"The Underground":
I always wanted a quiet life away from the noise of the city. So when my husband John and I found an ad for a cheap piece of land with a rundown cabin in the California mountains, we jumped at it. The place was far from any town, no power lines or water hookups, just trees and dirt roads for miles. We planned to fix it up ourselves, turn it into our own little home where we could grow food and live simple. John was handy with tools, and I handled the planning. We packed our truck and moved in during the spring of 1984.
The cabin needed a lot of work. The roof leaked, the floors creaked, and the walls had holes where animals had gotten in. We started by clearing out the junk inside. Old furniture, rusty cans, even some strange books about surviving the end of the world. John laughed and said it was probably from the last owner who liked to play pioneer. I nodded, but something about the place made me uneasy from the start. The way the trees crowded around, like they were listening.
Our first week, we focused on the main room. John hammered new boards into the floor while I painted the walls. "This is going to be great," he said one afternoon, wiping sweat from his face. "Imagine sitting here with a fire going, no bills, no bosses." I smiled and agreed, but I kept glancing out the window. The land sloped down to a ravine, and beyond that was another property, hidden by brush. I thought I saw smoke rising from there once or twice, like someone else was out here.
A few days later, a man showed up at our door. He was in his forties, with a beard and a calm smile, carrying a toolbox. "Name's Len," he said. "I live over the hill. Saw your truck coming in and figured you might need help with the fixes." John shook his hand right away. "Perfect timing," John replied. "We're drowning in work here. You know anything about plumbing?" Len nodded. "Built my whole place myself. Even added a storage room underground for supplies. Off-grid life takes planning." I stood back, watching. Len's eyes lingered on me a bit too long, but I pushed the thought away. We needed the help.
Len started coming over every day. He helped John dig a new well and fix the roof. He talked a lot about how the world was falling apart, how people needed to prepare. "You two are smart to get out here," he said one evening as we sat around a small fire outside. The flames lit his face in flickers. "Cities are traps. Out here, you control your fate." John liked his stories, but I noticed little things. Len would stare at our tools, ask where we got them. Once, I caught him looking through our truck when he thought no one was around. "Just checking for leaks," he said when I asked. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
As the weeks went on, we made progress. The cabin looked better, with fresh paint and sturdy floors. But strange things happened. Tools went missing, then showed up in odd places. One night, I woke to a scraping sound outside, like metal on dirt. John slept through it, but I peeked out the window and saw a shadow moving toward Len's property. The next morning, I told John. "Probably an animal," he said. "Or Len working late. He's got that big project going." Len had mentioned building an extension to his cabin, something secure for storage. He invited us over to see it, but we hadn't gone yet.
One afternoon, Len came over with another man, younger, with short hair and a quiet way about him. "This is Charlie," Len introduced. "My partner in the build. He's good with concrete." Charlie didn't say much, just nodded and got to work helping John reinforce the walls. I offered them water, and Charlie looked at me with flat eyes. "Nice place you got," he said softly. "Private." Something in his voice made my skin prickle. Later, when they left, I told John I didn't like Charlie. "He seems off." John shrugged. "They're just neighbors helping out. We can't be picky out here."
The unease grew. I started noticing tire tracks near our land that weren't ours. One day, while John and Len were working on the porch, I walked down to the ravine to gather wood. I crossed onto Len's side without thinking and saw his cabin up close. It was bigger than ours, with a new concrete structure attached, like a low building half-buried in the hill. A door led inside, padlocked. As I turned back, Charlie stepped out from the trees. "You shouldn't wander," he said, his face blank. "Could get lost." I mumbled an apology and hurried away. That night, I whispered to John, "We should finish the work ourselves. I don't trust them." John hugged me. "You're worrying too much. A couple more days, and we'll be done."
