
• 37:13
  Speaker 1: clothes wrinkled like she'd been driving for days, hair pulled
• 37:16
  Speaker 1: back and a messy ponytail. Her hands shook slightly as
• 37:19
  Speaker 1: she filled out the registration card.' Just need a bed,'
• 37:22
  Speaker 1: she said.' Been on the road since yesterday.' I checked
• 37:26
  Speaker 1: the availability board. Room 7 was the only vacancy. I hesitated,
• 37:30
  Speaker 1: then decided I was being ridiculous. It was just a room.
• 37:34
  Speaker 1: Nothing was actually wrong with it. I handed her the key.
• 37:38
  Speaker 1: She asked where the nearest diner was. Close this time
• 37:41
  Speaker 1: of night, I told her, but there's a vending machine
• 37:43
  Speaker 1: around back, and I think there's a 24-hour gas station
• 37:46
  Speaker 1: about 10 miles north if you need something more substantial.
• 37:50
  Speaker 1: She nodded and took the key, her fingers cold when
• 37:53
  Speaker 1: they brushed against mine. At 1.30 a.m., someone started pounding
• 37:57
  Speaker 1: on the office door. Hard, desperate knocking that jarred me
• 38:00
  Speaker 1: out of a light sleep. I opened it to find
• 38:03
  Speaker 1: her standing there, barefoot, her shoes forgotten, eyes wide with terror.
• 38:09
  Speaker 1: There's someone in my room, she said. Her voice was
• 38:12
  Speaker 1: steady but tight, like she was using all her control
• 38:15
  Speaker 1: to keep from screaming. I grabbed my flashlight and the
• 38:17
  Speaker 1: master key and followed her back to room 7. The
• 38:21
  Speaker 1: door was wide open, swinging gently in the night breeze. Inside,
• 38:25
  Speaker 1: everything looked normal. Bed still made, the covers barely disturbed.
• 38:30
  Speaker 1: Her suitcase sat on the luggage rack, untouched. The bathroom
• 38:33
  Speaker 1: door was open, light on, mirror clear. Where? I asked.
• 38:38
  Speaker 1: She pointed at the closet. It was one of those
• 38:41
  Speaker 1: old sliding door closets, the kind with mirrors on the
• 38:43
  Speaker 1: panels that reflected the room. I slid it open. Just
• 38:48
  Speaker 1: empty hangers, metal ones that clinked softly together. They were
• 38:52
  Speaker 1: standing right there, she insisted. Watching me sleep, I could
• 38:56
  Speaker 1: feel it. When I opened my eyes, there was someone
• 38:59
  Speaker 1: in the mirror, standing at the foot of the bed.
• 39:02
  Speaker 1: I checked under the bed. Nothing but dust of bunnies.
• 39:05
  Speaker 1: Behind the shower curtain, just a clean tub. Outside the window,
• 39:09
  Speaker 1: empty parking lot. The room next door was vacant. There
• 39:13
  Speaker 1: was nowhere for anyone to hide, no way for anyone
• 39:15
  Speaker 1: to get out without passing us in the doorway. You
• 39:18
  Speaker 1: probably had a nightmare, I said, trying to sound reassuring.
• 39:22
  Speaker 1: Happens when you're overtired. Your mind plays tricks. She stared
• 39:26
  Speaker 1: at me, then at the room, then back at me.
• 39:28
  Speaker 1: I wasn't asleep. But she left anyway. Got in her
• 39:33
  Speaker 1: car and drove off into the night, leaving her suitcase,
• 39:36
  Speaker 1: leaving the key on the bed. Didn't even ask for
• 39:39
  Speaker 1: a refund. I locked room seven after that. Told people
• 39:44
  Speaker 1: it needed repairs, plumbing issues, I said, or electrical problems.
• 39:48
  Speaker 1: Whatever excuse would keep it empty. But a week later,
• 39:52
  Speaker 1: curiosity got the better of me. I needed to know.
• 39:56
  Speaker 1: I couldn't let an empty room haunt me. Couldn't let
• 39:59
  Speaker 1: fear of something I didn't understand dictate how I ran
• 40:02
  Speaker 1: the place. I brought my laptop, thinking I'd spend the
• 40:06
  Speaker 1: night in there. See what everyone was so scared of.
• 40:10
  Speaker 1: Maybe record whatever was happening. Prove to myself it was nothing.
• 40:15
  Speaker 1: I stood up on the bed, back against the headboard,
• 40:18
  Speaker 1: put on a movie. Something light. A comedy I'd seen before.
• 40:22
  Speaker 1: Around midnight, I started feeling it. A weight. Not physical,
• 40:27
  Speaker 1: but present. Like someone had sat down at the foot
• 40:29
  Speaker 1: of the bed, depressing the mattress just slightly. I looked.
• 40:34
  Speaker 1: Nothing there. But the feeling remained. That sense of occupation.
• 40:38
  Speaker 1: Of space being taken up by something I couldn't see. Then,
• 40:42
  Speaker 1: the bathroom light turned on by itself. I sat very still,
• 40:46
  Speaker 1: watching the doorway. The light was definitely on. I could
• 40:49
  Speaker 1: see it reflecting off the mirror, see the white tiles glowing.
• 40:53
  Speaker 1: I hadn't touched the switch, hadn't even been in the
• 40:56
  Speaker 1: bathroom since I'd arrived. I got up slowly, crossed the
• 41:00
  Speaker 1: room in three steps, and looked inside. The mirror was
• 41:03
  Speaker 1: fogged up, completely covered in condensation, even though the shower
• 41:07
  Speaker 1: hadn't been running. The room was cold, not warm. There
• 41:11
  Speaker 1: was no steam, no moisture in the air. Just the mirror,
• 41:14
  Speaker 1: fog like someone had breathed on it heavily, covering the
• 41:17
  Speaker 1: entire surface. And in the condensation, someone had written, I'm sorry.
• 41:23
  Speaker 1: I wiped it away with my hand, the moisture cold
• 41:25
  Speaker 1: and slick. It came back immediately. Same words, same shaky letters,
• 41:29
  Speaker 1: like someone writing with their finger, pressing hard enough to
• 41:32
  Speaker 1: leave deep tracks in the fog. That's when I heard
• 41:35
  Speaker 1: the breathing. Slow, labored, ragged like someone struggling to get air.
• 41:42
  Speaker 1: It was coming from the closet. I turned, heart hammering,
• 41:45
  Speaker 1: and walked back into the main room. The closet door
• 41:48
  Speaker 1: was closed now. I was certain I'd left it open.
• 41:51
  Speaker 1: I opened it. The mirror panels reflected my face three times, left, center, right.
• 41:56
  Speaker 1: Except in the middle reflection, I wasn't alone. Someone stood
• 42:00
  Speaker 1: behind me, pale, dripping wet. Water running down their face
• 42:04
  Speaker 1: and soaking into clothes that looked decades old. Their eyes
• 42:08
  Speaker 1: were black and endless, like looking into empty wells. Their
• 42:12
  Speaker 1: mouth was moving, forming words I couldn't hear. I spun around.
• 42:16
  Speaker 1: Empty room, but the breathing continued. Louder now. More desperate.
• 42:21
  Speaker 1: And beneath it, I could finally make out words. I
• 42:25
  Speaker 1: didn't mean to. I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to.
• 42:29
  Speaker 1: Over and over, a mantra of guilt and despair. I ran.
• 42:33
  Speaker 1: Left the door open. Left my laptop playing the movie
• 42:35
  Speaker 1: to an empty room. Got in my car and drove.
• 42:38
  Speaker 1: Didn't stop until I was 50 miles away. Sitting in
• 42:41
  Speaker 1: a Waffle House parking lot at 4 a.m. Hands still shaking,
• 42:44
  Speaker 1: coffee going cold in a foam cup. I called the
• 42:47
  Speaker 1: owner from a payphone outside a gas station. Told him
• 42:50
  Speaker 1: I quit. He asked why. Tried to convince me to stay.
• 42:54
  Speaker 1: Offered me more money. I couldn't explain. How do you
• 42:58
  Speaker 1: tell someone their property is haunted? How do you describe
• 43:01
  Speaker 1: that feeling of being watched by something that shouldn't exist?
• 43:04
  Speaker 1: Two months later, I heard the motel had been condemned.
• 43:08
  Speaker 1: Structural issues, they said. Foundation problems. Unsafe for occupancy. But
• 43:13
  Speaker 1: when I drove past it on my way to visit
• 43:15
  Speaker 1: family in Tennessee, I saw Room 7's light was on.
• 43:20
  Speaker 1: The door was open, hanging crooked on its hinges. And
• 43:23
  Speaker 1: in the doorway, just for a second as my headlight
• 43:25
  Speaker 1: swept across it, I saw someone standing there. Pale. Wet. Waiting.
• 43:32
  Speaker 1: I didn't stop driving for a hundred miles. And sometimes
• 43:36
  Speaker 1: even now when I'm staying in a hotel or motel anywhere,
• 43:39
  Speaker 1: I'll wake up at 1.30 a.m. The bathroom light will
• 43:42
  Speaker 1: be on. And in the mirror, if I'm brave enough
• 43:44
  Speaker 1: to look, I'll see those words. I'm sorry. still apologizing,
• 43:51
  Speaker 1: still waiting for forgiveness for something I'll never understand. Story five.
• 43:56
  Speaker 1: After high school, when college seemed like a distant impossibility
• 43:59
  Speaker 1: and I needed money immediately, I took a job at
• 44:02
  Speaker 1: an old textile mill that had been converted into a
• 44:05
  Speaker 1: warehouse and storage facility. The building was massive, four stories
• 44:10
  Speaker 1: of red brick and large windows, built in the 1920s
• 44:14
  Speaker 1: when the textile industry was booming in the South. It
• 44:18
  Speaker 1: sat on the edge of town, surrounded by chain-link fence
• 44:21
  Speaker 1: and overgrown lots where other mills had been torn down
• 44:23
  Speaker 1: decades ago. My job was simple. Night security. 10 p.m.
• 44:28
  Speaker 1: to 6 a.m. five days a week. Walk the floors
• 44:31
  Speaker 1: every hour with a flashlight and a time clock key,
• 44:34
  Speaker 1: making sure nobody had broken in to steal equipment or
• 44:36
  Speaker 1: copper wire. Check that all the doors and windows were secure.
