There’s a hole in the hills of West Virginia that nobody talks about. And at the bottom of it were human remains. And now before you picture some old grave site or mining accident, let me stop you right there. That’s not what this is. This wasn’t careless. This wasn’t natural. It was a kill site. And the man who found it, Tom Walker, he knew exactly what he was looking at. He had hunted his whole life. He had tracked bear, coyote, bobcat.

He knew the sign of a predator’s den. And that’s exactly what this was. The bones weren’t scattered. And they weren’t random. They were stacked. Piled the way animals piled their kills. Not buried, not hidden, but displayed. And the claw marks, they told him something else entirely. Whatever was using that hole wasn’t small. It wasn’t timid. It was strong enough to tear coal like bark off of a tree. Strong enough to claim that ground as its own. This wasn’t just an animal.

This was an apex. An alpha predator. The kind that doesn’t share territory. Tom said the smell down there was thick. Not just rot, but musk. The kind of stench predators leave behind to mark where they’ve been. He swore it clung to his clothes for days after, no matter how many times he washed. And that silence above ground, the woods knew. Everything else gave this place a wide birth. Birds, deer, even scavengers. Nothing came near it because they could sense what Tom now saw with his own eyes.

Something owned this hole. He told me later it wasn’t just the bones that got him. It was the way the chamber looked alive. You ever walk into a place and just know you’re not the first one there? The dirt disturbed. Claw tracks dragging through the sill. Old bones pushed aside to make room for fresh ones. That’s what he saw. And here’s the part that never left him. Some of those remains, the ones he swore were human, weren’t old.

They weren’t crumbling into dust. They still had flesh on them, which meant whatever had been feeding here hadn’t stopped. Tom didn’t hang around. He wasn’t stupid. He pulled himself out of that pit as fast as his body would let him. His ankle was screaming. His hands were torn up from the climb. But adrenaline got him back into the daylight. And when he finally stood above it, gasping, rifle in hand, he realized something that turned his blood cold.

He hadn’t just stumbled into a hole in the ground. He’d stumbled into an active den. And if there’s one thing every hunter knows, it’s this. You don’t walk into a predator’s den and come out the same. When Tom finally dragged himself out of that hole, he didn’t feel relief. He felt watched. He lay on his back in the leaves, chest heaving, rifle clutched across his chest like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The morning sun was cutting through the trees, bright and sharp.

But it felt wrong, too normal, too clean, like the woods hadn’t noticed what was hiding underneath them. And the smell, that was the worst part. It clung to him. Damp, foul, musky. He wiped at his jacket, rubbed dirt into his hands, but it didn’t matter. It was in his clothes, his skin, maybe even his hair. He swore it followed him all the way back down the ridge. By the time he reached his truck, his ankle had ballooned to the size of a grapefruit.

Every step sent fire up his leg. He dropped into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and just sat there for a minute, staring at the tree line, listening because the woods were still silent. He turned the key, engine growling to life. But even then, he felt like he wasn’t alone, like something had followed him out of that hole and was standing just beyond the brush, watching him leave. When he pulled into his driveway an hour later, his wife met him at the door.

She took one look at him and froze. Dirt streaked down his face, jeans torn open at the knee, boot laces shredded. She asked what happened. “Fell,” he muttered. “That’s all he gave her. just that one word. She pressed him. Did he need a doctor? Should she call their neighbor to help, but Tom shook his head. He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. Not when he couldn’t even tell himself what he’d just seen. Tom sat in his chair for a long time after that.

Boots kicked off, ankle throbbing, a wet rag pressed against the swelling. His wife moved around the kitchen, stealing glances at him, waiting for an explanation he wasn’t ready to give. But the truth wouldn’t leave him alone. Those bones, that skull, the claw marks ripped into solid coal. If he stayed quiet and someone else stumbled across that hole, it would be on him. So finally, just after dinner, he picked up the phone. He didn’t say much. Just gave his name, his address, told the sheriff’s office he’d fallen into a shaft in the woods and there were bones at the bottom.

At least one of them looked human. That was all it took. The dispatcher’s tone shifted. No more small talk. She said, “Stay put, Mr. Walker. We’ll send someone first thing in the morning.” Tom hung up the phone and stared at the receiver. His wife asked him what he’d done. He just muttered, “Call the law.” She wanted to know why. He didn’t answer. That night, he barely slept. Every creek of the house set him on edge. The dog barked at the tree line until Tom dragged him inside.

