Terrifying Appalachian Mountain Horror Stories

In this episode of Real Unexplained Stories, we head deep into the Appalachian Mountains a place of old roads, dark woods, isolated homes, and stories that seem to follow people long after they leave.

From strange figures seen between the trees, to unsettling encounters on lonely mountain roads, these accounts come from people who say they experienced something they still cannot explain.

The Appalachians have always carried a sense of mystery. Some stories are whispered through families. Others are shared only once, by people who never want to speak of them again.

These are dark stories from the Appalachian Mountains.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Some roads in Appalachia don't appear on maps anymore. The towns are still there but barely. Old houses fallen apart in the woods. Gas stations that close before midnight and mountains so huge that if something was watching you out there, nobody would ever know. For years people living in the Appalachian Mountains have passed down warnings. Never whistle at night, never answer voices coming from the woods. And if something calls your name from the darkness, no matter how familiar it sounds, don't look back. In this episode we're exploring dark and unsettling encounters from deep within the Appalachian Mountains. Stories shared by people who say they've lived through them first hand. Stories of strange figures standing between the trees. Unexplained sounds echoing through the forest late at night, and moments that left witnesses wondering what was really out there with them in the mountains. I'm Leon and this is the real unexplained stories. Story one The Hollow That Growls by Mark Appalachian Mountains Summer of 2017 My name is Mark and I grew up on the Tennessee side of the Great Smoky Mountains, right in the heart of the Appalachians. I spent my whole life out here hiking, hunting and fixing forest roads, doing trail work. I know the sounds these woods make. I know what's normal and what isn't. What happened to me in the summer of 2017 wasn't normal, not even close. People around me always say the smokies change after dark. The birds stop calling, and the woods go still, and the air feels heavy. I always thought that was just mountain talk, something people said to scare kids, until the night the mountain scared me for real. I'd been hired to check and fix a piece of logging equipment not far from Deep Creek area. The walk in was long, so I decided to camp halfway and finish early the next morning. By sunset I had my bivy set up beside a small creek, a calm summer night, warm air, fireflies, and plenty of insect noise. Everything felt normal. Then around eleven PM the woods switched off, and I mean completely. No insects, no frogs, no owls. The thick heavy silence that felt so wrong. Anyone who spends time outdoors knows this kind of silence isn't normal. Something big was close. Then I heard a deep growl from up on the ridge. It wasn't a bear. Bears don't huff and grunt. This sound was deeper, stronger, like it came from something big enough to shake the air. I put out my fire and stayed quiet. Five minutes passed, then ten. Then I heard breathing, slow, heavy breathing somewhere in the trees. A long deep exhale that made my skin crawl. I shunned my torch up the slope, only trees. Then a loud snap. Something stepped on a branch with real weight behind it. I tried to tell myself it was a bear, but on my go I didn't believe it. The footsteps that followed made that clear. Slow, heavy, and two legged. That's not how animals walk out here. I lifted my torch again, and that's when I saw the eyes. Two large eyes reflecting the light back at me from about thirty yards away. They were too high off the ground to be a person, and space too wide apart to be anything I knew. The eyes didn't blink, they didn't move, they just stared. Then the shape behind them shifted just enough for the beam to catch its outline. It had broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a head with tall pointed ears. It titled its head at me like a dog trying to figure out what it's looking at. A cold feeling ran through me. I slowly lowered the torch so I wasn't shining it in its face. The eyes didn't drop out of view, but I knew it was still there, and then it began circling my camp. For the next hour, something walked around me in a slow wide circle, always just out of sight, always one or two steps at a time, testing and watching. I dug my hands into the dirt to stop them shaking. Around two aim it got close, too close for call. Something leaned right over my bivy and sniffed long, slow breaths. Inches from my head. The tarp shook softly each time it inhaled. I stayed completely still. I didn't dare breathe. Then it'd give a low growl. Not loud, not angry, almost like a quiet warning. Don't move. After a moment the creature stood up, its joints cracked loudly as it straightened, not like an animal, but like something heavy trying to raise to its full height. It walked away, slow steps, seven of them, then silence. This time the silence slowly faded back to normal. A cricket chirped, then another. The frogs returned. The woods were alive again. Whatever it was, it had left. At first