• 44:40
  Speaker 1: Call the police if anything looked wrong. It was boring work, monotonous,
• 44:45
  Speaker 1: but it paid $ 11 an hour. which was more than
• 44:48
  Speaker 1: the fast food places were offering. I started in March.
• 44:52
  Speaker 1: By May, I'd learned every corner of that place. The
• 44:56
  Speaker 1: way sound echoed differently depending on which floor you were on.
• 44:59
  Speaker 1: The creak of the old wooden floors on the third level.
• 45:02
  Speaker 1: The way the wind made the windows rattle when storms
• 45:05
  Speaker 1: came through. The smell of each section. Dust and oil
• 45:09
  Speaker 1: on the first floor where old machinery still sat. The
• 45:12
  Speaker 1: musty smell of stored paper files on the second. the
• 45:16
  Speaker 1: empty coldness of the third and fourth floors. I'd gotten comfortable,
• 45:21
  Speaker 1: maybe too comfortable. I'd started bringing my laptop, watching movies
• 45:25
  Speaker 1: during the slow hours between rounds, reading books. Sometimes I'd
• 45:29
  Speaker 1: fall asleep for an hour or two in the office,
• 45:31
  Speaker 1: confident that nobody was going to bother this empty building
• 45:34
  Speaker 1: in the middle of the night. One night in June,
• 45:37
  Speaker 1: I was doing my 2 a.m. rounds when I heard music.
• 45:40
  Speaker 1: Faint at first, so quiet I thought maybe it was
• 45:42
  Speaker 1: coming from a car outside. But as I climbed the
• 45:45
  Speaker 1: stairs to the third floor, it got louder. Old-fashioned music,
• 45:49
  Speaker 1: big bands swinging from the 1940s, trumpets and clarinets and
• 45:52
  Speaker 1: a rhythm section that made you want to move. I
• 45:55
  Speaker 1: recognized the style, but not the specific song. It was
• 45:59
  Speaker 1: coming from the fourth floor, from a section we called
• 46:01
  Speaker 1: The Loft. Nobody went up there. Too dangerous. The floor
• 46:07
  Speaker 1: was unstable in places where water damage had rotted the boards.
• 46:10
  Speaker 1: The owners had blocked off the stairs with a chain
• 46:13
  Speaker 1: and a sign that said, unsafe do not enter I
• 46:17
  Speaker 1: unhooked the chain and climbed anyway the music was louder
• 46:20
  Speaker 1: up there clear enough that I could hear the individual
• 46:22
  Speaker 1: instruments I followed it down a hallway lined with doors
• 46:26
  Speaker 1: past empty offices that had been stripped of furniture decades
• 46:29
  Speaker 1: ago toward a large room at the end of the
• 46:31
  Speaker 1: hall the old supervisor's office the door was closed light
• 46:36
  Speaker 1: leaked beneath it warm and yellow like it was coming
• 46:38
  Speaker 1: from incandescent bulbs I stopped outside and listened music laughter
• 46:44
  Speaker 1: The sound of feet moving across a wooden floor, the
• 46:46
  Speaker 1: rhythm of dancing, and voices, two people talking, though I
• 46:49
  Speaker 1: couldn't make out the words. I knocked. The music stopped immediately.
• 46:54
  Speaker 1: Just cut off mid-note like someone had yanked a needle
• 46:57
  Speaker 1: off a record. Hello? No answer. But I could hear
• 47:02
  Speaker 1: breathing now, close to the door, right on the other side.
• 47:06
  Speaker 1: I tried the handle. Locked. An old-fashioned keyhole lock that
• 47:10
  Speaker 1: we probably didn't even have keys for in That's when
• 47:14
  Speaker 1: I noticed the smell. Perfume. Cheap, flowery, mixed with cigarette smoke.
• 47:19
  Speaker 1: The kind of smell you'd find in a bar or
• 47:21
  Speaker 1: dance hall. And beneath the door, I saw shadows moving.
• 47:25
  Speaker 1: Two pairs of feet, clearly visible in the light gap.
• 47:29
  Speaker 1: They were dancing. Even though there was no music, the
• 47:32
  Speaker 1: feet moved in rhythm. One, two, three, one, two, three.
• 47:37
  Speaker 1: The pattern of a waltz or foxtrot. Two pairs, one
• 47:41
  Speaker 1: in men's dress shoes, one in women's heels. They moved together, apart, together.
• 47:47
  Speaker 1: The shadows perfectly synchronized. I called out again. If someone's
• 47:52
  Speaker 1: up here, you need to leave. This is private property.
• 47:56
  Speaker 1: The feet stopped mid-step. Then slowly, deliberately, they moved toward
• 48:01
  Speaker 1: the door. Closer. Closer. Until they were right on the
• 48:06
  Speaker 1: other side. The shadows nearly touching the bottom of the door.
• 48:10
  Speaker 1: I waited for it to open. It didn't. The shadows
• 48:14
  Speaker 1: just stood there, inches away, not moving, not making a sound.
• 48:19
  Speaker 1: I could hear breathing, two sets of lungs inhaling and exhaling,
• 48:23
  Speaker 1: in perfect synchronization. I backed away slowly, one step, then another.
• 48:28
  Speaker 1: The shadows didn't move. I made it to the stairs
• 48:31
  Speaker 1: before I heard it. The music started again, same song,
• 48:35
  Speaker 1: same volume. And as I retreated down the stairwell, I
• 48:38
  Speaker 1: heard laughter, high, bright, feminine at first. Then it changed,
• 48:42
  Speaker 1: became harsh. mocking, mean. I didn't go back to the
• 48:47
  Speaker 1: fourth floor for weeks, but every night at 2 a.m.
• 48:49
  Speaker 1: I'd hear it, the music, the laughter, the sound of
• 48:53
  Speaker 1: feet dancing across boards that shouldn't hold weight anymore. Sometimes
• 48:57
  Speaker 1: I'd hear it from the office, sometimes from the second floor.
• 49:00
  Speaker 1: Once I heard it coming from right outside the building,
• 49:03
  Speaker 1: but when I looked, there was nothing there, just an
• 49:06
  Speaker 1: empty parking lot in darkness. In August, the building manager
• 49:10
  Speaker 1: decided to renovate the fourth floor, Some company wanted to
• 49:14
  Speaker 1: lease the space for offices. They sent a crew up
• 49:16
  Speaker 1: to assess the damage and provide estimates for repairs. Three
• 49:20
  Speaker 1: days later, the foreman came to my station at the
• 49:22
  Speaker 1: start of my shift, his face pale even under his
• 49:25
  Speaker 1: permanent sunburn. Did you know there's a room up there
• 49:28
  Speaker 1: that's been locked for 40 years? I nodded. The old
• 49:31
  Speaker 1: supervisor's office. End of the hall. I've heard things up there.
• 49:35
  Speaker 1: What kind of things? I hesitated. Music. People moving around.
• 49:41
  Speaker 1: He stared at me for a long moment. We need
• 49:43
  Speaker 1: to show you something. Come on. I followed him upstairs.
• 49:47
  Speaker 1: The fourth floor was full of workers now, bright work
• 49:50
  Speaker 1: lights set up, the sound of power tools and voices.
• 49:53
  Speaker 1: They'd cut the chain on the stairs, propped the doors open,
• 49:56
  Speaker 1: brought in equipment. The foreman led me to that office
• 49:59
  Speaker 1: at the end of the hall. The door was open now,
• 50:01
  Speaker 1: hanging crooked on its hinges. Someone had used a crowbar
• 50:04
  Speaker 1: to break the lock. The wood around the frame splintered
• 50:07
  Speaker 1: and cracked. Inside, the air was thick and stale, like
• 50:11
  Speaker 1: it had been sealed in for decades. The floor was
• 50:14
  Speaker 1: covered in dust, thick and undisturbed, except for a single
• 50:18
  Speaker 1: set of footprints leading from the door to the center
• 50:21
  Speaker 1: of the room. They weren't my footprints, too small, and
• 50:25
  Speaker 1: they didn't lead back out. They just went to the
• 50:28
  Speaker 1: center and stopped. In the middle of the floor sat
• 50:32
  Speaker 1: two pairs of shoes, women's heels from the 1940s, dark
• 50:37
  Speaker 1: blue with small bows and men's dress shoes, black leather
• 50:41
  Speaker 1: polished to a shine, even under decades of dust. They
• 50:45
  Speaker 1: were positioned as if someone had just stepped out of them,
• 50:48
  Speaker 1: toes pointing toward each other, close together, like they'd been dancing.
• 50:53
  Speaker 1: And on the desk against the far wall sat a
• 50:54
  Speaker 1: record player, an old Victrola with a brass horn, its
• 50:58
  Speaker 1: wooden case carved with decorative patterns. No electricity, no cord,
• 51:03
  Speaker 1: no batteries, but the turntable was spinning. Slowly, steadily, even
• 51:09
  Speaker 1: though there was no record on it. Just the bare
• 51:12
  Speaker 1: metal turntable, rotating at exactly 78 revolutions per minute. The
• 51:17
  Speaker 1: tonearm was up, the needle not touching anything, but from
• 51:20
  Speaker 1: the horn came the faintest hint of music, that same
• 51:23
  Speaker 1: big band song I'd been hearing for months. The foreman
• 51:26
  Speaker 1: asked if I wanted to turn it off. If I
• 51:29
  Speaker 1: wanted to touch it, I told him no. What happened here,
• 51:33
  Speaker 1: I asked. Do you know? He nodded slowly, I asked around,
• 51:39
  Speaker 1: talked to some of the old-timers in town. Back in 1948,
• 51:43
  Speaker 1: there was a fire on this floor. Started in this
• 51:47
  Speaker 1: office late at night. The supervisor and his secretary were
• 51:50
  Speaker 1: working late, they said. Both died. Smoke inhalation before they
• 51:54
  Speaker 1: could get out. You think that's them? In the room?
• 51:59
  Speaker 1: He shrugged. I think we should seal it back up.
• 52:02
  Speaker 1: Leave it alone. We left everything exactly as we found it.