He kept his rifle propped against the wall by the bed, eyes wide open in the dark. At sunrise, a cruiser rolled into his drive. Dust trailed off the gravel road as two deputies stepped out. One older, thick around the middle with a face that said he’d seen his share of Cold Town fights. The other younger, fresh-faced, trying too hard to look tough. The older deputy listened as Tom explained. He kept it simple. Hole opened up. Bones inside.

Left out the claw marks. Left out the smell. He wasn’t ready for that part yet. The deputy nodded. All right, show us. So, back up the ridge they went. Tom led the way, limp heavy on his bad ankle, pointing out the deer trail that wound through the brush. The deputies followed, boots crunching in the leaves. The closer they got, the quieter the woods became. No birds, no squirrels, no wind through the branches, just silence. Even the younger deputy noticed.

He cleared his throat. Strange woods shouldn’t be this dead this time of year. Tom didn’t answer. He just kept walking until he reached the spot where the ground had given way. He stopped short, pointed there. That’s it. Both deputies leaned over the edge. Their flashlight snapped on, beams cutting into the black. The light caught the pale curve of a skull, then another, then the pile of bones stacked at the chamber floor. The younger deputy swore under his breath.

Jesus Christ. The older one didn’t say anything. His jaw tightened. He keyed his radio and called it in. Possible human remains. Location secure. But then his light shifted and he saw the walls. Long gouges cut deep into the coal. Too high for a man, too wide for a pickaxe. He stared for a second too long. Then he shut his light off. Looked at Tom. Stay here. They tied off a rope and started down. The rope groaned as the older deputy lowered himself in first, boots scraping against the crumbling wall.

His flashlight beam swung back and forth, bouncing across the chamber floor. The younger one followed, hands clumsy on the rope, nerves written all over his face. He tried to laugh it off. Never thought I’d be playing coal miner, he muttered, but his voice cracked just enough to give him away. Tom stayed at the edge. One knee pressed against the dirt watching. He didn’t like it. His gut told him nobody should be down there. Not again. Careful, he warned.

That ground ain’t right. It shifts. The older deputy grunted. We’ll manage. His voice echoed strange in the hollow. Too loud. Too sharp. Once they hit the bottom, the beam steadied. The pile of bones looked worse up close. Some were chewed, splintered. Others broken clean through, and one skull, half buried in the dirt, had a jawline no deer or bear could explain. The younger deputy knelt beside it. His hand hovered, then pulled back. This This is human. I’m sure of it.

The older one shot him a look. Bag it when the coroner gets here. Don’t touch. Tom leaned forward, peering over the rim. You see the walls? The older deputy lifted his light. The gouges leapt out of the dark, deep, jagged, running higher than his own head. He went quiet. Really quiet. The younger one whispered, “What could do that?” Before the older deputy could answer, the sound cut through. Low, heavy breathing. It came from deeper in the black, past the edge of their light.

Slow inhales, long exhales, not echoes, not tricks. The younger deputy froze, flashlight trembling. Tell me you hear that. Tom’s chest clenched. He did. He’d heard it before. In that same pit, the younger one stumbled, grabbing the rope, fumbling to hook it to his belt. His light swung wild across the chamber and caught eyes. Two burning orbs high up in the dark, reflecting the beam like mirrors. Then came the sound no man there ever forgot. A roar low at first then building rolling through the chamber until it rattled their bones.

Half scream, half growl, animal, but not like anything that belonged in those woods. The younger deputy screamed back, scrabbling for his pistol. The older one shoved him toward the rope. Climb. Damn it. Climb. Tom was on his feet at the rim, rifle shaking in his hands, heart slamming against his ribs. He wanted to run. He wanted to haul them up himself. But he couldn’t move because from the black, the shape came forward. Broad shoulders, matted fur, too tall, too heavy.

It filled the space like the walls themselves were moving. And still those eyes never left them. The younger deputy was halfway up the rope. Boots slipping, flashlight swinging so wild it threw jagged light across the chamber. For just a second, Tom saw it, too. Two glowing eyes cutting back the beam. But the angle was all wrong. From where he was, crouched at the rim, he couldn’t see the whole shape. Just movement. heavy, massive, like the walls themselves were shifting in the dark.

The younger deputy’s scream echoed up. “It’s moving. Jesus, it’s moving.” The older one shouted, voice tight. “Climb! Go! Go!” He shoved the kid higher, then grabbed the rope himself. From above, Tom leaned forward, knuckles white on his rifle. He saw dust exploding from the walls, stones clattering across the floor. Something big had hit down there hard. And that smell, that musky, rotten stink, it rushed up out of the hole and wrapped around him like smoke. He staggered back just as the older deputy clawed over the rim, face gray, chest heaving.