But the next morning, John was gone. His side of the bed was cold, and his boots were missing. I called his name around the cabin, then outside. No answer. Panic rose in my chest. I grabbed a flashlight and headed to Len's place. The door to his cabin was open a crack. "Len? Have you seen John?" I pushed inside. The room was dim, cluttered with boxes and papers. On a table, I saw a video camera, wires tangled. Then I heard voices from the back, low and muffled.
I followed the sound to a hallway, my hands shaking. The voices grew clearer—John's voice, scared. "What is this? Let me go!" I reached a door and opened it quietly. Steps led down to the underground room Len had mentioned. At the bottom, in a concrete cell, John was tied to a chair, his face bruised. Len stood over him, holding a knife. Charlie watched from the corner, arms crossed. "Your wife will join soon," Len said calmly. "We need help with our project. Permanent help."
My breath caught. I backed up, but my foot hit a loose board. It creaked loud. Len turned. "Who's there?" I ran, heart racing, up the steps and out the cabin. Footsteps pounded behind me. I darted into the woods, branches scratching my arms. "Come back!" Len called, his voice echoing. "We just want to talk!" I hid behind a thick tree, holding my breath as they searched. Charlie passed close, muttering, "She can't go far."
Hours passed before I dared move. I circled back to our truck, keys still in it. The engine roared to life, and I sped down the dirt road, dust flying. At the nearest town, I burst into the police station, words tumbling out. "My husband—they have him—please help!" The officers looked skeptical at first, but they followed me back.
What they found changed everything. In Len's underground room, a bunker he had built during his "renovations," they discovered horrors. Tapes showing women begging, men screaming. Bones buried in the yard. John was alive, barely, locked in a cell. Len and Charlie had lured people like us, promising jobs or help, then trapped them. They killed for sport, for control. Police said there were more victims, families even, vanished without trace.
John and I got out, but the fear never left. Every creak in our new home, every stranger's face, reminds me. That cabin we wanted to fix? It was too close to hell.
"The Last Day":
I had been living in Klamath County for a few years when I met Ted. He was the kind of guy who knew how to make things work with what he had. We bonded over building projects. He lived up on Bly Mountain, in a small spot off the grid—two acres with no electricity from the city, just solar panels and a generator he fixed himself. His place was basic, a cabin he built from logs he milled, with horses grazing nearby and dogs running around. Ted loved those animals more than most people love their kids. He had three horses and a pack of dogs that followed him everywhere.
Last spring, Ted asked for help renovating his cabin. He wanted to add a room for storage and fix the roof that leaked every rain. "I can't do it alone," he said over the phone. "My back's not what it used to be." I agreed because I liked the work, and it gave me an excuse to get away from town. The area up there was quiet, but not the good kind. People kept to themselves, and some were into bad stuff like cooking meth in trailers hidden in the woods. Ted mentioned it once or twice, but he said as long as you didn't bother them, they left you alone.
I drove up there on a Wednesday morning in May. The road was dirt, full of potholes that jarred my truck. Ted's truck was parked near the cabin, like always. I called out his name as I got out, but no answer. His dogs usually barked when someone approached, but everything was still. I walked toward the cabin, tools in hand, thinking he might be out back with the horses.
Then I saw one of his dogs lying on the ground near the truck. It was his favorite, a big shepherd mix named Buddy. The dog wasn't moving. I knelt down and saw the blood on its side. It had been shot. My hands shook as I touched its fur. It was cold. I stood up fast, looking around. The woods were thick, trees close together, and I felt eyes on me. "Ted!" I yelled louder. No response.
I moved to the truck. The door was open, and Ted's keys were still in the ignition. His phone was on the seat, screen cracked. Then I saw him. He was on the ground a few feet away, face down in the dirt. Blood pooled around his head. I ran over and turned him. His eyes were open, blank. A gunshot wound on his chest. I checked for a pulse, but there was nothing. I backed away, my mind racing. Who did this? Why?
I grabbed my phone to call the sheriff, but signal was spotty up there. I had to drive down the road a bit to get bars. While I waited for the cops, I remembered our talks. A week earlier, we were fixing the roof. Ted hammered nails while I held the ladder. "You notice anything odd lately?" he asked.
