by RH Pinkston
In the mountains, there are just some stories that nobody likes to talk about. Around town, maybe over a few drinks or sitting around a warm fireplace, folks might make light of them of course. Use them to scare the kids or show off their own bravado. But up here in the dark, those kind of tales sink into your bones and linger—they’re the sort you remember when the trees seem a little too still, and the only sound is your own breathing. The ones that everyone swears they heard from someone else, but no one’s too eager to claim it as their own. Fair warning, friends, this is one of those stories…
So, let me tell you about the time a group of hikers set out on a trip. They were college kids at the state school, just looking for a weekend getaway. You know the type: fresh faces, big plans, think they got the world figured out. It was supposed to be a simple, easy hike, a weekend with the mountains and the stars and each other. Nothing fancy, nothing too wild.
There were four of them—two couples, mind you—Jack and Susanna, and Mark and Deya. They were the kind of group that clicks initially by accident but sticks together like family. Jack, sandy hair and blue-eyed, was the clever one, the kid who always had something to say and usually thought he was the smartest person in the room. Susanna was quieter, a city girl with dark hair and caramel skin who could be sharp and sarcastic but kept to herself mostly. She had a way of looking at things that made you wonder if she was seeing something you couldn’t. Mark, on the other hand, was one of those tall, muscled small-town jocks who thought he was invincible. And Deya, a sweet girl—an exchange student from some small European country…I forget which one—grounded and practical. She loved the outdoors, always felt at home there. In a way, they all did. That’s why they got along, I suppose.
One Friday afternoon in late October, they left class early, packed their gear, and loaded up Jack’s car. The car was full of laughter as they made their way out of town toward the Big Ridge Trailhead, a feeder trail that connected to the Appalachian Trail up near Crescent Mountain. The winding road was misty and pools of fog ebbed and flowed from the autumn wood line as they passed. It grew thicker as they parked in the gravel lot, like a blanket lying low over the earth. The air held a crisp bite that only came this time of year. As they unloaded their bags, the trailhead loomed ahead, framed by a canopy of trees that seemed to whisper conspiratorially to each other in the afternoon breeze.
The trail was wide and inviting as it branched out from the parking lot. Jack moved up the trail quickly, sure of foot, with Mark and Deya a little ways behind. Susanna was the only one who hesitated, suddenly overcome by an unsettled feeling. Like she had been here before. She stood looking up the trail, uncertain.
“You guys ready?” Jack called from up ahead.
Susanna took a deep breath, and then took a step forward.
They moved up the trail at a brisk pace around the first bend. And that’s when they saw it…the cabin.
It was perched on top of a hill, half-hidden by trees and constructed of rough and weathered squared logs, looking for all the world like it had been there for as long as the mountains. The place looked like something snatched from an old sepia-toned photograph—wood darkened by the years, roof sloping just enough to make you wonder how it was still standing. A hand painted sign that said “General Store” swung from two rusty chains over the sagging steps of a small front porch. None of the hikers remembered seeing it the last time they were at Big Ridge, but here it was nonetheless, as plain as day.
Jack was the first to point it out. “Did they just… build this? Or move it in from somewhere else? It certainly doesn’t look new.”
Mark shrugged. “Who cares? It’s probably some rustic charm thing. People eat that crap up, right?”
Deya nodded, almost absentmindedly, caught up in her own thoughts. “It does looks… old,” she said quietly. “But I’ve been here three times and I have never seen it before.”
Susanna only squinted, the uneasy feeling that had hit her in the parking lot growing stronger now and settling in her stomach. Only Jack noticed the way her gaze lingered on the cabin as a faint shiver traveled up her spine despite the warm afternoon sun.
“What’s wrong, Sue?”
“Nothing,” she lied. “I guess a rabbit ran over my grave.”
Jack laughed. “What?”
Susanna shrugged and attempted a smile. “Just something my mother used to say. Never mind.”
“Let’s go check it out,” Jack suggested, grinning as he slung his pack over his shoulder. “Come on…where’s your sense of adventure?”
The others were less sure, but before long curiosity got the better of them. They made their way up the narrow path toward the cabin, pushing aside branches that scratched at their arms like claws. When they reached the door, they paused, glancing at each other.