• 52:06
  Speaker 1: The shoes, the record player... The footprints. They locked the
• 52:10
  Speaker 1: door with a new padlock, posted signs about structural issues,
• 52:14
  Speaker 1: and abandoned the renovation plans. That section of the fourth
• 52:18
  Speaker 1: floor was never touched again. I quit the next week,
• 52:22
  Speaker 1: found a different job, different hours, somewhere without history pressing
• 52:25
  Speaker 1: down through the ceiling. But sometimes, late at night, no
• 52:29
  Speaker 1: matter where I am, I'll hear that music again. That
• 52:33
  Speaker 1: same song, playing faintly from somewhere I can't locate, coming
• 52:36
  Speaker 1: from a record that doesn't exist, Played on a phonograph
• 52:39
  Speaker 1: that shouldn't work. And I'll wake up and find my
• 52:42
  Speaker 1: shoes moved. Positioned neatly side by side, toes pointing toward
• 52:47
  Speaker 1: each other. Like they're waiting for a partner. Always in pairs.
• 52:52
  Speaker 1: Always ready to dance. And sometimes, if the room is
• 52:55
  Speaker 1: very quiet, I can hear it. Breathing. Close and synchronized.
• 53:01
  Speaker 1: Two people right next to me, waiting for the music
• 53:03
  Speaker 1: to start again. We're halfway through these terrifying stories. and
• 53:08
  Speaker 1: I hope you're enjoying them. If you are, this is
• 53:11
  Speaker 1: the perfect time to help Park Ranger Files reach 1,000
• 53:15
  Speaker 1: subscribers before my birthday next month. Hit that subscribe button,
• 53:19
  Speaker 1: give this video a thumbs up, and most importantly, drop
• 53:23
  Speaker 1: a comment below. Tell me which story has freaked you
• 53:26
  Speaker 1: out the most so far. Do you believe in these encounters?
• 53:30
  Speaker 1: Have you experienced anything similar? I read every single comment,
• 53:34
  Speaker 1: and your engagement helps this channel grow. Now let's continue
• 53:37
  Speaker 1: with more chilling tales. Story six. I inherited my grandfather's
• 53:42
  Speaker 1: general store in a town so small it didn't even
• 53:45
  Speaker 1: have a post office anymore. The population had been shrinking
• 53:48
  Speaker 1: for decades. Young people moving to cities, old people dying,
• 53:52
  Speaker 1: nobody coming to replace them. By the time the lawyers
• 53:55
  Speaker 1: called to tell me about the inheritance, I hadn't seen
• 53:57
  Speaker 1: the place in 15 years. Hadn't seen my grandfather nearly
• 54:01
  Speaker 1: as long. We'd had a falling out over something I
• 54:04
  Speaker 1: couldn't even remember anymore. and pride had kept both of
• 54:08
  Speaker 1: us from reaching out. The building was over 100 years old,
• 54:11
  Speaker 1: one of those classic small-town general stores with wood floors
• 54:14
  Speaker 1: that creaked with every step, shelves that sagged under their
• 54:17
  Speaker 1: own weight, a ceiling made of pressed tin that had
• 54:21
  Speaker 1: oxidized to a brown patina. The cash register was ancient,
• 54:25
  Speaker 1: brass and iron, with a hand crank and a bell
• 54:28
  Speaker 1: that rang when you opened the drawer. It still worked somehow,
• 54:31
  Speaker 1: despite being manufactured in 1923. I planned to sell it.
• 54:36
  Speaker 1: Real estate in the area was worthless, but surely someone
• 54:38
  Speaker 1: would want the building, maybe for nostalgia or maybe to
• 54:42
  Speaker 1: tear down for the lot. But the market was dead,
• 54:46
  Speaker 1: and after three months of listing it with no interest,
• 54:49
  Speaker 1: I decided to keep it open until I found a buyer.
• 54:52
  Speaker 1: At least I could make enough to cover the property taxes.
• 54:55
  Speaker 1: Most days I'd get maybe five customers, local folks buying cigarettes, soda,
• 55:00
  Speaker 1: lottery tickets. Sometimes someone would come in for basic groceries, bread, milk, eggs,
• 55:07
  Speaker 1: the kind of things you'd run out of and didn't
• 55:09
  Speaker 1: want to drive 40 miles to a real supermarket for.
• 55:12
  Speaker 1: I'd read, listen to the radio close up at 6 p.m.,
• 55:15
  Speaker 1: easy money, quiet, lonely. But there was a basement I
• 55:20
  Speaker 1: never went into. I'd found the key in my grandfather's office,
• 55:24
  Speaker 1: a small skeleton key on a rusty ring with a
• 55:26
  Speaker 1: yellow tag that said seller in a shaky handwriting. The
• 55:31
  Speaker 1: basement door was in the back of the store, behind
• 55:33
  Speaker 1: the stockroom, hidden behind a curtain, I'd opened it once,
• 55:37
  Speaker 1: just once, shined a flashlight down the wooden stairs. The
• 55:42
  Speaker 1: smell hit in me first, sweet and chemical, like formaldehyde
• 55:47
  Speaker 1: or preserving fluid, the kind of smell you associate with
• 55:50
  Speaker 1: biology classrooms and funeral homes. And I could see shelves
• 55:54
  Speaker 1: down there, rows and rows of them extending into darkness,
• 55:58
  Speaker 1: all lined with jars that caught the flashlight beam and
• 56:01
  Speaker 1: threw it back in yellow and green and amber reflections.
• 56:05
  Speaker 1: I closed the door immediately. Locked it. Decided I didn't
• 56:09
  Speaker 1: need to know what my grandfather had been keeping down there.
• 56:12
  Speaker 1: A month into running the store, on a Tuesday afternoon
• 56:15
  Speaker 1: when the light was already fading and I was thinking
• 56:17
  Speaker 1: about closing early, a man came in asking about the basement.
• 56:22
  Speaker 1: He was old, 70 at least, maybe older, wearing clothes
• 56:26
  Speaker 1: that looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks. A
• 56:29
  Speaker 1: flannel shirt with buttons missing, work pants stained with dirt,
• 56:32
  Speaker 1: and God knows what else. boots that left mud prints
• 56:35
  Speaker 1: on my clean floor. His eyes were yellowed and watery.
• 56:39
  Speaker 1: His hands trembled slightly. Your grandfather used to let me
• 56:43
  Speaker 1: buy from down there, he said, his voice rough like
• 56:45
  Speaker 1: gravel being poured. I don't know what's down there, I
• 56:49
  Speaker 1: told him honestly. And I'm not comfortable selling anything from
• 56:52
  Speaker 1: the basement. If you need something specific, I can probably
• 56:56
  Speaker 1: order it. He smiled, showing teeth that were more gaps
• 57:00
  Speaker 1: than enamel. Medicine, the kind doctors don't make any the
• 57:05
  Speaker 1: kind that actually works for what ails us here. What
• 57:08
  Speaker 1: ails you? Living in these hills, he said simply. Same
• 57:13
  Speaker 1: thing that's ailed folks here for generations. I told him
• 57:16
  Speaker 1: I wasn't comfortable with it. He didn't argue, didn't get angry,
• 57:21
  Speaker 1: just nodded once and left, the bell over the door
• 57:23
  Speaker 1: ringing as he stepped out into the fading light. That
• 57:27
  Speaker 1: night I heard footsteps below the store. I was in
• 57:30
  Speaker 1: the back office, counting the day's meager receipts when I
• 57:33
  Speaker 1: heard them. slow, shuffling, moving between the shelves with deliberate purpose.
• 57:40
  Speaker 1: The sound of glass clinking, jars being moved and replaced.
• 57:45
  Speaker 1: Someone was down there. I grabbed the baseball bat I
• 57:48
  Speaker 1: kept under the counter and went down. The basement was
• 57:51
  Speaker 1: larger than I thought, much larger than the footprint of
• 57:54
  Speaker 1: the store above. Three interconnected rooms, all lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves.
• 58:00
  Speaker 1: The jars were filled with liquids in various colors, amber, green,
• 58:04
  Speaker 1: murky brown, some that seemed to shift and change as
• 58:08
  Speaker 1: I moved the flashlight beam across them. Some had labels
• 58:11
  Speaker 1: written in old script, my grandfather's handwriting, names I didn't recognize,
• 58:16
  Speaker 1: ingredients that sounded medieval, wolf's spain essence, dried hollow root,
• 58:23
  Speaker 1: hill breath, collected at dawn, iron water, black seam source.
• 58:30
  Speaker 1: In the back room I found a ledger, dates going
• 58:32
  Speaker 1: back to 1923, the year my grandfather had bought the store.
• 58:37
  Speaker 1: Lists of names and ailments, like a pharmacist's records, but stranger,
• 58:42
  Speaker 1: more cryptic. J. Henderson, coughing sickness, three doses weekly. M. Patterson,
• 58:49
  Speaker 1: black lung, deep variety, daily treatment. E. Morton, mountain fever,
• 58:55
  Speaker 1: emergency only. The last entry was from three weeks ago,
• 58:59
  Speaker 1: the date my grandfather had died. The writing was shaky
• 59:02
  Speaker 1: but readable. Self-treatment. No longer sufficient. I heard the stairs creak.
• 59:08
  Speaker 1: Someone was coming down. I hid behind a shelf and
• 59:11
  Speaker 1: watched as the old man from earlier descended slowly, holding
• 59:14
  Speaker 1: a battery lantern. He moved with familiarity, scanning the shelves
• 59:19
  Speaker 1: with practiced eyes, selecting jars carefully and placing them in
• 59:22
  Speaker 1: a wicker basket. He'd done this before. Many times. He
• 59:27
  Speaker 1: filled the basket with six different jars. checking each label
• 59:31
  Speaker 1: carefully before adding it to his collection. When he was done,
• 59:34
  Speaker 1: he started back toward the stairs. That's when he saw me.
• 59:39
  Speaker 1: Your grandfather understood, he said calmly, like he'd expected to
• 59:43
  Speaker 1: find me there. These hills are sick, have been for generations,
• 59:47
  Speaker 1: since the first mines went deep, since they woke up
• 59:50
  Speaker 1: what was sleeping under the mountains. Sometimes the only thing
• 59:53
  Speaker 1: keeping people alive is what's in these jars. What's in them?