light I packed up my gear and walked straight out of the woods without stopping once, not running, just steady, controlled walking. I didn't want to look scared even though I was. I reached my truck just as the sky was turning a pale blue. A few days later, an old man I knew from town caught me in the hardware stuff. He looked at me for a few seconds and said You've been campin' near deep creek? I nodded. He let out a long breath. You heard it then. I didn't reply. You don't need to say anything, he said quietly. You're not the first. Tall as a man, walks like one too, smells like wet fur, comes down off the ridges at night, watches camps, follows people. It's been here longer than any of us. He placed a hand on my shoulder. Don't camp alone in those mountains again. I still hike the smokies. I still love the Appalachians, but I will never camp alone near Deep Creek again, because I always remember those eyes in the dark, the sniffing behind my shelter, and the sound of something big, intelligent breathing only inches away from me. Whatever that thing was, it let me leave, and I won't be going back to test its patience. The Shape Behind the Trees by Tyler. October 2019. My name is Tyler. I grew up in West Virginia, right in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains. I've camped these woods since I was young. I know what deer sounds like, I know what bear sounds like, I know the normal noises out here, but in October 2019 I saw something I can't explain. I went out for a weekend camping trip near Spruce. It's one of my favourite places. Quiet, peaceful, and far from everyone. The first night was calm, the second night was not. Around sunset I felt strange. The woods didn't sound right. The air felt heavier, like something was waiting. I tried to ignore it, but around 9 PM while I was sitting by my tent, I heard a deep thud, one loud heavy step, then another. These weren't small noises. It sounded like someone big was walking through the trees. I called out Hello Anyone there? No answer. Only silence. Then a thick branch snapped like it was nothing. It made me jump. No normal animal breaks wood like that, unless it's huge. I pointed my torch out towards the trees. The light hit nothing but dark shapes and shadows. Then I heard breathing, slow, deep and steady. It wasn't close, but it wasn't far either, and it wasn't the breathing of a bear. This was controlled like something trying to stay quiet. A few seconds later I heard another loud crack in the woods. I turned the light towards the sound, and that's when I saw it. A tall shape leaned out from behind a tree. It wasn't crouched, and it certainly wasn't on all fours. It was standing straight up, the light hit its body just for a second, and I saw dark hair, a huge shoulder, something way too big to be a person. As soon as the beam touched it, the figure moved back behind the tree, like it didn't want to be seen. My heart was racing. I slowly backed up towards my tent, keeping the light forward. Another movement, another tree. Something tall sliding from one shadow to the next. I whispered, no, I'm not staying here. I grabbed my keys and started walking towards the trail. I didn't run. Running felt dangerous. Every step felt like something was right behind me. Then I heard it, footsteps following me. Not fast, not run, just matching my pace right through the trees beside me. I aimed my torch up the slope. I saw movement. A tall figure moved between two trees. The beam hit its arm, long, thick covered in dark hair, then a shoulder, then a side of its head. It was huge, at least seven feet tall, covered in hair, wide and strong, and it was smart too. It stayed in the tree line, following me without getting too close. It didn't rush me, it didn't roar or charge. It just stayed there, like it was making sure I left. Every few steps I took, it took one too. When I reached the gravel road, the footsteps stopped. I kept the light on the trees, waiting to see if it'd come out. But it didn't. I could feel it watching, but I got in my car and locked the doors and drove away as fast as I could. A couple of weeks later I told my uncle what happened. He grew up in the same area. He didn't laugh, and he certainly didn't joke. All he asked was was it tall? I nodded. Then he asked, Here all over it? I nodded again. He sighed and said, You're not the first to see something like that near spruce. Folks here don't talk about it unless someone asks. But it's been around a long time. Then he added, It didn't want to hurt you. If it did it would. It just wanted you gone. I still hike the Appalachian Mountains, and I still love these woods, but I never camp alone near spruce. Not anymore. And every time the forest goes quiet for no reason, I remember the shape sliding from tree to tree following me down the trail. And wherever that creature was it let me go, and I'm not going back to see what happens if I stay too long. The Lights Over the Ridge by Emily June 2020. My name is Emily, I'm from North Carolina, and the Blue Ridge Parkway has always been my favourite place to clear my head. In June 2020, I drove up Craggy Gardens to watch the sunset after a long day at work. I wasn't expecting anything strange, but that night the sky didn't act