“Screw it,” Mark said, and pushed his way inside. The others followed.
Inside, the cabin was dimly lit, the smell of earth and pine mixing with something older, something that felt like it had been trapped for years. The shelves were lined with a myriad of old supplies—canned food, forged picks and shovels, weathered maps, and an assortment of handmade trinkets. In the corner, just beyond the reach of the dusty light that filtered in through two dirty glass panes, sat a small, hunched figure. He was an old man, but exactly how old was hard to say. His eyes sparkled in the shadows, too sharp for his age.
“Howdy, folks,” he greeted, his voice as rough as the floorboards beneath their feet. He stood slowly, unfolding himself from the stool he had been perched on. He was taller than he had seemed at first glance. He gave them a nod, his gaze lingering just a second too long on each of them. “Anything in particular you’re looking for today?”
The hikers exchanged uneasy looks, uncertain what to make of him. There was something about the old man—something timeless, like he’d been carved from the same rock as the mountains themselves. His beard was wiry and his skin as tough as leather, with deep lines etched into his face that seemed older than the cabin itself.
“No, just looking around,” Jack finally said.
“No crime in that,” the old man replied, stepping out fully into the light. “Name’s Luc. But most folks ‘round here just call me ol’ Scratch.”
“Jack,” the lead hiker said, stepping forward with his hand extended. “And this is my girlfriend, Susanna, and our friends Mark and Deya.”
“Pleasure,” Scratch said, grasping each of their hands in turn with his leathery palm. “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you out here?” His eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. “You don’t look like the usual weekenders.”
Jack, ever confident, shot him a grin. “Guess that’s ‘cause we’re not the usual type. We hike light and fast. Leave no trace. Take only memories and all that.”
Scratch gave a little smirk. “That might be true enough,” he said, taking a yellowed, twisted walking stick from against the wall and resting his weight on it. “You just never can tell. But tell me…y’all ain’t planning on staying out past dark, are ya?” His voice dropped low, and he leaned in as if to tell them a secret. “Tomorrow night’s a witches’ moon, you know. Ain’t safe for nice folks after dark. ‘Specially nice city folk.”
The hikers let out a collective chuckle; they were all uneasy, but trying not to show it. Susanna’s smile was tight, her eyes lingering on Scratch like she was trying to figure him out. Or like she had seen him before. Mark just crossed his arms over his chest and laughed. “Witches’ moon, huh? We’ll be fine, old timer. It’s just a hike in the woods.”
Deya let out a nervous laugh and gave her blonde ponytail a little tug. “If anything, a full moon makes it easier for all to see, right?” she said, her accent thick.
Scratch glared at her and cocked his head to the side disapprovingly. Then his gaze flicked to Susanna, and his expression softened ever so slightly. “You,” he said, his voice a murmur that felt like it was meant only for her. “You might be alright. Got a little witch in you already, don’t ya?”
The words hung in the air, chilling her more than she’d care to admit. She didn’t know if it was a compliment or a warning, but it made her feel cold inside. Jack stepped forward, pulling her a little behind him and attempting another grin to break the tension. “Alright, Mr. Scratch, you’ve got us spooked,” he said. “We’ll be going now, but don’t you worry, we’ll keep an eye out for witches.”
It was Scratch’s turn to chuckle, a low, rumbling sound. “You do that,” he said. “But don’t say ole Scratch didn’t warn ya.” He paused, giving his chin whiskers a good pull as if a new thought had just come to him. “Tell you what, if you can’t be talked out of venturing out on the mountain during a witches’ moon, perhaps you’d be willing to keep a lookout for something else for me? Those old hags took it from me a long time ago, and I ain’t forgotten.”
“What is it?” Susanna’s voice was almost a whisper.
Scratch’s deep eyes flickered. “Gold, my dear!” The old man threw up his arms and flashed a wicked, gnarly grin. “My treasure! You bring it back to me, I swear on all that’s holy and everything that’s not that I’ll give you anything. Whatever you want!”
The absurd promise of treasure was enough to lighten the mood, and the hikers left the old general store laughing, their footsteps crunching on the gravel as they headed up the trail. But as they rounded the bend, Susanna glanced back, half-expecting to see Scratch watching them from the doorway. Instead, the cabin was gone.