• 59:57
  Speaker 1: I asked. He smiled that same gap-toothed smile. You don't
• 1:00:02
  Speaker 1: want to know, but they work. They keep the sickness
• 1:00:05
  Speaker 1: at bay. Some of us, we'd be dead without these.
• 1:00:08
  Speaker 1: Been taking them for decades. Your grandfather, he made them.
• 1:00:12
  Speaker 1: He knew the recipes, knew what grew in the deep hollows,
• 1:00:14
  Speaker 1: what lived in the old caves. Knew how to harvest it,
• 1:00:17
  Speaker 1: prepare it, preserve it. He was a pharmacist. He was
• 1:00:21
  Speaker 1: something older than that. Something this town needed. I didn't
• 1:00:25
  Speaker 1: try to stop him as he climbed the stairs with
• 1:00:27
  Speaker 1: his basket. Didn't call the police. Just let him go,
• 1:00:31
  Speaker 1: locking the basement door behind him. The next day, I
• 1:00:34
  Speaker 1: examined the jars more carefully. Some contained herbs. I recognized
• 1:00:38
  Speaker 1: yarrow and ginseng and other plants that grew wild in
• 1:00:41
  Speaker 1: the mountains. Others held things I couldn't identify. Dark masses
• 1:00:46
  Speaker 1: suspended in fluid. Objects that might have been organs, though
• 1:00:49
  Speaker 1: I couldn't tell from what kind of animal. Shapes that
• 1:00:52
  Speaker 1: looked almost like fingers, pale and thin, floating in greenish liquid.
• 1:00:57
  Speaker 1: One jar made me drop my flashlight. It contained an eye. Human-sized,
• 1:01:02
  Speaker 1: floating in clear liquid. But wrong. The iris was slitted
• 1:01:06
  Speaker 1: like a cat's, and when my flashlight beam hit it,
• 1:01:09
  Speaker 1: the pupil contracted. It was still alive. I locked the
• 1:01:12
  Speaker 1: basement and never went down again. But every night I
• 1:01:15
  Speaker 1: heard them. Footsteps below. The sound of glass clinking. The
• 1:01:20
  Speaker 1: soft murmur of voices speaking in a language I didn't understand.
• 1:01:24
  Speaker 1: And sometimes when I'm closing up, I'll find a jar
• 1:01:27
  Speaker 1: on the counter that wasn't there before. No note, no explanation,
• 1:01:32
  Speaker 1: no money left in exchange. Just a name on the
• 1:01:35
  Speaker 1: label that matches someone in town who'd been sick. And
• 1:01:39
  Speaker 1: the next day, without fail, I'd see that person walking
• 1:01:42
  Speaker 1: around looking healthier than they had in years. Mrs. Jennings
• 1:01:45
  Speaker 1: with her chronic cough. Silent the day after a jar
• 1:01:49
  Speaker 1: appeared with her name. Old Tom Williams, who'd had cancer.
• 1:01:53
  Speaker 1: Walking upright, color in his cheeks again. Sarah Chen's little
• 1:01:57
  Speaker 1: girl who'd had seizures, running and playing like nothing had
• 1:02:01
  Speaker 1: ever been wrong. I kept the store open. I don't
• 1:02:05
  Speaker 1: go in the basement, but I leave the door unlocked.
• 1:02:08
  Speaker 1: And every few nights, I hear the footsteps. The old man,
• 1:02:12
  Speaker 1: or others like him, coming to collect what they need
• 1:02:15
  Speaker 1: to survive. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I
• 1:02:19
  Speaker 1: sold the place. If I destroyed the jars. If I
• 1:02:22
  Speaker 1: let the basement flood or burn or cave in. How
• 1:02:26
  Speaker 1: long would the people in this town last? What would
• 1:02:29
  Speaker 1: wake up in them, in their lungs and blood and bones,
• 1:02:31
  Speaker 1: if the medicine stopped flowing? I don't think about it
• 1:02:34
  Speaker 1: too much. I just keep the lights on, ring up
• 1:02:37
  Speaker 1: the ordinary purchases, and pretend I don't hear what moves
• 1:02:39
  Speaker 1: beneath my feet. Because my grandfather understood something I'm only
• 1:02:43
  Speaker 1: beginning to grasp. Some places are sick in ways doctors
• 1:02:47
  Speaker 1: can't heal. Some illnesses have been here longer than memory,
• 1:02:51
  Speaker 1: waiting in the dark places and the deep places. The
• 1:02:54
  Speaker 1: places where the mountains have secrets they've never shared. And
• 1:02:58
  Speaker 1: sometimes the only thing standing between people and those secrets
• 1:03:01
  Speaker 1: is an old man with trembling hands and a jar
• 1:03:04
  Speaker 1: of something that shouldn't exist. Story seven. I ran a
• 1:03:08
  Speaker 1: tow truck service out of Beckley, West Virginia, covering a
• 1:03:11
  Speaker 1: territory that stretched across three counties and more miles of
• 1:03:15
  Speaker 1: back roads than I cared to count. The work was steady,
• 1:03:18
  Speaker 1: if unpredictable. People breaking down at all hours. sometimes in
• 1:03:22
  Speaker 1: places that barely qualified as roads, always needing help immediately.
• 1:03:27
  Speaker 1: Most calls were straightforward. Dead batteries, flat tires, cars that
• 1:03:31
  Speaker 1: ran out of gas in inconvenient places. Sometimes I'd get
• 1:03:35
  Speaker 1: a call about an accident, and those were harder, dealing
• 1:03:38
  Speaker 1: with people who were hurt or scared or angry about
• 1:03:41
  Speaker 1: their ruined vehicles. But every now and then, you'd get
• 1:03:44
  Speaker 1: something strange. Something that made the hair on the back
• 1:03:47
  Speaker 1: of your neck stand up. Something that made you Drive
• 1:03:51
  Speaker 1: a little faster on your way back to town. One
• 1:03:54
  Speaker 1: night in November, early in the month when the first
• 1:03:56
  Speaker 1: real cold had settled in, I got a call around
• 1:03:59
  Speaker 1: 11 p.m. Dispatch forwarded me the information. A woman's car
• 1:04:03
  Speaker 1: had broken down on Route 16 near the old McCoy settlement.
• 1:04:06
  Speaker 1: I knew the area, had done calls out there before.
• 1:04:09
  Speaker 1: Nothing but woods and abandoned houses for miles. The last
• 1:04:13
  Speaker 1: remnants of a coal company town that had died in
• 1:04:15
  Speaker 1: the 70s when the mine closed. I found her car
• 1:04:19
  Speaker 1: on the shoulder about 20 minutes later, Hazard's blinking orange
• 1:04:22
  Speaker 1: in the darkness. A Honda Accord, maybe ten years old,
• 1:04:26
  Speaker 1: sitting at an odd angle like she'd coasted to a stop.
• 1:04:30
  Speaker 1: She was sitting inside, visible in my headlights, arms wrapped
• 1:04:33
  Speaker 1: around herself, despite the car running and the heat presumably on.
• 1:04:37
  Speaker 1: I pulled up behind her and got out. When I
• 1:04:39
  Speaker 1: tapped on the window, she jumped like I'd fired a gun.'
• 1:04:41
  Speaker 1: You call for a tow?' I asked when she rolled
• 1:04:46
  Speaker 1: down the window.' Thank God,' she said, her voice shaking.
• 1:04:50
  Speaker 1: I've been here for two hours. Nobody would stop. I
• 1:04:53
  Speaker 1: didn't point out that the stretch of road saw maybe
• 1:04:56
  Speaker 1: five cars a night. Instead, I asked what was wrong.
• 1:04:59
  Speaker 1: She said the car had just died. Engine running fine
• 1:05:01
  Speaker 1: one second, completely dead the next. She'd tried restarting it repeatedly,
• 1:05:06
  Speaker 1: but nothing happened. No click, no turnover, nothing. I popped
• 1:05:10
  Speaker 1: the hood and checked the obvious things. Battery connections were tight.
• 1:05:14
  Speaker 1: Battery itself showed good voltage on my meter. Fuel tank
• 1:05:18
  Speaker 1: was half full. No obvious leaks, no loose wires, nothing
• 1:05:21
  Speaker 1: that screamed, this is the problem. I'll hook you up,
• 1:05:25
  Speaker 1: I told her. Tow you into town. Got a shop
• 1:05:27
  Speaker 1: that'll look at it in the morning. She nodded and
• 1:05:30
  Speaker 1: climbed out of her car, grabbing her purse. Can I
• 1:05:33
  Speaker 1: ride with you? Sure, safer than the car while we're moving.
• 1:05:38
  Speaker 1: She climbed into my truck's passenger seat, still hugging herself,
• 1:05:41
  Speaker 1: even though my cab was warm. I hooked up her
• 1:05:44
  Speaker 1: car and we started the drive back to Beckley. Something wrong?
• 1:05:48
  Speaker 1: I asked after a few minutes of silence. She pointed
• 1:05:51
  Speaker 1: back toward the woods behind us. There's a house back there,
• 1:05:55
  Speaker 1: about 50 yards into the trees. Someone's living in it.
• 1:05:59
  Speaker 1: I looked in the rearview mirror but couldn't see anything
• 1:06:01
  Speaker 1: except darkness and the red glow of her car's taillights.
• 1:06:05
  Speaker 1: That's the old McCoy place, I said. Nobody's lived there
• 1:06:08
  Speaker 1: in decades. Whole settlement's been abandoned since the 70s. Someone's
• 1:06:14
  Speaker 1: there now, she insisted. I saw lights in the windows.
• 1:06:18
  Speaker 1: and someone was watching me. I could feel it. I
• 1:06:21
  Speaker 1: saw them standing at the window, just staring. I told
• 1:06:24
  Speaker 1: her it was probably hunters using it as a shelter.
• 1:06:28
  Speaker 1: That had happened sometimes. People who didn't want to pay
• 1:06:31
  Speaker 1: for a hotel or who wanted to be close to
• 1:06:34
  Speaker 1: their hunting grounds. She didn't look convinced. We were about
• 1:06:38
  Speaker 1: a mile down the road when my truck started sputtering.
