"The Hollow Claim":
I always wanted a simpler life, away from the noise and rush of everything. Last year, my buddy Alex and I talked about it nonstop. We both worked dead-end jobs, and the idea of finding some forgotten land, building something from scratch, felt like freedom. Alex found listings online for unclaimed properties in the Oklahoma hills—places nobody wanted, remote and wild. One spot caught our eye: forty acres near Red Oak, cheap because it sat untouched for years. We packed the truck with supplies, cash for the deal, and drove out there one crisp October morning in 2009.
The drive took hours, winding through back roads until pavement gave way to dirt tracks. Trees closed in, thick and tangled, blocking out most light. We parked near the edge of the property and hiked in, following an old trail overgrown with weeds. Alex carried the map, I lugged the backpack with water and tools. "This is it," he said, stopping at a clearing. "Look at that view—mountains rolling on forever." I nodded, feeling a quiet excitement. The land sloped down to a creek, perfect for what we planned.
We spent the first day exploring. No fences, no signs of anyone recent. Just scrub brush and rocky outcrops. In the afternoon, we found an old shack half-buried in vines, boards weathered gray, roof sagging but intact. "Unclaimed bonus," Alex joked, pushing the door open. It creaked loud, revealing a dusty room with a rusted stove and broken chairs. Papers scattered on the floor, yellowed and faded. I picked one up—a old deed from decades back, names I didn't recognize. "Nobody's coming for this," I said. "We could fix it up, stay here while we build."
That night, we camped outside the shack, fire crackling as we talked plans. Alex pulled out sandwiches, and we split a beer. "Imagine no bills, no bosses," he said. "Grow our own food, live free." I agreed, staring into the flames. Sleep came easy at first, but around midnight, something woke me. A rustle in the bushes, like footsteps circling slow. I sat up, listening. Alex stirred. "You up?" he whispered. "Yeah. Something out there." We waited, but it stopped. "Probably deer," he muttered, rolling over.
Next morning, we decided to check the shack deeper. Inside, we moved furniture, swept dirt. Under a loose floorboard, Alex found a metal box, locked tight. "What's this?" he asked, shaking it. Rattled like papers or photos. We pried it open with a crowbar. Inside, faded pictures of a family—a man, woman, little girl—smiling in front of a truck. Letters too, scribbled notes about "watching eyes" and "strangers on the hill." One said: "They're closer now. Can't trust the roads." I felt uneasy reading it. "Who left this?" I asked. Alex shrugged. "Old owners, maybe. Creepy, but harmless."
We kept working, but things felt off. That afternoon, hiking the boundary, we spotted fresh tire tracks in the mud, not ours. "Hunters?" Alex suggested. "Or surveyors." But no one around. Back at the shack, I noticed the door ajar—we'd closed it. Inside, our packs rummaged, nothing taken but food wrappers tossed. "Animals?" I said, doubtful. Alex frowned. "Let's secure it better."
As evening fell, we sat by the fire again. Alex seemed distracted, pacing. "You notice how quiet it is? No birds, no nothing." I listened—true, just wind through trees. Then, a distant crack, like a branch snapping. Alex froze. "That came from the creek." We grabbed flashlights, walked down. Beam caught something white in the underbrush—a bone, long and clean, like from an arm. Nearby, more scattered, half-buried. "Deer kill," Alex said, voice low. But one piece looked wrong—too straight, with cloth shreds attached. Human? I backed away. "We should leave," I whispered.
He shook his head. "It's nothing. Old hunting grounds." But his eyes darted. Back at camp, we ate in silence. Later, in the tent, I couldn't sleep. Heard whispers, faint, like voices arguing far off. Alex bolted up. "Hear that?" he asked. "Voices." We unzipped the flap, shone lights. Nothing. But the shack door swung open now, banging soft in the breeze.
Morning brought worse. Our truck, parked a mile back, had windows smashed, tires flat. Tools gone, cash from the glove box missing. "Someone's here," I said, panic rising. Alex nodded, face pale. "We hike out, flag help." But as we gathered gear, a shadow moved in the trees—a figure, tall and thin, watching us. It vanished quick. "Run," Alex hissed.
We bolted down the trail, branches whipping faces. Behind, footsteps pounded, gaining. I glanced back—saw the man clear now, ragged clothes, wild eyes, carrying something sharp. "Faster!" I yelled. Alex tripped, fell hard. I pulled him up. "Who is he?" Alex gasped. "Squatter? Killer?" We didn't stop. Reached the road after what felt endless, waved down a passing car. Driver called police.