They brushed it off, blaming it on a trick of the light or their own overactive imaginations. But the memory of Scratch’s eyes, sharp and knowing, lingered in the back of their minds.
* * *
The hike was peaceful enough at first. They followed the winding trail as it snaked through the forest, the canopy of trees casting long shadows across the ground. The air was cool and still, and every now and then, a bird would call out, its song echoing through the trees. But as the day wore on, a strange quiet settled over the woods. The usual sounds of the forest—rustling leaves, chittering squirrels, the distant hum of insects—faded away, leaving only the sound of their own footsteps. It was like the forest was holding its breath.
That night, they set up camp in a small clearing, building a fire to stave off the chill. They roasted marshmallows and shared stories, their laughter filling the silence that had crept up around them. But as the fire crackled, the shadows seemed to stretch, creeping closer with each flicker of flame.
Susanna stared into the darkness, her mind drifting back to Scratch’s warning. She hadn’t told the others, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching them, hidden just beyond the reach of the firelight.
When they finally crawled into their sleeping bags, exhaustion took hold, pulling them into a restless sleep. But their dreams were filled with strange, unsettling images—dark woods, shadows flickering through the trees, impressions of lithe silhouettes dancing around a fire.
They were beautiful at first, sensual even, their laughter and voices soft and lilting. But there was something wrong about them. Their faces seemed to shift, their skin stretching like it didn’t quite fit…
* * *
The hikers awoke early. An uneasy malaise had settled around the camp, each of them haunted by the same dream but unwilling to speak of it. Instead, they packed up their gear in silence, their usual banter replaced by a tension that none of them could explain. Their simple breakfast of honey, oatmeal, and dried fruit—usually delightful after a hard afternoon hike and a night sleeping on the ground—was bland and unappetizing in their mouths.
As they pressed on, the trail began to twist in ways that didn’t feel right. Around midday, Deya stopped abruptly, removed her pack, and flopped down on a large flat rock. “Enough,” she sighed.
Everyone stopped walking and turned to her. “You alright?” Jack asked.
“No,” she answered. “We should head back. The vibes on this trail are way off. Maybe that sounds silly, but we all know it’s true. Just no one wants to say it. So I’ll say it.”
There was some muttering and mumbled discussion, some scuffing of feet in the dirt, but ultimately none of the other hikers disagreed. “Let’s head back, then,” Jack finally said, enunciating the group’s consensus.
But as they turned to go, they were met by a new challenge. The trail had been narrow for a while, not much more than a game trail running through the underbrush, but now it seemed almost as if the trees had closed in behind them. Worse, in the direction that they had come from, the trail appeared to fork into four different paths, and they could not agree on which one had brought them to the point they were at.
Mark pulled a map from the cargo pocket of his pants and squinted down at it, his brow furrowing. “This doesn’t make sense. I had a pretty good idea of where we were at. We should have hit the A.T. by now.”
Jack tried the small GPS unit he carried in his pack, but after fifteen minutes it still hadn’t locked onto any satellites. Their phones were without signal, too. Slowly, the reality of their situation began to sink in—they were lost, with no map, no GPS, and surrounded by an endless sea of autumn trees—yellow, brown, green and red stretched in every direction as far as they could see.
They argued at first, their voices rising as they tried to place blame, but Susanna stood apart, her eyes scanning the trees like she was expecting something to emerge from the shadows. More than once, she thought she heard playful, or perhaps taunting, laughter rising up the hillside from the valley below, but the others seemed unaware.
By the time the sun began to dip low, they had made peace with the fact that they would have to spend another night on the trail. They found a clearing and built another fire, this one bigger, casting long, flickering shadows that danced along the edge of the clearing. The air grew colder, and the silence deepened, pressing in on them like a weight. Fog, thick and chilling, rose up from the valley and filled the woods around the clearing. The moon rose in the sky above them, huge, and pregnant and a dull, grim orange.
And then the witches came.
Out in the darkness, a stick snapped. Jack shown a flashlight in the direction, catching a slender face framed by raven black hair for a brief second before it disappeared. “Who’s there?” he shouted. Another snap. “Show yourself! Now!”