• 1:06:41
  Speaker 1: The engine coughed, missed a beat, coughed again. I pressed
• 1:06:46
  Speaker 1: the accelerator. Nothing We were losing power. I coasted to
• 1:06:51
  Speaker 1: the shoulder, tried to restart it. The engine turned over once, twice,
• 1:06:55
  Speaker 1: then nothing. Completely dead. Just like her car. You've got
• 1:07:00
  Speaker 1: to be kidding me, I muttered. I grabbed my flashlight
• 1:07:03
  Speaker 1: and got out, popping the hood. Everything looked fine. Same
• 1:07:07
  Speaker 1: as her car. Battery good, connections tight, nothing obviously wrong.
• 1:07:12
  Speaker 1: I tried the ignition again. Dead. Not even a click.
• 1:07:17
  Speaker 1: That's when I saw it in my rearview mirror. A figure.
• 1:07:21
  Speaker 1: Standing in the middle of the road behind us. Tall,
• 1:07:23
  Speaker 1: unnaturally still. Just standing there, about 30 yards back. Silhouetted
• 1:07:28
  Speaker 1: against the darkness. Do you see that? The woman whispered
• 1:07:32
  Speaker 1: from inside the cab. I nodded, unable to speak. The
• 1:07:36
  Speaker 1: figure didn't move. Didn't wave. Didn't approach. Just stood there.
• 1:07:40
  Speaker 1: Perfect still. Like a statue someone had placed in the
• 1:07:44
  Speaker 1: center of the road. I tried the engine again, my
• 1:07:47
  Speaker 1: hands shaking. It turned over, caught, roared to life. I
• 1:07:51
  Speaker 1: slammed it into drive and floored it, the tow truck
• 1:07:54
  Speaker 1: lurching forward with her Honda bouncing behind us. In the
• 1:07:57
  Speaker 1: rearview mirror, the figure was gone. Just empty road and darkness.
• 1:08:02
  Speaker 1: We didn't stop until we reached Beckley. I dropped her
• 1:08:05
  Speaker 1: car at my shop and drove her to a motel.
• 1:08:08
  Speaker 1: She paid in cash and didn't say another word, just
• 1:08:10
  Speaker 1: thanked me quietly and went inside. The next morning, when
• 1:08:13
  Speaker 1: I went to check on her car, it was gone.
• 1:08:16
  Speaker 1: The lot where I'd left it was empty. No tire marks,
• 1:08:19
  Speaker 1: no signs that it had ever been there. I called
• 1:08:21
  Speaker 1: the woman. The number she'd given me was disconnected. I
• 1:08:25
  Speaker 1: called dispatch. They had no record of the call. No
• 1:08:28
  Speaker 1: log of me being sent to Route 16, no customer information, nothing.
• 1:08:32
  Speaker 1: The dispatcher on duty the night before said she hadn't
• 1:08:35
  Speaker 1: sent me anywhere, that I'd just left the shop on
• 1:08:37
  Speaker 1: my own. I drove back to the spot where I'd
• 1:08:40
  Speaker 1: picked her up. No car, no tire marks, no evidence
• 1:08:43
  Speaker 1: anyone had stopped there. I walked into the woods, toward
• 1:08:46
  Speaker 1: where she'd said the house was. I found it. The
• 1:08:49
  Speaker 1: old McCoy place, sagging and rotten. The roof collapsed in places,
• 1:08:53
  Speaker 1: windows broken out or boarded up. No lights, no signs
• 1:08:56
  Speaker 1: of life. But on the porch in the dust and
• 1:08:59
  Speaker 1: fallen leaves I saw fresh boot prints. And inside, through
• 1:09:03
  Speaker 1: the broken window, I saw something that made my blood freeze.
• 1:09:08
  Speaker 1: A tow truck. Mine. Sitting in the middle of the
• 1:09:11
  Speaker 1: living room, impossible as that was. Same color, same company
• 1:09:15
  Speaker 1: name on the door, same dent in the front bumper
• 1:09:17
  Speaker 1: from where I'd backed into a pole three years ago.
• 1:09:20
  Speaker 1: I ran back to my truck. It was still on
• 1:09:22
  Speaker 1: the road where I'd left it. But when I checked
• 1:09:24
  Speaker 1: the odometer, it showed an extra hundred miles I hadn't driven.
• 1:09:28
  Speaker 1: And in the passenger seat, I found a photo, old,
• 1:09:31
  Speaker 1: black and white, creased and faded. It showed my truck
• 1:09:34
  Speaker 1: parked in front of that house. And standing next to it,
• 1:09:37
  Speaker 1: clear as day, was me. But the photo was dated 1974,
• 1:09:40
  Speaker 1: 23 years before I was born. I never took another
• 1:09:45
  Speaker 1: call on Route 16. When dispatch would try to send
• 1:09:48
  Speaker 1: me out that way, I'd refuse, make up some excuse
• 1:09:51
  Speaker 1: about another job or mechanical problems. Eventually, they stopped asking.
• 1:09:56
  Speaker 1: But sometimes, when I'm driving at night on empty roads,
• 1:09:59
  Speaker 1: I'll see it in my rearview mirror. That figure, standing
• 1:10:03
  Speaker 1: in the middle of the road, perfectly still, getting a
• 1:10:06
  Speaker 1: little closer each time like it's patient, like it knows
• 1:10:09
  Speaker 1: eventually I'll stop running. And sometimes I'll find new photos
• 1:10:13
  Speaker 1: in my truck, in my house, in my mailbox, all
• 1:10:16
  Speaker 1: showing the same thing, Me, standing next to my truck,
• 1:10:20
  Speaker 1: in places I've never been, in years that haven't happened yet.
• 1:10:24
  Speaker 1: The latest one is dated next month, November 23rd. In
• 1:10:28
  Speaker 1: the photo, I'm not alone. There's someone standing behind me,
• 1:10:31
  Speaker 1: hand on my shoulder and face just out of frame.
• 1:10:34
  Speaker 1: And in the background, that house, waiting. I don't think
• 1:10:38
  Speaker 1: I'll make it to Thanksgiving this year. Story eight. I
• 1:10:42
  Speaker 1: made a living buying and reselling antiques, estate sales, auctions,
• 1:10:45
  Speaker 1: yard sales. sometimes just knocking on doors in old neighborhoods
• 1:10:49
  Speaker 1: and asking if people had anything they wanted to sell.
• 1:10:52
  Speaker 1: The Appalachian region was perfect for it. Old families with
• 1:10:55
  Speaker 1: things that had been passed down for generations. Farmhouses full
• 1:10:59
  Speaker 1: of forgotten furniture. Attics packed with items nobody remembered owning.
• 1:11:04
  Speaker 1: You could find real treasures if you knew what to
• 1:11:05
  Speaker 1: look for and weren't afraid to dig. I'd been doing
• 1:11:08
  Speaker 1: it for eight years, built up a decent network of contacts,
• 1:11:12
  Speaker 1: knew which auction houses to trust, and which antique malls
• 1:11:16
  Speaker 1: would give me fair prices. It wasn't making me rich,
• 1:11:19
  Speaker 1: but I lived comfortably. More importantly, I loved it. The hunt,
• 1:11:24
  Speaker 1: the discovery, the history contained in objects people no longer wanted.
• 1:11:29
  Speaker 1: One Saturday in September, I drove to a farmhouse outside
• 1:11:32
  Speaker 1: Bluefield to meet a woman who'd called about selling her
• 1:11:35
  Speaker 1: late mother's belongings. She sounded young on the phone, maybe 30s,
• 1:11:39
  Speaker 1: and she wanted everything gone. The estate was settled, the
• 1:11:43
  Speaker 1: house was going on the market, and she didn't want
• 1:11:45
  Speaker 1: to deal with sorting through decades of accumulated possessions. The
• 1:11:49
  Speaker 1: house was beautiful. White clapboard siding, black shutters, a wraparound
• 1:11:54
  Speaker 1: porch with rocking chairs. The garden was immaculate. Roses and
• 1:11:58
  Speaker 1: hydrangeas and boxwoods trimmed into perfect spheres. It looked like
• 1:12:03
  Speaker 1: something from a magazine, not like a house that had
• 1:12:05
  Speaker 1: been recently emptied by death. She met me at the door,
• 1:12:09
  Speaker 1: and we went straight to the attic. That's where most
• 1:12:12
  Speaker 1: of the good stuff usually was. things people had stored
• 1:12:14
  Speaker 1: and forgotten. She clearly just wanted it handled. She kept
• 1:12:18
  Speaker 1: checking her phone, answering texts, not really looking at what
• 1:12:22
  Speaker 1: I was evaluating. I started sorting through boxes, quilts, mostly machine-made,
• 1:12:28
  Speaker 1: but a few hand-stitched pieces that might be worth something,
• 1:12:31
  Speaker 1: depression glass in various colors, some pottery, McCoy and Hull,
• 1:12:36
  Speaker 1: common but sellable, a few pieces of jewelry in a
• 1:12:39
  Speaker 1: wooden box, costume stuff mostly, but I'd check it more
• 1:12:42
  Speaker 1: carefully later. Then I found the mirror. It was leaning
• 1:12:47
  Speaker 1: against the far wall, covered with a sheet. When I
• 1:12:50
  Speaker 1: pulled the sheet off, dust billowed up and made me cough.
• 1:12:54
  Speaker 1: The mirror was oval, maybe three feet tall, with an
• 1:12:57
  Speaker 1: ornate gold frame carved with flowers and vines. The glass
• 1:13:01
  Speaker 1: was slightly warped with age, the silvering at the back
• 1:13:04
  Speaker 1: showing dark spots where moisture had gotten in over the decades.
• 1:13:08
  Speaker 1: But it was beautiful. Exactly the kind of thing that
• 1:13:12
  Speaker 1: sold well to interior designers. and people renovating old houses.
• 1:13:17
  Speaker 1: How much for this? I asked. She looked at it,
• 1:13:20
  Speaker 1: and her face changed. Went pale. Her mouth tightened. You
• 1:13:25
  Speaker 1: can have it. Free? Really? This is worth at least...