"Like what?" I said.
"Tools going missing. And last night, I heard someone walking around outside. The dogs barked like crazy."
I laughed it off then. "Probably deer or a coyote."
He shook his head. "No, it was footsteps. Human. And one of my trail cameras is gone. The one facing the road."
I didn't think much of it at the time. Ted was always cautious, but the area had its share of drifters. People who lived off-grid like him, but not all were friendly. Some stole to get by, or worse. Ted told me about a neighbor a mile away who got into fights over land lines. "He's jealous of my setup," Ted said. "Thinks I have more than I do."
We took a break that day, sitting on the porch with coffee from his camp stove. His dogs played in the yard. "You know, I built this place for peace," he said. "Away from the world. But sometimes, the world finds you anyway."
I nodded. "Yeah, but you have the horses. The dogs. Your kids visit."
He smiled. "True. My daughter bought this land for me. Kept me from ending up on the street. I make tables for the grocery store in town. They give me food in trade. It's enough."
That conversation stuck with me as I sat in my truck waiting for the police. The sheriff's office arrived after what felt like forever—two deputies in a SUV. They asked questions. "When did you last see him alive?"
"Yesterday," I said. "We were working on the addition. He seemed fine."
They looked around, took photos. "Looks like he was ambushed," one said. "Shot close range. Dogs too."
I told them about the missing tools, the footsteps Ted mentioned. They noted it down, but their faces were grim. "This area's rough," the other deputy said. "Meth heads, thieves. We'll investigate."
Later, they found another dog shot but alive. It had a bullet in its face. Ted's family took it to the vet, and it survived after surgery. But Buddy didn't make it. The horses were okay, but spooked.
The days after were hard. I went back to Ted's place with his family to clean up. That's when we saw the looting. Someone had come in the night after the murder. Ted's lumber mill was gone. His flatbed trailer, horse tack, even antlers he collected—stolen. A bear rug from his cabin, missing. "Neighbors," his daughter said, angry. "The off-grid ones. They wait for moments like this."
We talked as we packed his things. "Dad mentioned someone watching him," she said. "He thought it was that guy down the road. The one with the meth lab rumors."
I recalled Ted pointing out the trail to that neighbor's place. "Stay away from there," he warned me once. "Bad news."
The family offered a cash reward for info. I spread the word in town. People whispered theories. "Meth addicts looking for easy cash." "Jealousy over his land." "Someone he knew, since they took the trail camera—didn't want to be seen."
I started feeling uneasy at my own place. Nights, I heard branches snap outside. Was it wind? Animals? Or someone? I locked my doors tighter, kept a light on. Ted's death changed how I saw the mountain. What was peaceful now felt threatening. The woods hid too much.
One night, a week later, I got a call from an unknown number. A man's voice, low. "You asking about Ted?"
"Yes," I said. "Who is this?"
"He stuck his nose where it didn't belong. Mind your business, or end up like him."
The line went dead. I called the sheriff, but they said it was probably a prank. But I knew better. The killer was still out there, watching.
I helped finish the renovation for Ted's family. We added the room, fixed the roof. It was our way to honor him. But every hammer strike reminded me of him. His laugh, his stories about his grandkids. He planned to take them fishing.
Now, months later, the case is still open. No arrests. The mountain keeps its secrets. I drive by his place sometimes, see the cabin standing empty. The horses are with his daughter. The surviving dog too. But the quiet up there? It's not peaceful anymore. It's waiting.
I think about that voice on the phone. The footsteps Ted heard. The eyes in the woods. Living off-grid sounded free once. Now, it feels like a trap. Ted was kind, generous. Gave me a propane tank last winter when mine ran low. "Friends help friends," he said.
I miss him. And I wonder who's next.