Only silence answered.
Mark, who had been roasting a marshmallow on a sharpened stick, rose to his feet and scanned the foggy woods. “Maybe it was just a—”
Then, one by one, three women emerged from the shadows, stepping out of the tree line just beyond the reach of the firelight. They appeared beautiful at first in the darkness. Their faces were serene, their bodies long and supple, covered by wispy grey garments that were somewhere between robes and rags. But as they got closer, the firelight twisted their features, their beauty unraveling in ways that defied reason. The skin on their faces seemed too tight, stretching over sharp cheekbones and hollow eyes that gleamed with an unnatural light. Their smiles grew too wide, teeth a bit too sharp and gleaming in the firelight.
They began to sing softly, their voices soft and lilting, the words strange and undistinguishable to the hikers. They kept moving, a slow, rhythmic step that seemed more like a dance, circling just beyond the fire.
Deya was the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper as she huddled close to Mark. “What… what are they?”
Mark snorted. “Probably just some locals trying to mess with us. Get out of here!” he shouted at them, raising his stick with a now flaming marshmallow toward them like some kind of fiery spear.
Jack clutched the flashlight tightly, moving the beam from woman to woman. They squinted against the glare, their eyes reflecting iridescent green as it illuminated them, but showed no other reaction.
Susanna just watched, her eyes transfixed by the women. Her heart pounded, a cold dread filling her chest as she realized they looked exactly like the women from her dream. She felt Jack reaching for her hand reassuringly, but found herself pushing away instinctively, tensing her body for whatever came next.
One of the women—taller than the others, her hair long and braided with feathers and flowers and bones—paused and tilted her head, as if listening to some unheard melody. She opened her mouth to speak, her voice smooth and honeyed. “Why so frightened, loves?” Her gaze swept over them, lingering on each of their faces. “We’re just here to welcome you. This is our home after all. This is our night.”
Mark pulled himself to full height, towering above the strange woman. He jabbed the flaming stick in the air toward her. “We don’t need a welcome, lady. We’re just passing through.”
The tall woman smiled wider. “Passing through?” Her voice carried a note of amusement, a quiet, mocking laughter. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re already where you belong.”
Jack shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to Susanna as if hoping for some kind of reassurance. But Susanna was still, rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on the women. Jack remembered Scratch’s warning. He could feel an itch, a gnawing whisper in his mind, urging him to get out, to run, but he couldn’t seem to move.
The second woman—shorter, her face sharp and angular—laughed, the sound high and grating, like glass breaking. “You’ve already given yourselves to this place,” she whispered, stepping forward until she was just inches from the edge of the firelight. “You’re just like all the others.”
Deya shivered, her eyes wide with terror. “What… what do you mean?”
The third woman stepped forward, a toothy grin spread on her narrow face. “This isn’t just a trail, dear hearts. It’s an alter. A place of sacrifice—of magic and blood and secrets. You did not head the warning. You’ve offered yourself to it, willingly.” She leaned closer, her eyes glinting in the firelight. “And it…we…have accepted you.”
Jack and Mark exchanged a look, the reality sinking in. The woods were no longer just a scenic backdrop; they were a trap, a place where time and reason had warped beyond recognition.
“Screw you, lady!” Mark shouted, swinging the burning stick at the woman. Bits of melting marshmallow flew towards her, but she only laughed, the mocking sound echoing through the forest.
The tallest woman stretched out a bony hand toward him, and Mark felt his body go stiff. Then she closed her fist and he turned the sharpened end of the stick towards his own face, clutching it firmly with both hands.
“What—What are you doing? What’s happening?” Mark shouted.
The woman winked at him. “This is the good part,” she said. With a wave of her finger, Mark jammed the burning stick into his right eye with a pop and a sizzle. His scream shattered the night, loud and high and unending.
“A little further in, dear,” the witch hissed. She pulled her arm in toward her side and simultaneously Mark pushed the stick further into his skull with all his remaining strength. His scream cut off abruptly, and he sank silently to his knees, then fell forward into the campfire.
“Baby, no!” Deya screamed. She rushed to him, trying to pull him from the fire with all her might, but it was no use. He was too heavy. His hair and clothing burst into flames. His skin pealed.