Cops came, searched the land. Found the shack empty, box gone. But deeper in, they uncovered bones—old ones, from years back. Turned out the property had history: a family vanished there before, truck abandoned like ours, bodies never found then. Rumors of drifters using it as a hideout, preying on folks like us. The man? Never caught. Alex and I got out, but sometimes I wake hearing those footsteps, wondering if he follows still. That land stays unclaimed for a reason—it's a trap, waiting quiet for the next dreamers.
"The Scent of Rot":
I always loved visiting my sister Anna and her little family in that old cabin they called home. It was tucked away in the mountains near Albuquerque, a place they stumbled upon a few years back. The property had been forgotten for decades, no owner on record, just sitting there empty and falling apart. They fixed it up with their own hands, living off the grid with solar panels and a well they dug themselves. No electricity from the city, no neighbors for miles. It seemed peaceful at first, a dream for them to raise the boys away from everything. But that winter, something felt wrong.
It started with the phone calls. Anna and I talked every week, but in early December, she sounded off. "The boys are so excited for Christmas," she said one day, her voice a bit shaky over the line. "Ben's building them a sled from scrap wood. But... I don't know, sis. The nights are getting longer, and I hear noises sometimes. Probably just animals." I laughed it off, told her she was imagining things. "Come visit soon," she added. "The kids miss their aunt." I promised I would, but work kept me busy. Then the calls stopped. No answer for days, then weeks. I tried Ben's cell, but it went straight to voicemail. By January, I couldn't shake the worry.
I called the local sheriff's office down in the valley. "Have you heard from the Anaya family up in Torreon?" I asked the deputy on the phone. He paused, like he was flipping through notes. "No ma'am, but those mountain roads are rough this time of year. Snow blocks everything. Folks up there go months without checking in. If you're concerned, we can send someone when the weather clears." That wasn't good enough. Anna wasn't the type to ghost me. So I decided to go myself. I borrowed a truck with four-wheel drive from a friend and headed out as soon as the roads thawed a bit in late March. The drive took hours, winding up narrow paths that barely qualified as roads. Trees crowded in on both sides, and the higher I went, the quieter it got. No birds, no wind rustling. Just the crunch of tires on gravel.
I stopped at a small gas station at the base of the mountain, the last spot with any people. An old man behind the counter filled my tank. "Heading up to Torreon?" he asked, eyeing my city clothes. I nodded. "Looking for my sister's place. The old cabin off the dirt trail." His face tightened. "That old shack? Been empty forever till some young folks moved in. You sure they're still there? Haven't seen 'em down here since before the holidays." I felt a knot in my gut. "What do you mean? They come down for supplies." He shrugged. "Not lately. Be careful up there. Strangers pass through sometimes, looking for easy pickings. Abandoned properties like that attract the wrong kind." I thanked him and drove on, his words echoing in my head.
The trail to the cabin was worse than I remembered. Branches scraped the truck, and I had to stop twice to clear fallen rocks. As I got closer, I saw signs that made my skin prickle. A fence post knocked over, like something heavy had hit it. Tire tracks in the mud, not from Ben's old jeep. And then the smell hit me before I even saw the cabin – a thick, rotten stench that made me roll up the windows. I parked and stepped out, calling their names. "Anna? Ben? It's me!" Silence. The cabin looked the same, log walls weathered, the door shut tight. But the windows were dark, no smoke from the chimney. They heated with a wood stove, so that meant no fire for a long time.
I knocked, hard. No answer. I tried the door – locked. Anna always kept a spare key under a rock by the porch. I found it, cold and dusty, like it hadn't been touched in ages. My hands shook as I turned the lock. The door creaked open, and the smell slammed into me like a wall. Sweet and foul, it made my eyes water. "Anna?" I whispered, stepping inside. The living room was frozen in time. Toys scattered on the floor, a half-eaten plate of food on the table, moldy now. The boys' drawings pinned to the wall. But no sign of them. I called again, louder. Nothing.
I moved to the kitchen. Dishes in the sink, crusted over. Then I heard it – a faint buzzing. Flies. Lots of them. My pulse quickened as I followed the sound to the bedroom door, which was closed. I pushed it open slowly. The room was dark, curtains drawn. As my eyes adjusted, I saw shapes on the bed. Lumps under the blankets. The buzzing got louder. I flipped the light switch – nothing, power was out. I pulled out my phone flashlight, and the beam lit up the horror.