the way it should. The sun went down behind the mountains, and the sky turned from orange to a deep blue. It was calm and quiet, a perfect evening. Then a single bright light appeared above the far ridge. At first I thought it was a plane, but it didn't move. It just hung there in the sky. A few seconds later another light showed up beside it, then a third, three white lights in a straight line, not blinking, not drifting, just sitting perfectly still. Then all at once the three lights moved sideways together. Smooth steady, like something was carrying them. No sound. They slowed and stopped and hovered again. A few moments passed, then the left light began raising on its own. It drifted higher and higher into the sky. The other two stayed still. Then suddenly the rising light blinked out, just gone. The remaining two lights dropped lower towards the ridge. They moved like they were linked, keeping the same pace and distance. They stopped again, hanging there in the dark, one of them tilted, stretching into a thin line, before snapping back into a round ship, almost like it was turning. The two lights slowly drifted toward each other until they touched and merged into one brighter light. I didn't move, I didn't speak, I just watched the sky like it was holding its breath. Ten seconds passed, then a single bright light shot straight upwards, so fast I couldn't track it. No noise, no trail, no glow left behind. Gone. Just stars again. Just silence. Just the same mountains I'd seen all my life, but suddenly feeling different. I stayed there for a long time after the lights vanished. I kept waiting for something else to happen. Another flash, another moment. But the sky stayed still. Nothing came back. Eventually I got in my car and started the slow drive down the mountain. The whole way home I felt strange, like I'd seen something important, but with no way to explain it. Not to myself, not to anyone. I never spoke to other people at the overlook. I didn't ask what they're for. I didn't want an answer. Some things are better left exactly as they are, strange, silent and unsolved. And those three lights above Appalachian Mountains are one of them. The voice on Black Hollow Ridge by Jenna. My name is Jenna, and I need to tell someone what happened to me on Black Hollow Ridge. I don't go near that place anymore. I don't walk in the woods at night at all. Not after hearing my name spoken from the trees in a voice that wasn't human. It happened in November 2003. The air was cold, the trees were bare, and the whole ridge felt empty. My friend Aaron and I planned a simple hike. We had done this trail many times before, but there was nothing strange about it. But the moment we stepped onto the path, something felt wrong. There was no sound at all. No birds, no wind, no animals. Just a deep heavy quiet that made our skin grow. As we climbed the ridge, the silence got heavier. It felt like we were being watched even though we didn't see anyone. Around halfway up, Aaron whispered, Feels like something's behind us. I turned around. There was nothing there, just the empty trail. But I felt it too, that slow cold feeling you get when eyes are on you. We kept walking. The sun dropped behind the trees early, making everything dark fast. The cold settled in all at once. I pulled my jacket tight, and that's when we heard it. Joanna. A soft voice close, too close. I froze in place. It wasn't loud, it wasn't shouted. It sounded like someone whispering my name from just a few steps away. Aaron looked at me, eyes wide. You heard that right? Before I could answer, the voice called again. Jenna Drawn out slow and wrong. It sounded like my name, but something about it was off. Like the voice was trying to copy how people talk and not getting it quite right. Aaron called out, Who's there? Nothing answered, and footsteps started coming up the trail towards us. Slow steps, heavy steps. But we couldn't see anyone. The voice came again, this time right beside my ear. Jenna. I felt a warm breath move across my skin. I spun around fast. Nothing was there. Aaron grabbed my arm. We need to move now. We hurried up the trail to the overlook, hoping for more light. But the higher we went, the darker it got. The air felt colder than it should have been. When we reached the top, we stopped to breathe, and something stepped out from the trees to our right. A tall, thin shape, like a person, but wrong. Its arms were too long, its body was too tall. It didn't breathe, it didn't sway, it just stood there watching. Then it tilted its head like it was studying us. The voice came again, but it didn't come from the figure, it came from all around us. The air, the trees, everywhere. Jenna, come here. My legs felt weak. My chest tightened. The voice sounded like my mother's voice, but she wasn't there. She was at home hours away. The thing used her voice perfectly. Same tone, same warmth. It hit something inside me that made my body want to step forward. Aaron pulled me back. That's not your mum. The shape stepped closer. The sound it made, I'll never forget. A hard, rough breath, like dirt being dragged into lungs that shouldn't work. Then the voice changed again. This time it used my own voice. Help me, please, help me. Hearing