The younger one tumbled after, eyes wide, babbling, “Too big, too fast. Tom tried to ask, “What was it? What did you see?” Neither answered because in that silence, the breathing still carried up. Slow, heavy, measured. Whatever was down there wasn’t finished. They didn’t wait to find out more. The deputies yanked their rope loose, stuffed it in a bag, and started down the ridge without a word. Tom followed, limping, rifle across his chest. None of them looked back.

But the whole way down, Tom swore the trees shifted behind them. Not with wind, not with animals, with something keeping pace. At the edge of that ridge, nobody said a word for a long time. The deputies were pale, sweating, hands still shaking from the climb. Tom stared at them, waiting. Finally, he broke the silence. Don’t tell me you didn’t see it. Don’t tell me you didn’t hear that thing breathing down your neck. The younger deputy’s mouth opened, then shut again.

He looked sick. His eyes darted to the trees, then to the rope coiled at his feet. The older one finally spoke. His voice was flat, almost rehearsed. We’ll file it as a collapsed shaft. Bones from old miners, maybe some animals mixed in. That’s it. Tom shook his head. That’s You both saw it. You both heard it. That wasn’t no minor. And it sure as hell wasn’t an animal. The younger deputy’s voice cracked. It had eyes. I saw them.

God help me. I saw enough. The older one snapped, grabbing his partner by the arm. He turned on Tom, lowering his voice, but not his stare. You need to forget what you think you saw. You hear me? Forget it. Tom stepped closer, rifle still across his chest, jaw tight. I’ve hunted these hills my whole life. I know what bear tracks look like. I know what coyotes sound like. That thing down there wasn’t any animal we know. And you’re lying if you say different.

The older deputy’s jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth. For a second, Tom thought he’d admit it, but instead he said, “Sheriff will handle it.” And that was the end of it. The next day, the sheriff himself showed up at Tom’s house. friendly smile, hat in hand, but his eyes told a different story. Mr. Walker, you’ve had a rough go. That shaft’s dangerous. We’ll see to it. It’s sealed. Best you let it go. No need stirring up folks with wild stories.

Tom barked a laugh. Wild stories? You got two of your men who damn near lost their lives in that hole, and you want to tell me it’s nothing? That’s your line. The sheriff’s smile never broke. That’s the line for your own good. And by sundown, the trucks were already up on the ridge. No county logos, no state plates, just plain white rigs hauling equipment Tom had never seen before. Big flood lights, concrete mixers, men in coveralls who didn’t talk to anybody.

By the end of the week, the hole was gone. Buried, fenced, erased, but not forgotten because Tom knew what he saw. and he knew the deputies did too. By the end of the week, it was like the hole had never existed. The men came in trucks with no markings. Not county, not state, not even out of town contractors, just plain white rigs, spotless license plates that didn’t match anything Tom had ever seen. They worked sun up to sun down, hauling in mixers, pouring concrete by the ton.

Flood lights ran all night. The entire ridge was fenced off by the time they were done. Nobody in town was told a thing. Not a word in the paper. Not a whisper on the radio. It was just gone. Tom drove past once low. His window rolled down. The fence was fresh, topped with barbed wire. A sign bolted to it read, “Property of State Mining Authority.” Except Tom knew better. He’d worked around those mines his whole life. He’d never seen that sign before.

The wording was wrong. The font was wrong. And the men standing at the gate weren’t minors. They were something else. They didn’t wave, didn’t nod, just watched him drive by. And that’s when it hit him. This wasn’t about sealing a dangerous shaft. This wasn’t about protecting the public. This was about control, about keeping something hidden. That night, the sheriff came by one last time, sat on Tom’s porch, hat in his lap, voice low enough that Tom’s wife couldn’t hear through the window.

Listen to me, Tom. That hole is gone. It’s best you don’t talk about it. Not to neighbors, not to family, not to anyone. Men higher up than me don’t take kindly to folks stirring up trouble. Understand? Tom stared him down. I know what I saw, and so do your boys. The sheriff’s smile was thin, tired. Maybe you did, but it’s gone now, so you better learn to forget. Then he stood, put his hat back on, and left without another word.