"No Signal":
My boyfriend Ray had this idea one weekend. He said we should drive out to that weird place in the woods where those two older guys lived. Ray knew them a little from hunting trips. He called it a chance to relax and have some fun away from town. I was nineteen then, and it sounded exciting at first. Ray's friend Kenny came along, and so did Kenny's nephew Tim. We piled into Kenny's old truck and headed up the dirt road that twisted through the hills. The trees got thicker the farther we went, and soon the pavement was gone. It took almost an hour to reach the spot.
When we arrived, the house looked like something built by hand, all brick and sturdy, but simple. No power lines ran to it, no neighbors for miles. The two men who lived there, Dr. Henry Lawson and his friend James Ellis, had made it themselves a few years back. They left the city to live off the land, growing their own food and using well water. I heard they were still adding to it, fixing up outbuildings and expanding the garden. Henry was a former professor, smart and quiet, with a kind face. James was more outgoing, always ready with a smile. They had two big dogs, mastiffs named Duke and Rex, who barked when we pulled up but wagged their tails once Henry called them off.
Henry came out to greet us. "Hello there," he said, his voice calm and polite. "What brings you all this way?"
Kenny grinned and held up a six-pack. "Just thought we'd stop by, see if you folks want company. Maybe share a drink?"
Henry glanced at James, who nodded from the doorway. "Sure, come on in. We've got some homemade wine if you're interested."
We followed them inside. The place was cozy, with a wood stove in the corner and shelves full of books and jars of preserved vegetables. No TV, no radio—just the sound of our footsteps on the wooden floor. The dogs settled by the stove, watching us. We sat around the table, and James poured the wine. It was sweet, made from their own grapes. We talked about nothing much at first. Henry mentioned how they built the house brick by brick, how it took months to get the walls just right for insulation against the cold. "We're thinking of adding a greenhouse next," he said. "Make it easier to grow through winter."
Ray leaned back in his chair. "Must be nice out here, no bills, no boss telling you what to do."
James laughed softly. "It has its moments. But it's work. Always something to fix or build."
As the afternoon wore on, Kenny suggested we move to the outbuilding they called the coop. It was three stories tall, with chickens on the bottom, storage in the middle, and a room up top for hanging out. We climbed a long ladder to get there—forty feet straight up. The room was painted pink, with cushions and a small table. More wine flowed. Ray and Kenny started sniffing some stuff they brought, a mix of chemicals that made their eyes glaze over. Henry and James stuck to the wine, chatting about life in the city versus the woods.
I felt uneasy as the light outside dimmed. The isolation hit me—the nearest road was far, and my phone had no signal. Tim kept glancing at me, like he sensed something off too. Kenny's laughs got louder, his eyes sharper. He pulled Ray aside at one point, whispering. I caught bits: "They got money hidden... look at all this..."
James noticed the shift. "Everything alright?" he asked, his tone still friendly but watchful.
"Yeah, just fine," Kenny replied, too quick.
Then it happened fast. Kenny excused himself, said he needed something from the truck. When he came back, he had a rifle tucked under his arm. No one said a word at first. He climbed the ladder, sat down, and suddenly pointed it at James. "Don't move," he growled.
James's face went pale. "What is this? We don't have much—"
Kenny fired. Four shots, loud in the small space. James slumped over, blood spreading on his shirt. I screamed, backing against the wall. Henry jumped up, but Ray grabbed him, twisting his arms behind his back. "Tie him up," Ray ordered Tim, who looked terrified but did it with some rope from the corner.
The dogs downstairs barked wildly. Kenny went down and shot them too—sharp cracks that echoed up. I couldn't breathe right. "Why are you doing this?" I cried at Ray.
"Shut up, Lisa," Ray snapped. "They've got cash stashed. We're taking it."
Henry struggled against the ropes. "Please, we don't have anything valuable. Just let us go."
Kenny rummaged through drawers, tossing things aside. "Where's the money, doc? We know you're loaded from that city job."
Henry shook his head. "We spent it all building this place. There's nothing."