Anna and Ben lay there, still in their nightclothes, bloodstains dark and dry on the sheets. Holes in their chests, faces pale and swollen. Flies crawled over them. I gasped, backing up, my phone dropping. The light spun, illuminating the floor – small footprints in the dust, leading away from the bed. The boys. Where were the boys? Panic rose as I searched the room, then the whole cabin. Under the beds, in the closets. Nothing. Then I noticed the pantry door ajar. Inside, two small forms huddled in the corner, curled up together. My nephews, emaciated, skin clinging to bones, eyes sunken and lifeless. They must have hidden when it happened, then waited, trapped, starving as the days turned to weeks. The cabin locked from outside, no way out for little kids.
I stumbled outside, vomiting on the porch. How long had they been like that? Months? Who did this? I fumbled for my phone, dialing 911 with trembling fingers. "There's been a murder," I choked out to the operator. "My family... they're all dead." As I waited for help, I sat on the steps, staring at the trees. That's when I saw it – a glint in the woods. A figure? No, just a branch. But the feeling lingered, like eyes on me. The old man at the gas station mentioned strangers. Had they come looking for the unclaimed land, thinking it empty? Or was it something more personal?
The police arrived hours later, lights flashing up the trail. A detective named Rodriguez questioned me. "When was the last time you spoke to them?" he asked, notebook in hand. I told him about the December call. "Sounds like a home invasion," he said. "Door was forced originally, then locked after. Four sets of boot prints outside. They shot the parents, left the kids to... well, you saw." I nodded, numb. "Why lock it?" I whispered. He sighed. "To buy time. No one comes up here. This property's been unclaimed for years; your sister and Ben were basically squatting legally. Easy target."
Days turned to weeks as the investigation unfolded. They arrested four men from a nearby town – Lawrence Nieto and his crew. Known for robberies, they confessed to breaking in for cash and supplies. "The couple woke up," one said in his statement, read to me later. "We had to quiet them. Didn't know about the kids." Nieto got 39 years, but two walked free after mistrials. Justice felt hollow. I couldn't stop thinking about those last moments. Anna waking to intruders, Ben trying to protect her. The boys hearing the shots, hiding, crying out for days until their voices faded.
I never went back to that cabin. It's still there, rotting in the mountains, unclaimed and forgotten again. But sometimes, at night, I dream of it. The smell, the flies, the empty eyes of my nephews. And I wonder if the killers really told everything. Or if something else lurks in those woods, waiting for the next fool to claim the property as their own. The isolation, the secrets it holds – it's enough to make anyone afraid of the quiet places where no one can hear you scream.
"Rafting to Ashes":
I had just turned twenty-five when my friend Tom and I packed our gear for the Nahanni Valley. We heard stories about gold up there, hidden in that wild stretch of Canada's Northwest Territories. No roads led in, just rivers and mountains that swallowed folks whole. We figured we could handle it, two young men from Fort Liard with dreams bigger than our common sense. Tom was the talker, always joking to keep spirits high, while I focused on the maps and supplies.
We set out in the summer of 1906, floating down the South Nahanni River on a raft we built ourselves. The water rushed fast at first, then slowed as the valley walls rose high around us. Trees crowded the banks, thick and dark, blocking out much of the sky. After days of paddling, we spotted a flat spot near a creek. "Look there," Tom said, pointing. "That old cabin. Must be unclaimed. No one's around for miles."
The cabin was small, made of logs, with a sagging roof and empty windows like hollow eyes. Vines crept over the door, and inside, dust covered everything. A rusted pan hung on the wall, and a broken chair lay on its side. We figured it had been abandoned for years, maybe by some prospector who gave up. "This'll do," Tom grinned, slapping my back. "Our base camp. We'll fix it up and start panning tomorrow."
We spent the afternoon unloading our packs. I hammered nails to secure the door, while Tom cleared brush outside. As evening came, we built a fire in the stone hearth and cooked beans and bacon. Tom chewed slowly, staring into the flames. "You know, folks back home said this place has a bad name. Disappearances, they whispered. But that's just talk to scare off competition, right?"
I nodded, but a knot formed in my gut. The valley felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath. We talked late, planning our search for gold veins. Tom shared stories from his childhood, how his pa taught him to fish. "We'll be rich, you and me," he said. "Buy land, settle down." I laughed, but my eyes kept drifting to the windows, where the darkness pressed in.