• 1:13:31
  Speaker 1: Please take it, she interrupted. I don't want it in
• 1:13:33
  Speaker 1: the house. I don't want to look at it. Just
• 1:13:36
  Speaker 1: take it. Now. I should have asked why. Should have
• 1:13:40
  Speaker 1: listened to the urgency in her voice. the fear barely
• 1:13:43
  Speaker 1: hidden behind her insistence. But I was thinking about profit,
• 1:13:47
  Speaker 1: about how much I could sell it for, about what
• 1:13:49
  Speaker 1: a great find it was. I loaded it into my
• 1:13:52
  Speaker 1: van carefully, wrapped in blankets, secured with straps, drove home
• 1:13:56
  Speaker 1: thinking about where I'd listed, which shops might be interested.
• 1:14:00
  Speaker 1: I hung it in my bedroom that night above my dresser.
• 1:14:03
  Speaker 1: It looked perfect there, catching the light from my lamp,
• 1:14:06
  Speaker 1: making the room look bigger and more elegant. The first night,
• 1:14:09
  Speaker 1: nothing happened. I slept fine, Woke up rested. Admired the
• 1:14:14
  Speaker 1: mirror while I got dressed for the day. The second night,
• 1:14:17
  Speaker 1: I woke up at 3 a.m. The room was freezing,
• 1:14:20
  Speaker 1: cold enough that I could see my breath pluming in
• 1:14:22
  Speaker 1: the darkness. My thermostat read 72, but it felt like
• 1:14:26
  Speaker 1: it was below freezing. And in the mirror, my reflection
• 1:14:29
  Speaker 1: was wrong. I sat up in bed. My reflection stayed
• 1:14:33
  Speaker 1: lying down. I rubbed my eyes, thinking I was still
• 1:14:36
  Speaker 1: half asleep, confused. My reflection didn't rub its eyes. It
• 1:14:39
  Speaker 1: just lay there, staring at the ceiling. I got out
• 1:14:42
  Speaker 1: of bed slowly. My reflection remained in bed, not moving.
• 1:14:47
  Speaker 1: I walked toward the mirror. My reflection finally moved, but differently.
• 1:14:51
  Speaker 1: It turned its head to look at me, but I
• 1:14:53
  Speaker 1: hadn't turned my head. It smiled. I wasn't smiling. I
• 1:14:58
  Speaker 1: backed away fast, my heart hammering. The reflection sat up slowly,
• 1:15:02
  Speaker 1: moving in ways that didn't match my movements. It swung
• 1:15:05
  Speaker 1: its legs out of bed. It stood up. It walked
• 1:15:08
  Speaker 1: toward the mirror from the other side, getting closer and closer,
• 1:15:11
  Speaker 1: until its face was pressed against the glass. Its eyes
• 1:15:16
  Speaker 1: were wrong. Too dark. Too empty. And its smile was
• 1:15:20
  Speaker 1: too wide, showing too many teeth. I yanked the mirror
• 1:15:24
  Speaker 1: off the wall, carried it downstairs, took it outside to
• 1:15:27
  Speaker 1: the garage, set it face down against the wall, and
• 1:15:30
  Speaker 1: went back inside, locking every door behind me. I didn't
• 1:15:34
  Speaker 1: sleep the rest of that night. Just sat in my
• 1:15:36
  Speaker 1: living room with all the lights on, drinking coffee, telling
• 1:15:39
  Speaker 1: myself it was a nightmare that I'd been half-asleep confused.
• 1:15:43
  Speaker 1: The next morning, the mirror was back in my bedroom,
• 1:15:45
  Speaker 1: hanging exactly where it had been, like I'd never moved it.
• 1:15:49
  Speaker 1: I threw it away, drove it to the county dump,
• 1:15:51
  Speaker 1: watched the attendant take it and toss it onto a
• 1:15:53
  Speaker 1: pile of garbage, watched a bulldozer push the pile into
• 1:15:56
  Speaker 1: a pit and cover it with dirt, drove home feeling relieved,
• 1:15:59
  Speaker 1: feeling free. Two days later, it was in my living room,
• 1:16:03
  Speaker 1: leaning against the wall by the front door. I tried
• 1:16:06
  Speaker 1: to smash it, hit it with a hammer, a rock,
• 1:16:08
  Speaker 1: even backed my car over it in the driveway. The
• 1:16:11
  Speaker 1: glass wouldn't break, wouldn't even crack. Each impact just made
• 1:16:15
  Speaker 1: a dull thud, like hitting rubber instead of glass. Finally, desperate,
• 1:16:22
  Speaker 1: I called the woman I'd gotten it from. I told
• 1:16:25
  Speaker 1: you to take it, she said when I explained what
• 1:16:27
  Speaker 1: was happening. It keeps coming back. I've tried everything. My
• 1:16:31
  Speaker 1: mother tried everything before she died. The only way to
• 1:16:34
  Speaker 1: get rid of it is to give it to someone else.
• 1:16:37
  Speaker 1: Why didn't you warn me? Would you have believed me?
• 1:16:42
  Speaker 1: She hung up before I could respond. I stared at
• 1:16:45
  Speaker 1: the mirror at my reflection, staring back, but it wasn't
• 1:16:48
  Speaker 1: quite my reflection anymore. The eyes were wrong. The expression
• 1:16:53
  Speaker 1: was wrong. And when I turned to walk away, the
• 1:16:56
  Speaker 1: reflection stayed facing forward, watching. I gave the mirror to
• 1:17:01
  Speaker 1: a friend, told him it was valuable, that he could
• 1:17:04
  Speaker 1: sell it for good money. He was excited, thanked me,
• 1:17:06
  Speaker 1: loaded it into his truck. I felt guilty but relieved.
• 1:17:10
  Speaker 1: A week later, he called me, screaming. Incoherent. Saying things
• 1:17:15
  Speaker 1: about his reflection, about things he'd seen. About something trying
• 1:17:19
  Speaker 1: to get through. The line cut to static and went dead.
• 1:17:23
  Speaker 1: I tried calling back. The number was disconnected. The mirror
• 1:17:27
  Speaker 1: hasn't come back. Not yet. But I know it will.
• 1:17:31
  Speaker 1: They always do, eventually. The woman's mother probably thought she'd
• 1:17:35
  Speaker 1: escaped it, too, before it found its way back. And
• 1:17:39
  Speaker 1: sometimes when I look at any reflective surface, a window,
• 1:17:41
  Speaker 1: a phone screen, a puddle of water, I see it.
• 1:17:46
  Speaker 1: That figure from the mirror standing behind me. A little
• 1:17:50
  Speaker 1: closer each time. Its hand reaching out, fingers almost touching
• 1:17:54
  Speaker 1: my shoulder. I don't look in mirrors anymore if I
• 1:17:56
  Speaker 1: can help it. Don't catch my reflection in storefront windows.
• 1:18:00
  Speaker 1: Don't look at my phone screen unless absolutely necessary. Because
• 1:18:05
  Speaker 1: I know what I'll see. That smile. Those eyes. That hand.
• 1:18:11
  Speaker 1: Reaching through from the other side, waiting for the moment
• 1:18:13
  Speaker 1: when the glass stops being glass and becomes a doorway.
• 1:18:17
  Speaker 1: And when that moment comes, when the reflection finally touches
• 1:18:20
  Speaker 1: the real, I don't know which side I'll end up on.
• 1:18:23
  Speaker 1: Story nine. I worked as a substitute teacher in rural Kentucky,
• 1:18:28
  Speaker 1: filling in at schools across four counties whenever regular teachers
• 1:18:31
  Speaker 1: were sick or on leave. It wasn't a career. just
• 1:18:35
  Speaker 1: a way to pay bills while I figured out what
• 1:18:37
  Speaker 1: I actually wanted to do with my life. Most assignments
• 1:18:41
  Speaker 1: were routine. Keep the kids busy with worksheets, maintain basic order,
• 1:18:45
  Speaker 1: collect a paycheck. Sometimes you'd get a class that was difficult.
• 1:18:49
  Speaker 1: Kids who tested every boundary, but mostly it was just boring.
• 1:18:53
  Speaker 1: In October, I got a call for a week-long assignment
• 1:18:55
  Speaker 1: at a school in Harlan County. The regular teacher was
• 1:18:58
  Speaker 1: out sick. Something serious enough that they needed coverage for
• 1:19:01
  Speaker 1: at least a week, possibly longer. Fifth grade, room 12.
• 1:19:06
  Speaker 1: The pay was standard. and the school was only 40
• 1:19:08
  Speaker 1: minutes from my apartment, so I took it. The school
• 1:19:11
  Speaker 1: was old, probably built in the 50s. Single-story brick buildings
• 1:19:15
  Speaker 1: surrounded by woods that pressed close on three sides. The
• 1:19:19
  Speaker 1: parking lot was gravel, the playground equipment rusty but functional. Inside,
• 1:19:24
  Speaker 1: the hallways smelled like floor wax and cafeteria food, that
• 1:19:27
  Speaker 1: universal school smell that never changes no matter how old
• 1:19:30
  Speaker 1: the building is. Room 12 was at the far end
• 1:19:34
  Speaker 1: of a long hallway, the last door on the left.
• 1:19:37
  Speaker 1: The classroom was standard, desks in rows, alphabet letters above
• 1:19:41
  Speaker 1: the chalkboard, educational posters peeling at the edges, a bookshelf
• 1:19:46
  Speaker 1: full of worn paperbacks in the corner. The teacher's desk
• 1:19:49
  Speaker 1: was clear, except for a folder with lesson plans, and
• 1:19:52
  Speaker 1: a coffee mug with a faded, world's best teacher printed
• 1:19:56
  Speaker 1: on it. The first day went fine. Twenty-three students, mostly well-behaved,
• 1:20:02
  Speaker 1: a little shy with a new teacher, but willing to participate.
• 1:20:06
  Speaker 1: We did reading, math, a science worksheet about the water cycle.
• 1:20:09
  Speaker 1: Normal fifth grade stuff. But they kept glancing at the
• 1:20:12
  Speaker 1: back corner of the room. I followed their eyes. Empty space.
• 1:20:17
  Speaker 1: Just a bookshelf filled with old textbooks and some filing cabinets.