From then on, Tom knew two things for sure. One, whatever lived in that shaft, whatever left those bones and carved those walls wasn’t gone. It had just been buried alive. And two, somebody already knew it was there. Because you don’t mobilize trucks like that, crews like that, lights and concrete and fences in less than a week, unless you’ve done it before. From that week on, Tom never went back up that ridge. The hole was gone, the trucks had left, the fence stayed, and life in Boone County rolled on like nothing had happened.

Neighbors talked about the weather, the price of coal, the deer moving through the hollers. Nobody mentioned bones. Nobody mentioned what might have been in those tunnels. But Tom remembered. He remembered the eyes reflecting in the dark, the breathing, the stink that clung to his skin no matter how many showers he took. And more than anything, he remembered the way those deputies looked at him. Shaken, pale, unable to admit what they saw, but unable to forget it either.

Years later, long after the fence rusted and the sign fell, Tom still couldn’t bring himself to walk past that ridge, he’d tell himself it was healed ground, sealed, safe. But deep down he knew concrete doesn’t kill. It only covers. And if what he stumbled into was a den, then whatever lived there is still out there waiting. So the next time you find yourself alone in the Appalachian hills and the woods go quiet and the air turns heavy, remember Tom Walker’s story because the hole may be gone but the predator isn’t.

In 2021, a couple named Mike and Jenna, both in their 20s, were training for a 30-mile ultramarathon. They lived up in northern Minnesota, just outside of Silver Bay. Mike, he worked construction and Jenna, she taught middle school. They weren’t elite runners or anything like that. They were just serious enough to stick to a schedule. And this wasn’t a normal race either. It was one of those overnight trail ult. That meant training had to adjust. Like most people prepping for a long race, they had a plan.

a couple of short runs during the week, a tempo day, and then a long run every weekend. And because the race itself was at night, they made it a point to do some of those long ones after dark just to get their bodies used to running tired and with a headlamp hearing things that they couldn’t see. They had done two or three of those night runs already without a problem. This was the last one before they tapered before the race.

So that night they were planning to do a 20 mile run, 10 out and 10 back. Pretty standard distance for where they were in their training block. Long enough to matter, but not long enough to destroy you. They got to the trail head around 8:30. Gear was already packed. They both had headlamps with fresh batteries. No moon that night, but they didn’t think much of it. They’ done this loop before, so they know it kind of by feel.

By the time they started running it, it was just after 9:00 p.m. It’s still fairly warm out for northern Minnesota. The bugs were annoying, but manageable. Everything felt normal. So, the first two miles were fine. They talked about work, a little bit about the race, and how their pacing was better than last week. After mile three, they stopped talking. Not because there was anything wrong. They just were settling in. Around mile five is when things started to get weird.

Mike noticed it first. He asked Jenna if she smelled something. At first, she said no. But then maybe about a half a mile later, she got it too. Said it was like trash mixed with wet fur, almost metallic. Not strong at first, more like it was just riding on the breeze. Then came the silence. And not just no animals making noise silence like the woods had shut off. One second you could hear the usual crickets and night sounds and the next it was just gone.

No fade out, just off. So Jenna stopped running and Mike pulled up next to her. They both stood there looking around. That’s when they heard it. There was two steps off to the right in the bush. Not fast, not aggressive, just two big, heavy steps. Then nothing. They both turned their headlamps in that direction and nothing was there. No movement, no eyes, just trees. Jenna whispered to Mike, “Could be a deer.” But Mike didn’t say anything. They stood there for maybe about 30 seconds listening, then decided to keep going.

They were about a mile from their turnaround point, so they figured they just finish the run out, take a little break, and then head back quicker. No big deal. Except the smell. It didn’t go away. And every few minutes they’d hear more steps. Something like off to the left, something behind them at one point, never more than a few, and never running, just pacing them as it was staying off trail. They didn’t stop to investigate. They didn’t talk.

They just kept running. And at mile 10, they stopped for a quick snack. They sat on a rock and they hadn’t seen anything. But they both knew something was out there. It wasn’t a question anymore. Jenna was the first to say it out loud. We were being followed. Mike, he nodded. He’d been thinking it for miles. They didn’t waste any more time. Jenna shoved the last of her granola bar in her pocket, and they both stood up, brushed off their hands, and they started heading back.

The air still smelled bad, maybe worse now. It wasn’t constant. It came in waves. One second nothing and the next it would hit you right in the back of the throat. Musky, wet, thick, like something was sweating and rotting at the same time. They weren’t running fast anymore, just steady. Jenna had her headlamp tilted slightly off to the side so she could catch movement in the woods, and Mike kept his straight ahead. About a mile into the return, Mike slowed down.