That night, we bedded down on the floor with our blankets. Tom snored softly, but sleep evaded me. A branch snapped outside, sharp and close. I sat up, listening. Another snap, then a rustle, like footsteps circling the cabin. "Tom," I whispered, shaking him. "Wake up. Something's out there."
He rubbed his eyes, groggy. "Probably a deer or wolf. Go back to sleep." But he grabbed his rifle anyway, and we both stared at the door. The sounds stopped after a while, and Tom drifted off again. I lay there, wide awake, counting the cracks in the ceiling logs.
Next morning, we headed out to the creek. The water was cold and clear. We panned for hours, finding flecks of gold that made Tom whoop with joy. "See? This is it!" he exclaimed, holding up a tiny nugget. We worked until our backs ached, then returned to the cabin for supper. Tom fried fish we caught, humming a tune. "Tomorrow, we'll go deeper up the valley," he said. "Bet there's more where that came from."
As we ate, I noticed scratches on the door—fresh ones, deep gouges in the wood. "Weren't there before," I muttered. Tom inspected them, frowning. "Animal, maybe. Bear claws?" But they looked too straight, too deliberate. We barred the door extra tight that night.
Sleep came fitful again. Around midnight, a low thud echoed against the wall, like something heavy bumping the logs. Tom bolted upright. "What was that?" he hissed. I clutched my knife, heart racing—no, wait, I can't say that. My hands shook as I lit the lantern. The light flickered, casting shadows that danced wildly. Another thud, then scraping, as if nails dragged across the outside.
"Stay here," Tom whispered, grabbing his rifle. He cracked the door open, peering out. "Nothing," he said after a moment, but his voice trembled. He shut it quick and wedged the chair under the handle. We sat back to back, weapons ready, until dawn broke. No more noises, but the air felt thick with unease.
The following day, we explored farther, following the creek upstream. The terrain grew rougher, rocks slick underfoot. Tom led the way, chatting to ease the tension. "Remember that time we camped by the river back home? This is nothing compared to that storm." I forced a smile, but my mind replayed the night sounds.
We found a promising spot, a bend where the water pooled. As we knelt to pan, a foul smell hit us—rotten, like spoiled meat. "What's that?" I asked. Tom wrinkled his nose. "Maybe a dead animal." We pushed on, but the odor grew stronger. Then, in a cluster of bushes, we saw it: bones, scattered and picked clean. Human bones, from the look of the skull nearby. No head attached, just the lower jaw missing.
Tom stepped back, face pale. "Lord... someone died here." We examined closer. Shreds of cloth clung to the ribs, and nearby, charred wood from an old fire pit. "This ain't natural," I said. "Look at the neck bones—clean cut." Tom swallowed hard. "We should leave. This valley... it's cursed or something." But we weren't ready to give up our gold dreams yet.
Back at the cabin, we argued. "Pack up tomorrow," I urged. Tom shook his head. "One more day. We've come too far." We ate in silence, the discovery weighing on us. That night, the noises returned, louder. Thuds turned to bangs, like fists pounding the walls. "Who's there?" Tom yelled, rifle aimed at the door.
A voice answered—low, muffled, from outside. "Go away." It was gravelly, human. Tom and I froze. "Who are you?" I called back. No reply, just more banging, then footsteps retreating. We didn't sleep a wink, taking turns watching.
At first light, Tom insisted on checking outside. "I'll scout around," he said. "You stay and guard our stuff." I protested, but he was stubborn. "Be back in an hour," he promised, stepping out with his pack and gun. I watched him vanish into the trees, the valley swallowing him.
Hours passed. Noon came, then afternoon. No sign of Tom. I called his name, my voice echoing off the cliffs. Panic rose as I searched nearby trails, finding nothing but boot prints that led to the creek and stopped. The water rushed by, indifferent.
By evening, I returned to the cabin, alone. The door hung open—I'd closed it. Inside, our supplies were rifled through, food scattered. And on the floor, a bloody handprint, fresh and red. I backed out, grabbing what I could, and fled downriver on the raft.
Days later, I made it back to Fort Liard, half-starved and raving. I told the authorities about Tom, the bones, the voice. They sent a search party, but found only his headless body near a burned-out camp, just like the old stories. The cabin we claimed? Gone, reduced to ashes.
I never went back. But sometimes, in quiet moments, I hear that voice again, whispering "go away." The Nahanni keeps its secrets, and takes what it wants.