Tim and I tried to slip away then. We climbed down the ladder quiet as we could, ran to the truck. But the engine wouldn't turn over—something wrong with it. Kenny heard the noise and came running. "Get back here!" He dragged us inside the main house now, where James lay still upstairs.
They pushed Henry to his knees in the living room. Ray paced, frustrated. They'd torn apart cabinets and shelves, found only a few dollars and some jewelry. "You're lying," Ray said to Henry. "Tell us or it's over."
Henry looked right at me, his eyes pleading. "Help me," he whispered.
I shook, tears running down my face. "Ray, stop this. Let's just leave."
But Ray raised the gun, pressed it to Henry's head. "Last chance."
Henry closed his eyes. "There's a box under the floorboard in the bedroom. Small savings."
Kenny ran up, pried up the board, pulled out a metal box. Inside, maybe a thousand dollars. Not enough for them. Ray's face twisted in anger. He pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, and Henry fell forward.
I collapsed, sobbing. Tim stared at the floor, silent.
They grabbed what they could— the money, some tools, Henry's jeep keys. "We're out of here," Kenny said. But the truck was dead, so they took the jeep. Ray forced me and Tim into the back. We drove through the dark woods, the branches scraping the sides like fingers.
At a gas station hours later, they argued. "What do we do with them?" Kenny asked Ray.
"Keep 'em quiet till we figure it out," Ray said.
They dropped me and Tim at Tim's mom's house the next day, warning us not to talk. "You say anything, you're next," Ray told me.
Tim locked me in a room, said it was for my own good. Days passed—I lost track. I heard them on the phone, planning to run farther. One night, Ray and Kenny left for Mississippi. Tim fell asleep downstairs. I pried open the window, climbed out, and ran to the road. Flagged down a car, told the driver to take me to the police.
When the sheriff went to the homestead, they found the bodies. James in the pink room, Henry in the living room, the dogs by the stove. The place was ransacked, blood everywhere. They caught Ray and Kenny soon after—they'd killed another man at a rest stop, stealing his car. Trials followed, life sentences.
I still see their faces, hear the shots. That off-grid dream they built turned into a nightmare because of greed and hate. I moved away, but the memory follows me.
"Hollow Hours":
I bought this rundown farm in Woodruff because it came cheap at auction. Ninety-five acres of woods and fields, with a house that needed everything fixed—new roof, plumbing, the works. I wanted to make it my own spot, away from people, with rain catchers and wind turbines for power. No more relying on the grid or noisy neighbors. The real estate guy who handled the sale, a man named Carl, seemed eager to close the deal. He was polished, drove a nice car, but his eyes darted around like he had places to be.
"Property's got potential," Carl said as we walked the land that first day. He pointed to the barn and outbuildings. "Previous owner let it go, but you could turn this into something special. Hunt, farm, whatever."
I nodded, kicking at the overgrown grass. "That's the plan. Start with the house, then build a greenhouse. How long was it empty?"
He shrugged. "Couple years. Owner moved on. Died or something. Papers are clean, though."
I signed and moved in the next week. Unloaded my truck with tools, lumber, and seeds. The house was two stories, creaky stairs, rooms full of dust. Out back, a metal shipping container sat half-buried in weeds, padlocked. I figured it for storage, planned to clean it out later.
First few days, I tore out rotten floorboards in the kitchen, ran new wires for lights. Worked from dawn till dark. One afternoon, a pickup pulled up. A local farmer, older guy named Ben, got out with a basket of eggs.
"Welcome to the area," Ben said, handing it over. "Saw the lights on. Thought you'd like some fresh ones."
"Thanks," I replied. "Name's Alex. Fixing the place up."
He looked past me at the house. "Big job. That container out back—ever open it?"
"Not yet. Why?"
Ben shifted his feet. "Just curious. Last owner kept odd stuff. Kept to himself mostly."
I laughed it off. "I'll get to it. Appreciate the eggs."