• 1:20:21
  Speaker 1: Nothing unusual. But every few minutes, one of them would
• 1:20:24
  Speaker 1: look back there. Quick glances like they were checking to
• 1:20:27
  Speaker 1: make sure something was still where it should be, or wasn't.
• 1:20:31
  Speaker 1: At lunch, one of the students stayed behind. A girl
• 1:20:33
  Speaker 1: named Emma, small for her age, with dark hair and
• 1:20:36
  Speaker 1: two braids. You shouldn't stay here after dark, she said quietly.
• 1:20:41
  Speaker 1: What do you mean? The teacher before you, Miss Patterson.
• 1:20:46
  Speaker 1: She saw something. That's why she's gone. That's why she's
• 1:20:49
  Speaker 1: not coming back. Before I could ask more questions, she
• 1:20:53
  Speaker 1: looked at the door nervously and ran out, her shoes
• 1:20:55
  Speaker 1: squeaking on the waxed floor. That afternoon, I stayed late
• 1:20:59
  Speaker 1: to grade papers. The school was empty by 5 p.m.
• 1:21:02
  Speaker 1: Teachers gone, janitors working on the other end of the building.
• 1:21:05
  Speaker 1: No sounds except the hum of fluorescent lights. Around 5.30,
• 1:21:09
  Speaker 1: the lights started flickering. Just for a second, then steady again.
• 1:21:13
  Speaker 1: Then I heard it. Humming. A child's voice, high and sweet,
• 1:21:19
  Speaker 1: coming from the hallway. A tune I didn't recognize, old-fashioned sounding.
• 1:21:24
  Speaker 1: It moved past my door, going away, getting fainter. I
• 1:21:28
  Speaker 1: opened the door and looked out. The hallway was dark.
• 1:21:32
  Speaker 1: The lights on this end had been turned off. The
• 1:21:35
  Speaker 1: humming stopped. I grabbed my things and left, walking quickly
• 1:21:38
  Speaker 1: through the dark hallway. My footsteps echoing. Nothing else. But
• 1:21:43
  Speaker 1: I felt watched. Felt like if I turned around, I'd
• 1:21:46
  Speaker 1: see something I didn't want to see. The next day,
• 1:21:49
  Speaker 1: I asked the principal about Ms. Patterson, the previous teacher.
• 1:21:53
  Speaker 1: He looked uncomfortable, shuffling papers on his desk. She had
• 1:21:57
  Speaker 1: some personal issues. Took a leave of absence. Medical. What
• 1:22:03
  Speaker 1: kind of issues? I can't really discuss personnel matters, but
• 1:22:07
  Speaker 1: she'll be fine. Just needed some time. How long was
• 1:22:10
  Speaker 1: she here before she left? Two weeks. He changed the subject,
• 1:22:15
  Speaker 1: asked if I needed any supplies, and I took the hint.
• 1:22:18
  Speaker 1: No more questions would be answered. That night I stayed
• 1:22:21
  Speaker 1: late again. I don't know why. Curiosity, maybe. Or stubbornness.
• 1:22:26
  Speaker 1: The thought that a grown woman wouldn't be scared of
• 1:22:28
  Speaker 1: an empty school and children's stories. At 6 p.m. exactly,
• 1:22:32
  Speaker 1: the humming started again. Inside the classroom this time, not
• 1:22:36
  Speaker 1: in the hall. Coming from the back corner where the
• 1:22:39
  Speaker 1: students kept looking. I approached slowly, my phone out, flashlight on.
• 1:22:44
  Speaker 1: The humming was louder now, clearer. That same old-fashioned tune,
• 1:22:48
  Speaker 1: childlike but wrong somehow. Too precise, too perfect. The air
• 1:22:53
  Speaker 1: grew cold as I got closer. Cold enough that my
• 1:22:57
  Speaker 1: breath came out in invisible puffs. And then I saw her.
• 1:23:00
  Speaker 1: A little girl sitting cross-legged on the floor, between the
• 1:23:03
  Speaker 1: bookshelf and the filing cabinets. She wore an old-fashioned dress,
• 1:23:07
  Speaker 1: the kind you'd see in photos from the 30s or 40s.
• 1:23:10
  Speaker 1: Simple cotton, faded blue with a white collar. Her face
• 1:23:14
  Speaker 1: was pale, skin almost translucent. Her eyes were hollow, dark
• 1:23:18
  Speaker 1: circles that seemed to go back too far, deeper than
• 1:23:22
  Speaker 1: eye sockets should be. She looked up at me and smiled.
• 1:23:26
  Speaker 1: Are you my new teacher? She asked. Her voice was
• 1:23:29
  Speaker 1: sweet but wrong. like it was coming from far away
• 1:23:32
  Speaker 1: even though she was right in front of me. I
• 1:23:34
  Speaker 1: couldn't speak, couldn't move. My throat had closed up and
• 1:23:37
  Speaker 1: my legs felt rooted to the floor. She stood up smoothly,
• 1:23:41
  Speaker 1: like she was floating rather than using her legs. The
• 1:23:44
  Speaker 1: last teacher didn't like me. She left. She screamed and
• 1:23:48
  Speaker 1: screamed and then she left. She moved closer. Her feet
• 1:23:52
  Speaker 1: didn't touch the floor. She hovered an inch above it,
• 1:23:55
  Speaker 1: drifting toward me with that same smile. Will you stay?
• 1:23:59
  Speaker 1: Will you be my teacher? I've been waiting so long
• 1:24:02
  Speaker 1: for someone to stay. I ran, grabbed my bag off
• 1:24:06
  Speaker 1: the desk and ran, bursting through the door into the hallway.
• 1:24:10
  Speaker 1: Behind me I heard laughter, high, bright, childish. But underneath it,
• 1:24:15
  Speaker 1: something else. Something that sounded like crying, like endless grief
• 1:24:19
  Speaker 1: wrapped in the sound of joy. I didn't stop until
• 1:24:22
  Speaker 1: I was in my car, doors locked, engine running. My
• 1:24:26
  Speaker 1: hands shook so badly I could barely grip the steering wheel.
• 1:24:29
  Speaker 1: I called the school the next morning and quit. Didn't
• 1:24:31
  Speaker 1: give a reason, just said I couldn't continue the assignment.
• 1:24:35
  Speaker 1: They didn't argue. The secretary who took my call sounded
• 1:24:37
  Speaker 1: almost relieved, like she'd been expecting it. A month later,
• 1:24:41
  Speaker 1: I ran into another substitute teacher at a training session.
• 1:24:45
  Speaker 1: When I mentioned the school in Harlan County, she went pale.
• 1:24:49
  Speaker 1: You worked at that school? In room 12? I nodded.
• 1:24:54
  Speaker 1: I did too, last year. Lasted three days. Did you
• 1:24:57
  Speaker 1: see her? The girl, she nodded. I looked into it
• 1:25:03
  Speaker 1: after I left. Did some research at the county library.
• 1:25:07
  Speaker 1: In 1947, a student in that school died. A girl
• 1:25:10
  Speaker 1: named Caroline. She fell down the stairs and broke her neck.
• 1:25:14
  Speaker 1: Her classroom was room 12. They say she's been there
• 1:25:17
  Speaker 1: ever since, waiting for class to start again. Waiting for
• 1:25:21
  Speaker 1: a teacher who will stay. What happened to her teacher?
• 1:25:25
  Speaker 1: The one who was there when she died? Quit the
• 1:25:28
  Speaker 1: next day. Never taught again. Moved to California and refused
• 1:25:32
  Speaker 1: to talk about it. That was the last normal teacher
• 1:25:35
  Speaker 1: room 12 had. Since then, nobody lasts more than a
• 1:25:38
  Speaker 1: few weeks. The school keeps trying, keeps hiring new people,
• 1:25:42
  Speaker 1: but nobody stays. I heard they finally closed room 12
• 1:25:46
  Speaker 1: last year. Safety concerns, the official statement said. Structural issues
• 1:25:51
  Speaker 1: with that section of the building, but I know the truth.
• 1:25:54
  Speaker 1: She's still there. Still sitting in that back corner wearing
• 1:25:58
  Speaker 1: her blue dress... Humming that old-fashioned tune, still waiting for
• 1:26:01
  Speaker 1: someone to stay. Someone to teach her. Someone to finally
• 1:26:05
  Speaker 1: acknowledge that she's still there. Still waiting for class to continue.
• 1:26:09
  Speaker 1: Still hoping that someone, anyone, will see her as more
• 1:26:12
  Speaker 1: than a ghost. And sometimes late at night, I'll wake
• 1:26:17
  Speaker 1: up and hear it. That humming. Coming from somewhere I
• 1:26:21
  Speaker 1: can't locate. And I'll find myself humming along. The tune
• 1:26:26
  Speaker 1: coming from my lips, even though I don't know it.
• 1:26:28
  Speaker 1: have never heard it anywhere else. And in those moments,
• 1:26:33
  Speaker 1: I wonder if maybe I didn't escape at all. Maybe
• 1:26:36
  Speaker 1: a part of me is still there, still in room 12,
• 1:26:40
  Speaker 1: still listening to a dead child hum and smile and wait.
• 1:26:43
  Speaker 1: Story 10. I did odd jobs around eastern Tennessee, fixing roofs,
• 1:26:48
  Speaker 1: painting houses, clearing gutters, building decks, whatever people needed done.
• 1:26:52
  Speaker 1: It wasn't steady work, but I liked being independent, liked
• 1:26:55
  Speaker 1: working with my hands, liked seeing the immediate results of
• 1:26:57
  Speaker 1: my labor. One week in early October, I got hired
• 1:27:00
  Speaker 1: to renovate a cabin outside Gatlinburg. The owner had inherited
• 1:27:04
  Speaker 1: it from an uncle he'd barely known and wanted it
• 1:27:06
  Speaker 1: fixed up to rent out through one of those vacation
• 1:27:09
  Speaker 1: rental websites. The place needed work. The roof leaked. The
• 1:27:13
  Speaker 1: porch sagged. The interior hadn't been updated since the 70s.