He held his arm out to kind of like stop Jenna. They both froze. There were footsteps, but not behind them. They were ahead of them now. Off the trail into the trees, the same heavy dragging pace, maybe two or three steps, then nothing. Whatever it was, would have had to move fast, way faster than they had. They stood there for maybe 15 seconds trying to figure out what to do and then another. Now there were two, one ahead and one behind.

No talking, no decision. They just started running and again, but this time it wasn’t a training pace. It was like get the hell out of here pace. They ran like that for the next two or three miles. Breathing really hard, hearing the steps come and go. Never right on top of them, but never far enough to feel safe. And then Jenna tripped. Her toe caught on something, probably a root. She hit the ground hard. She skinned the palm of her hands.

And she ripped her leggings right at the knee. Mike stopped and turned. He helped her up. She was okay. She was just like shaken up. But while he was helping her up, they both heard something breathing. Not far from the trees, maybe about 10 or 15 ft ahead, like dead center in the path. They both aimed their headlights forward. Nothing. But they heard it again. Breathing. Not fast, not winded, just slow, deep pools of air. like something standing still and watching them.

Jenna said, “I don’t see anything.” Mike, he didn’t respond. He just grabbed a wrist and started walking backwards slowly, keeping the light pointing forward. The breathing stopped. They waited. Then from right off the trail to the left, there was this low guttural click, like the sound you’d make if you’re trying to pop your tongue off the roof of your mouth, but deeper, wet. Well, that was enough. They had turned and bolded. No plan, no pacing, just pure instinct.

They didn’t stop again for over four miles. And even then, it was only because they recognized the trail marker, one of those old wooden ones with the paint mostly worn off. They were maybe 2 mi from the car. That’s when the smell came back. But now it was stronger than ever, and it wasn’t in waves anymore. It was just there. They didn’t say anything. They really didn’t have to. It was close now, like right there with them.

The smell was thick, oily. It felt like it was getting into their clothes and into their mouths. You could taste it. Jenna turned her headlamp around behind them doing like a quick scan. She still saw nothing. No eyes, no shape, no movement, just trees. But the steps started again. Not at the side this time, like right behind them on the trail and not walking now. Running full strides, heavy fast. Mike shouted, the first thing either of them had said in miles.

Go. They took off full sprint. Jenna was limping a little from the fall, but adrenaline took over. Mike ran ahead maybe for about 10 seconds and then slowed just enough to make sure that she was right there. The headlamps were both bouncing like crazy through the woods now. And the smell wasn’t fading. Whatever was behind them wasn’t slowing down either. They didn’t look back, not once. They just kept running, kept focused straight ahead. About a/4 mile from the trail head, they passed one of those wooden benches you see on longer trails.

Mike swore he saw something move off to the right. Right behind that, something big. Crouched low, but it didn’t move toward them. It just shifted like it was watching them pass. Then they hit the gravel lot at a full sprint. The car was the only one there. Mike had the keys out already. He jumped in. They slammed the doors. Was fumbling with the keys to try to put it in the ignition. And the smell was still there in the air, even inside the car.

At this point, Jenna was like visibly shaking. Mike got the engine started and he reached for the gear shift, but then he froze because the headlights hit the trail. Something was standing there right at the edge where the woods meet the gravel just outside the treeine. It wasn’t a person. It wasn’t a bear. It was way too tall. Shoulders were like hunched over. Its arms were really low. Like it wasn’t built right. It didn’t move when the lights hit it.

It just stood there half in the shadows watching them. Jenna saw it too. Didn’t say a word. Just stared. And then it shifted. Not walked. Shifted like it leaned or adjusted its weight. One small motion. That was it. Mike threw the car in reverse. He peeled out so fast the back tires kicked rocks against the signpost. They didn’t stop. They didn’t look back. They got to the highway doing about 70. As you can imagine, they’re freaking out on the way home.

When they got to their house, they tossed their packs under the porch, went straight inside. Jenna went to change and found something on the back of her shirt, right between her shoulder blades. There was these three streaks of sap, thick, black, greasy, same smell as the trail. Mike checked her back. No cuts, no claw marks, but whatever that thing was, it had touched her. They didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, Mike sent an email to the race director, said they weren’t running it.

No reason given, just that they were out. They lost their money that they paid for the race, but really, they didn’t care. They didn’t explain it to their friends. They didn’t try to rationalize it. From then on, they only ran in the daytime and never on those trails in those woods.