your own voice come from something in the woods. It made my stomach turn. It felt like the world tilted upside down. Aaron grabbed my wrist. We're leaving. Don't look at it. We backed down the trail fast. The ship didn't run. It didn't rush. It followed slow and steady steps behind us. Every few feet it called my name in a new voice. My mother's, Aaron's, a stranger's, my own, always close and always wrong. The forest felt endless. The dark felt heavy, like it was closing in around us. And just before we reached the bottom of the trail, the voice whispered from the right of us Stop. We didn't. We stepped out onto the road, the footsteps stopped. The woods behind us went still. I heard my name one last time, a soft sad whisper Jenna. Then silence. I haven't been back to Black Hollow Ridge since that night, and I won't ever drive near it. And sometimes late at night, when the house is quiet, I hear a soft whisper outside my window, my name spoken in a voice that isn't mine and it isn't human. I don't answer. I don't ever answer. Some things in the Appalachian Mountains know your name even when you've never told them. And once they say it, you never forget the sound. The Thing in the Fog by Caleb 2008. My name's Caleb. I don't tell this story often. I still have nightmares about it. What happened on Ron Mountain in 2008 didn't feel like an animal or a ghost. It felt like something old. Something that lives in the mountains and comes out when the fog rolls in. People always talk about Roan Mountain, like it's a beautiful place. High open fields, long views, and clouds that drift across the trail like smoke. But the night I was there, the fog didn't drift. It moved like it had weight, like it had purpose. I was hiking the cloudland trail alone. I had planned to camp near the shelter and watch the stars and take photos in the morning. But around early evening a fog rolled across the ridge. Faster than I'd ever seen fog move. One moment the sky was clear, then it was white, silent and close. The air went cold. Not cool, completely cold. I pulled my jacket tight and kept walking. After a few minutes I heard a strange sound. Not a voice, not footsteps, just scraping like something dragging across stone. Slow and high pitched, enough to make my teeth itch. I stopped. The sound stopped. I took a few steps. The scraping started again, matching me. It felt like whatever was making that sound didn't want me to hear it clearly, like it stayed right at the edge of the fog. I turned my headlamp to full power. The beam hit nothing, only thick fog. No trees, no trail, no ship, just white mist moving too slowly to be natural. I kept going, trying to stay calm. Then I realized something terrifying. The forest was silent. There was no wind. No birds, no insect, nothing. The fog swallowed every noise except my breath and the scrapin. A few minutes later I reached a part of the trail where the trees open up. Normally you can see the whole valley, but that night I couldn't see more than a few feet ahead, and that's when I saw a shadow move inside the fog. Just a shape, tall, still, and so wrong. I moved my headlamp towards it, and the shape slid out of the beam like it didn't want to be seen. Not running and not panicking, just slipping. After all still. The scraping sound stopped. Then I heard breathing. Not human breathing, but a deep wet, slow sound. It was close right in front of me, but I still couldn't see it. The fog shifted again, rolling like waves, and something huge moved inside it. I didn't see a body, only a dark shape gliding from one side of the trail to the other. My lungs felt weak, my stomach dropped. I whispered, please no, without meaning to. The breathing stopped, and then something answered, not with words, but with another sound. A long, low groan that seemed to come from the ground beneath me and the fog above me at the same time. The vibration made my chest hurt. I stumbled back. Something heavy moved in the fog, a slow dragging step, not fast, just steady. It was coming towards me. Another step. The fog swelled forward, like something pushing inside it. That's when I finally saw part of it, a hand, not a human hand. Two long, thin fingers bent like someone had broken them long ago. It hung out the fog and brushed across the rock, making that scraping sound I had heard earlier. I backed away so fast I almost fell. The hand curled slowly, like it was testing the air or reaching for something. Then the fog around it bulged outwards, like something big was pushing against the inside of it. I turned and ran, not smart and all, but everything in me screamed to get away. The fog moved with me, like it was chasing me down the trail. I could hear that horrible breathing behind me. Close now, too close for comfort. Every few seconds something heavy hit the ground behind me. One step, then another. It was slow and patient. It didn't run. It didn't need to. It knew these mountains better than I did. I didn't start running until I broke out of the fog and reached the first open section near the shelter. The moment I left the fog, the air warmed up like someone had switched the world back on. I spun around with my headlamp. The fog stopped dead at the tree line, a perfect wall of white. Something