She stared up at the witches, tears streaming down her face. “How could you? You monsters!”
The women only laughed and began to sing their strange song and swaying dance again. Then, all at once, they stopped and turned to the fire. As one, they stripped their garments from their bodies and let them fall around their feet as the hikers looked on, terrified but transfixed. Their slender fingers, nails dark and long, sank into their navels. They all let out a sigh—half pain, half pleasure—and then they began to pull and stretch at their own bellies. Their skin stretched and began to peel away with a wet, sticky sound, revealing raw, glistening muscle beneath. They stepped out of their skins as if they were only pale leather jumpsuits and let them fall to the ground next to their garments. The beauty they’d worn like a mask had fallen away, replaced by something grotesque and unnatural. Their eyes glowed with an unholy light, their teeth were jagged and sharp. Bare and bloody muscle shown in the campfire light.
Deya picked up a rock from the ground where she knelt and tried to throw it at the witch closest to her, but it wouldn’t leave her hand. In horror she realized that the tall witch’s hand was outstretched toward her, and she could not move on her own. The witch raised her hand skyward with a jerk, and Deya was wrenched to her feet.
“Dance with us,” the witch cackled. She wriggled her fingers and Deya felt her muscles move against her will, at first rhythmically with the witches’ song, and then at their own tempo, faster, and faster.
“Please!” Deya cried, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Let me go!” But the woman only laughed. Muscle pulled against tendon, tendon pulled against bone, as she was torn in too many directions to count. And then something snapped in her left arm, and then her right. Then in her leg, and her back, and her ribs. And then a hundred more places all at once. Deya screamed.
At first, Jack and Susanna were frozen, watching in horror as the witches literally danced their friend to death. Then Jack came to his senses. He grabbed Susanna’s arm, pulling her back into the wood line. “We have to go,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Now.” Susanna didn’t need to be told twice. They turned and ran, leaving the fire behind as they plunged into the darkness of the woods. Behind them, Deya’s screams filled the night, a haunting sound that seemed to linger long after her voice had gone silent.
Branches clawed at their arms and legs, the shadows shifting and twisting around them as they fled. The witches’ laughter echoed in the darkness as they gave chase, growing louder with each passing moment. They ran until they were out of breath, stumbling through the trees, their hearts pounding in their chests. But no matter how far they ran, the laughter followed close behind.
Finally, they stumbled into a clearing, gasping for air, their bodies trembling with fear. And there, in the center of the clearing, stood a familiar sight—the cabin. But it was different now. Older. More menacing. The wood was dark and rotting, the windows shattered, the roof sagging under the weight of years of moss and decay. The general store sign was hanging from the porch by a single chain and was too faded to read. It looked like it had been abandoned for decades, left to rot in the heart of the woods.
Susanna’s heart sank as she realized where they were. She could feel the weight of the cabin’s presence, a dark, oppressive force that seemed to pull them in.
“We can’t go in there,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “It’s… it’s wrong.”
But Jack was already moving, his eyes wide with desperation. “We don’t have a choice. It’s the only place left to go.”
She ran after him, then ahead of him, and was almost to the porch steps when he heard him shout from behind her, “Sue!” She turned. He was a stone’s throw behind, but the ground seemed to have somehow opened up and swallowed him up to his knee caps. The witches were still far away, ghastly silhouettes in the moonlight on the far edge of the clearing. But every time she blinked they seemed to close the distance by half.
And then they were on top of him.
“How about a little kiss, handsome?” the tall witch hissed.
Jack ignored her, looking beyond the coven at Susanna. “Go!” he shouted.
She hesitated for just a moment, just long enough to see the witches sink their bony fingers into Jack’s chest. Then she turned, bolting up the stairs and through open the door, slamming it behind her and throwing the wooden toggle latch into its cradle. It didn’t look like it would hold long, but it might give her a moment at least.
Her footsteps echoed in the empty, rotting space. The air was thick with the smell of decay, and the walls were lined with shelves filled with forgotten things—backpacks and boots from a hundred years of hikers, torn maps, broken compasses—other remnants of those who had come before.