• 1:27:17
  Speaker 1: He offered me a flat rate for three weeks of work,
• 1:27:21
  Speaker 1: room and board included, if I wanted to stay on
• 1:27:23
  Speaker 1: site to save time commuting. It was a beautiful spot,
• 1:27:27
  Speaker 1: I had to admit. deep in the woods, surrounded by
• 1:27:30
  Speaker 1: rhododendron and mountain laurel, a creek running nearby that you
• 1:27:34
  Speaker 1: could hear from the porch. Peaceful. Isolated. The kind of
• 1:27:39
  Speaker 1: place people from cities would pay good money to stay
• 1:27:41
  Speaker 1: for a week, to pretend they were living simply. The
• 1:27:45
  Speaker 1: first day I focused on the exterior, replaced some boards
• 1:27:48
  Speaker 1: on the siding where water damage had rotted them through,
• 1:27:51
  Speaker 1: patched the roof with new shingles, scraped and repainted the trim,
• 1:27:56
  Speaker 1: The work went smoothly and by sunset I'd made good progress.
• 1:28:00
  Speaker 1: The second day I moved inside. That's when things started
• 1:28:03
  Speaker 1: feeling wrong. The cabin was one large room with a
• 1:28:06
  Speaker 1: sleeping loft, accessible by a ladder. The walls were covered
• 1:28:09
  Speaker 1: in old photographs, dozens of them, all in mismatched frames.
• 1:28:14
  Speaker 1: Family pictures from what looked like the 30s and 40s.
• 1:28:18
  Speaker 1: Men in work clothes, women in simple dresses, children with
• 1:28:21
  Speaker 1: serious expressions. Normal enough for an old family cabin. But
• 1:28:26
  Speaker 1: in every single photograph, one face was scratched out. Same
• 1:28:30
  Speaker 1: person in different pictures, always scratched out with something sharp
• 1:28:34
  Speaker 1: that had torn through the paper and sometimes the glass.
• 1:28:37
  Speaker 1: Always the same figure, a tall man standing at the
• 1:28:40
  Speaker 1: edge of each group photo, always slightly blurred, like he'd
• 1:28:44
  Speaker 1: moved just as the shutter clicked. I started working on
• 1:28:47
  Speaker 1: the floor, pulling up old carpet that smelled like mildew
• 1:28:50
  Speaker 1: and dust. Underneath, the boards were stained. Dark. Irregular patterns
• 1:28:56
  Speaker 1: that could have been water damage but weren't. I'd seen
• 1:29:00
  Speaker 1: bloodstains before, helped clean up after enough accidents to recognize
• 1:29:03
  Speaker 1: the pattern. These were old, soaked deep into the wood grain.
• 1:29:07
  Speaker 1: Impossible to clean out, even if I'd wanted to try.
• 1:29:10
  Speaker 1: I kept working. I needed the money, and daylight made
• 1:29:13
  Speaker 1: everything seem less ominous. It was just an old cabin
• 1:29:17
  Speaker 1: with a sad history, nothing more. That night I stayed
• 1:29:20
  Speaker 1: in the cabin. The owner had said I couldn't just
• 1:29:22
  Speaker 1: save on driving back and forth, and it made sense
• 1:29:24
  Speaker 1: to be on site for early starts. I set up
• 1:29:27
  Speaker 1: a cot in the corner... Made some dinner on a
• 1:29:29
  Speaker 1: camp stove. Tried to read by lantern light. At midnight, exactly,
• 1:29:33
  Speaker 1: I heard scratching. Not mice. Not branches on the roof.
• 1:29:38
  Speaker 1: Scratching like nails on wood, deliberate and rhythmic. It was
• 1:29:41
  Speaker 1: coming from the loft. I grabbed my flashlight and shined
• 1:29:44
  Speaker 1: it up. Nothing. Just shadows in the underside of the roof.
• 1:29:48
  Speaker 1: The scratching moved. Now it was coming from the walls
• 1:29:50
  Speaker 1: all around me. Circling. A rhythm to it. Almost like
• 1:29:53
  Speaker 1: a message being tapped out in some code I didn't understand.
• 1:29:58
  Speaker 1: I grabbed my phone to call someone. The owner, the police, anyone.
• 1:30:02
  Speaker 1: But there was no signal. Never had been out here.
• 1:30:05
  Speaker 1: The owner had mentioned that. Said it was part of
• 1:30:08
  Speaker 1: the charm of the location. I grabbed my things and left,
• 1:30:11
  Speaker 1: spending the night in my truck at a gas station
• 1:30:13
  Speaker 1: ten miles down the mountain. The next morning, I forced
• 1:30:17
  Speaker 1: myself to go back. It was daylight. I was being ridiculous.
• 1:30:21
  Speaker 1: Old cabins make noise. Wind, settling wood, animals, all perfectly explainable.
• 1:30:26
  Speaker 1: But when I opened the door, I saw it. Written
• 1:30:29
  Speaker 1: on the wall in something dark and flaky that might
• 1:30:31
  Speaker 1: have been rust or dried blood. Get out. Big letters, uneven,
• 1:30:37
  Speaker 1: like someone had used their finger to write it. The
• 1:30:40
  Speaker 1: wall had been blank the night before. I was sure
• 1:30:43
  Speaker 1: of it. I finished the job in three days instead
• 1:30:46
  Speaker 1: of three weeks. Work dawned to dusk, didn't stop, didn't
• 1:30:50
  Speaker 1: stay after dark. Did the bare minimum to satisfy the contract?
• 1:30:54
  Speaker 1: patched the worst of the damage, slapped on some paint,
• 1:30:57
  Speaker 1: called it done. The owner complained that it wasn't finished,
• 1:31:01
  Speaker 1: but I told him I had another job lined up,
• 1:31:03
  Speaker 1: couldn't extend. He paid me reluctantly, and I left. A
• 1:31:07
  Speaker 1: month later, I heard the cabin had burned down. Electrical fire,
• 1:31:11
  Speaker 1: the insurance company said. Weird, because I'd updated the wiring,
• 1:31:15
  Speaker 1: made sure everything was up to code. But I knew better.
• 1:31:18
  Speaker 1: I knew what I'd seen on that last morning, hidden
• 1:31:21
  Speaker 1: behind where a picture frame had hung, scratched into the
• 1:31:24
  Speaker 1: wood paneling. A name, a date, and the words, they
• 1:31:27
  Speaker 1: never found me. Sarah McKenzie, October 15th, 1973. I looked
• 1:31:33
  Speaker 1: it up when I got home. Sarah McKenzie had disappeared
• 1:31:36
  Speaker 1: from a family cabin in the mountains outside Gatlinburg in
• 1:31:39
  Speaker 1: October 1973. She was 17, last seen by her family
• 1:31:43
  Speaker 1: when she went for a walk in the woods. Search
• 1:31:46
  Speaker 1: parties found nothing. The case went cold. The cabin where
• 1:31:50
  Speaker 1: she disappeared was torn down in 1975. The family couldn't
• 1:31:54
  Speaker 1: bear to keep it, But I know now where she was.
• 1:31:57
  Speaker 1: I know what happened. And I know why that one
• 1:32:00
  Speaker 1: face was scratched out of every photograph. Because whoever took her,
• 1:32:03
  Speaker 1: whoever killed her, and left her under those floorboards was
• 1:32:06
  Speaker 1: in those pictures, was part of that family. And someone,
• 1:32:11
  Speaker 1: maybe Sarah's ghost, maybe some echo of truth trying to surface,
• 1:32:16
  Speaker 1: had marked him. I don't take jobs in isolated cabins anymore.
• 1:32:20
  Speaker 1: Don't work on old family properties in the mountains. Because
• 1:32:23
  Speaker 1: sometimes the walls hold more than memories. Sometimes they hold
• 1:32:27
  Speaker 1: secrets that were never meant to be found. And sometimes
• 1:32:31
  Speaker 1: late at night, I'll wake up and smell it. That
• 1:32:34
  Speaker 1: sweet chemical smell of decay and preservation. And I'll hear
• 1:32:38
  Speaker 1: scratching coming from inside the walls of wherever I'm sleeping.
• 1:32:42
  Speaker 1: Getting closer, getting louder. Like something's trying to dig its
• 1:32:46
  Speaker 1: way through. Like something wants to be found. Like all
• 1:32:50
  Speaker 1: those secrets buried in the mountains are trying to claw
• 1:32:53
  Speaker 1: their way back to the light. And maybe someday they will.
• 1:32:57
  Speaker 1: And there you have it. Ten terrifying true stories from
• 1:33:00
  Speaker 1: the Appalachian Mountains. Stories that remind us why some places
• 1:33:04
  Speaker 1: should be left alone, why some roads shouldn't be traveled
• 1:33:07
  Speaker 1: after dark, and why some secrets are buried for good reason.
• 1:33:11
  Speaker 1: If you made it this far, thank you for watching.
• 1:33:14
  Speaker 1: These stories matter to me, and sharing them with you
• 1:33:16
  Speaker 1: matters even more. But I need your help. Park Ranger
• 1:33:20
  Speaker 1: files are so close to hitting 1,000 subscribers before my
• 1:33:24
  Speaker 1: birthday next month, and I can't do it without you.
• 1:33:27
  Speaker 1: please hit that subscribe button right now. Give this video
• 1:33:31
  Speaker 1: a thumbs up, and most importantly, drop a comment below
• 1:33:34
  Speaker 1: telling me which story kept you up at night. Which
• 1:33:37
  Speaker 1: one made you check your locks? Which one will you
• 1:33:39
  Speaker 1: be thinking about the next time you're alone in the dark?
• 1:33:42
  Speaker 1: I read every single comment, and your engagement helps this
• 1:33:45
  Speaker 1: channel grow. Share this video with your friends who love horror,
• 1:33:49
  Speaker 1: with your family members who appreciate a good ghost story,
• 1:33:53
  Speaker 1: with anyone who understands that Sometimes truth is stranger and
• 1:33:56
  Speaker 1: scarier than fiction. Until next time, stay safe out there.
• 1:34:00
  Speaker 1: Keep your doors locked. Don't stop on empty roads after dark.
• 1:34:04
  Speaker 1: And remember, the mountains are old, older than we can imagine.
• 1:34:07
  Speaker 1: And they're still keeping secrets we were never meant to discover.