moved inside it, something tall and still watching. And I heard that low groan again. Not loud, not angry. Almost like it was disappointed I got away. I backed towards the shelter keeping the light on the fog the whole time. The shape inside it didn't move. It just stood there, feeling like it was staring straight at me. Then the fog pulled back into the trees, drifting like normal mist. The shape disappeared with it, and the mountain went silent again. I left before sunrise. I didn't pack properly, I didn't eat, I just walked until I reached the car park. All I wanted was to get off that mountain. I haven't been back to Ron Mountain since, and I won't. Because whatever was in that fog wasn't wind, it wasn't weather, and it wasn't anything that belongs on this earth. It followed me, it watched me, and it knew I was there. And if I ever go back, I don't think I'll be lucky enough to walk out again. The thing that waits under still water by Daniel October 1996. My name's Daniel, and what happened to me in the Appalachian Mountains back in 1996 is the reason I don't camp alone anymore. I don't like the thick fog, I don't like deep woods, and I don't like the feeling of being watched. That hollow taught me something real. Some things in these mountains wait for the right moment to show themselves. I was 22 working survey jobs for a small logging company. One day I was sent to check an old trail that ran beside a creek in Stillwater Hollow. It was quiet work. I'd done it before. Nothing strange ever happened there. But the moment I stepped into the hollow that day something felt really off. The air was colder than it should have been. The trees felt too close, and the whole place was silent in a way that didn't feel natural. I kept walking following the creek. The later it got the darker the hollow became. Shadows stretched long across the ground, like they were reaching for my legs. Then I heard it, a splash in the creek, then another one. Slow even, like someone walking through the water. I stopped, the splash and stopped. Hello? I called out. No answer. Then came a breath, a deep wet breath, like something pulling air into lungs that were full of water or dirt. It made my stomach twist. I shun my torch across the creek, but the beam hit nothing but fog. The fog rolled over the wall like thick smoke. I took a small step back, but the breathing stopped, but something else started. Footsteps behind me on my trail. Slow, soft following me. And when I stopped, they stopped, and when I moved, they moved. I spun around fast. Nothing there, only trees and fog. But I know what footsteps sound like. Something was following me. The trail grew darker, the cold got worse. A kind of cold that feels heavy on your skin. I tried to walk faster, but I didn't want to run. Then the growl came. It was low and long, too deep to be a dog or a bear. That's when I started to run, branches cracking under my boots as I pushed through the dark. My breath was loud and sharp in my ears, but behind me the steps were slow and steady. It wasn't rushing. It wasn't chasing. It knew it would catch up to me. I reached an old footbridge that crossed the creek. I ran onto it, and halfway across something heavy stepped onto the start of the bridge behind me. The boards groaned under its weight. I didn't want to look, but fear made me do it, and I saw it. A tall shape inside the fog, wrong shape, wrong height, arms too long, legs bent strange. The torchlight hit the fog behind it, making the air glow, but the thing itself stayed dark like light refused to touch it. It slowly raised one long arm and pointed at me. My lungs nearly gave out. I turned and ran off the bridge. I didn't care where I stepped, I just wanted distance from it. As much as I could get. Behind me the growl rolled through the fog again, long and slow and angry, but I kept running until the air warmed and the fog thinned. Only then did the footsteps behind me fade away. I reached my truck, shaking so hard I dropped my keys. I got inside, locked the doors, and drove without looking back. I didn't feel safe until the mountain was far behind me. That night I barely slept, and around three AM I heard something outside my bedroom window, a slow breath. Long inhale and long exhale. I sat up in bed frozen. When I checked the ground outside in the morning, the grass under the window was wet, like something I'd stood there for a long, long time. It's been years, but I still won't go near that part of the mountains, because I know what waits in the fog. I know what follows in the trees, and I know what stands on the bridge when the light starts to die. And if you ever hear slow footsteps behind you in the fog, don't turn around, because if you look at it and it looks back at you, that won't be the last time you see it, or hear it, or feel it breathing outside your window in the dark. That brings us to the end of this episode. The Appalachian Mountains have carried dark stories for generations, and after hearing these encounters, it's easy to understand why. Let us know what you thought about this episode by sending us a message using the link in the show notes. This has been the Real Unexplained Stories. Thanks for listening. Until next time, stay safe out there.