Then she saw it. In a far corner of the room near a cast iron stove stood an old, rickety table. And in the center of that table, spilling from a worn leather pouch, lay a pile of gold coins glinting in the dim light. Susanna’s breath caught in her throat as she realized what it was. Scratch’s gold.
She moved forward, almost in a trance, reaching out to touch the coins. But as her fingers brushed against the gold, something hammered against the cabin door. The entire cabin shook.
“Little pig, little pig, let us in!” one of the witches cried with glee.
“Oh, don’t be scared, love,” called another, her voice soft and menacing. “We just want to play.”
“We swear we’ll just take a little nibble,” intoned the third.
The wooden toggle on the door bent under the weight of pounding fist, and began to splinter. Susanna looked around desperately for something, anything to defend herself. She spotted a well-worn Swiss Army knife on one of the shelves and clutched at it with both hands, managing to flick the blade open and hold it out in front of her just as the door exploded inward and the witches lunged into the cabin.
The tall witch laughed nastily as she stared at the little rusty blade. “Oh, my dear. I’m afraid you’re going to need much more than that to stop us.”
It was then that a calm descended on Susanna, a certainty at the actions that lay ahead. A tiny flicker of a smile formed in the corner of her lips. “It’s not for you,” she said, and turned the blade on herself, making a long, deep slash across her abdomen and around her lower back.
The witches stood speechless, looking on in surprise, their skinless bodies dripped fluids on the rotting cabin floor.
As the blade slid around her body, Susanna bit down on her tongue to stifle a scream and blood filled her mouth. Then she felt her own fingers sliding inside of her, reaching up between the skin and the muscle underneath. She gripped herself with all the strength she could muster, and then yanked up hard. There was a wet, tearing sound as her skin came away, and she couldn’t hold the scream anymore, and then there was blood…so much blood.
And then everything went black.
* * *
“So, you found it,” a low voice filled the room, cold and familiar.
Susanna opened her eyes and turned over on the floor, her heart pounding, and there he was—old Scratch, standing in the doorway, his sunken eyes still sharp and knowing.
She slowly, gingerly, pulled herself to her feet, looking around. She was still in the cabin, that was for certain, but it was not the same. Daylight filtered in through the thick glass windows. Yes, it was still old and dusty to be sure, but not rotting. The floorboards were whole, the roof was not caving in, and the personal effects of a century's worth of missing hikers had been replaced by various mercantile goods.
“I told you, didn’t I?” he said, his voice quiet, not quite kind but perhaps tinged with a hint of admiration. Or sorrow. “You’ve got a little witch in you.”
“Maybe so,” she said.
“Ya might want to…” Scratch’s voice trailed off as he wiggled a pale, gnarly finger at her face. “Well, here,” he said, reaching under the counter top and pulling out a small mirror.
Susanna took it and stared at her face. She still looked like herself…mostly. She smirked, pushed the loose skin around her eye back into place, and then handed the mirror back.
“Long night?” the old man asked.
“You could say that. Here’s your gold.” The heavy leather bag rattled as she dropped it on the counter.
Scratch grinned, big and toothy. He reached out and caressed the bag then pulled it close to him. “I believe I owe you something, my dear. What’ll it be?” He motioned around the cabin at the shelves full of goods.
Susanna laughed, cold and empty. “Can you make it so this whole God-forsaken weekend never happened?”
Scratch cocked his head to one side, thinking. Finally, he shrugged and said, “I think that can be arranged.” Then he clapped his hands.
* * *
Susanna blinked, her eyes adjusting to the late afternoon light. She was standing at the Big Ridge Trailhead, the sun warm on her skin, the air filled with the sounds of birdsong and rustling leaves. Mark and Deya were just ahead of her, laughing and joking as if nothing had happened. Jack was a little further ahead, looking as dashing as ever.
Susanna checked her watch. It was Friday afternoon. The start of the weekend. The beginning of their hike.
She took a shaky breath, a feeling of relief flooding over her, though for the life of her she suddenly couldn’t explain why.
“You guys ready?” Jack called from up ahead.
Susanna took a deep breath, and then took a step forward. Because some stories never end. Not in these woods.
So, what do you say, friend? Still up for a weekend hike?