He drove away, but his words stuck. That night, I pried the lock off the container with bolt cutters. Inside, chains bolted to the floor, a bucket in the corner, stains on the walls. Smelled like rust and something sour. I backed out quick, locked it again. Maybe an animal pen, I thought. Or worse.
Next morning, I called Carl about it. "Hey, what's with the shipping container? Looks like someone used it for holding... I don't know, livestock?"
He paused on the phone. "Probably. Old owner was into prepping. Stored gear there. Clean it out if it bothers you."
"Alright," I said. "Just seemed strange."
"Everything's fine. Call if you need referrals for work."
I hung up, but doubt crept in. Kept working—installed solar panels on the roof, dug trenches for water lines. The land was quiet, trees thick around the edges. Sometimes I'd find dug spots in the dirt, like holes filled back in. Blamed moles or deer.
A week later, while clearing brush near the woods, I hit metal with my shovel. Dug around it—a motorcycle part, rusted chain. Nearby, more scraps: a wallet, empty, leather cracked. Inside flap had initials carved: S.M. I pocketed it, figured junk from years ago.
That evening, Ben stopped by again, this time with tools. "Heard you're renovating solo. Need a hand?"
"Sure," I said. We hammered siding on the barn. As we worked, I mentioned the finds. "Dug up some old bike parts. Wallet too."
Ben stopped hammering. "Where?"
"Edge of the woods."
His face paled a bit. "Might want to leave that be. Rumors about this land."
"What kind?"
He wiped his brow. "Missing folks. Couples, mostly. Vanished around here years back. Police searched once, found nothing."
I set my hammer down. "You serious?"
"Yeah. One pair, engaged, disappeared after a bike shop job. Others too. Never solved."
I showed him the wallet. He looked it over. "S.M.... Could be Scott Meeks. One of the missing."
We called the sheriff. A deputy came out, took the wallet, asked questions. "We'll look into it. Stay out of the woods for now."
After he left, I couldn't settle. Paced the house, checked doors. That night, heard scratching from outside—faint, like nails on metal. Went to the window, saw nothing. But the container door swung open slightly, chain loose.
I grabbed a flashlight and crowbar, went out. Pushed the door wider. Empty, same as before. But fresh marks on the floor, like drag lines. Back inside, I barred the front door with a chair.
Days blurred. I focused on the greenhouse build—framed it, added plastic sheeting. Carl called once. "How's the progress? Need anything?"
"Fine," I said short. "Found some stuff in the dirt. Police involved now."
Silence. "What stuff?"
"Wallet. Bike parts."
He cleared his throat. "Coincidence. Old land holds secrets. Don't let it stop you."
His tone felt forced. I hung up, searched online about the missing people. Articles popped up: Superbike Motors murders in 2003—four killed in a shop. Then couples vanishing: Johnny and Megan Coxie in 2015, Charles and Kala in 2016. Bodies found on a local property. Wait—property description matched mine. Owner arrested: Carl's full name in the headlines.
My hands shook. Carl was the killer. Real estate front, but he used this land as his dump site. Chained a woman in that container for months. Buried victims in shallow graves.
I packed essentials, called the deputy. "It's him. The owner—Carl. This is his killing ground."
Deputy's voice sharpened. "Stay put. We're coming."
But as I waited, headlights cut the dark. Carl's car pulled up. He got out, casual, toolbox in hand. "Heard you had trouble. Thought I'd help."
I backed from the window, phone dead—signal gone. He knocked. "Open up. We need to talk."
Knocking turned to pounding. I ran upstairs, hid in a closet. Heard the door splinter. Footsteps below, slow, searching.
"Found my old spots, huh?" he called. "Smart. But too late."
Steps on stairs. I held my breath, gripped a loose board. Door creaked open. His shadow filled the room.
Police sirens wailed distant, growing louder. He cursed soft, retreated. Car engine roared away.
Cops arrived, searched the land. Dug up bodies—seven total. Carl caught later, confessed. I sold the place quick, never looked back. But echoes of those chains rattle in my mind still.