While staying at an isolated mountain house belonging to one of their grandmothers, two friends begin hearing strange noises late at night. At first the sounds seem harmless — creaks, footsteps, movement in the dark — but as the night goes on, the disturbances grow harder to explain. When they finally investigate, the truth behind the noises leads to a shocking and terrifying discovery.

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Audio Story

Ashley and Megan were sorority sisters and best friends at a large Alabama university.  They bonded as soon as they met, both fleeing from dull, rural towns into the whirlwind of college life.  But as the end of junior year approached, with the “real world” looming ahead of them with all its scary uncertainty, the girls gained new appreciation for the small town lives they came from.

That’s when Megan had an idea.  She told Ashley one night they should spend a weekend at her family’s mountain house in northeast Alabama.  It had once been her grandma’s house, kept in the family as a mountain getaway.  But her parents were too ill to travel, and her disinterested brother had moved on with his life.  In fact, he barely spoke to Megan at all, due to some sibling conflict Ashley knew better to ask about.  So the poor house sat vacant most of the year.

This sounded perfect to Ashley.  She grabbed her suitcase to start packing.  “I gotta warn you,” said Megan.  “There’s not much to do around there.  Pack light.”

So the next weekend, the girls loaded up on snacks and wine and headed north.  Their bustling college town faded away into a bucolic world of family farms and lush, green hills.  Ashley lowered the window and took a deep breath of the cool mountain air.  This wasn’t her home, but it sure felt like it.

Without warning, Megan swerved onto a dirt road beside a battered mailbox, a faded owl face painted on it.  She laughed at Ashley’s shell-shocked look.  “Oops!  Sorry, been so long I forgot where to turn!  See?  No one’s gonna know we’re even here.”

The paved, two lane highway gave way to a bumpy, dirt road. They plunged into a thick, deciduous forest that the sun struggled to penetrate.  For hours it seemed, they rattled along a shadowy mountain slope with no homes in sight.  Ashley instinctively checked her phone, but her signal was long gone.  Megan smiled at her friend, rolled her eyes and said nothing.

The trees finally parted, revealing a pretty meadow deep in a small valley.  Squinting through the sudden burst of sunlight, Ashley saw the house.  It looked like something from an old movie – a white, clapboard farmhouse perched beside a gurgling stream, rocking chairs beckoning them on a wrap-around porch.   A giant, old school TV antenna sat on the rusted tin roof like a wounded buzzard.  No internet here, Ashley thought.

Beside the front door was a hand carved owl statue.  (Wow, they really had a thing for owls, Ashley thought).  Megan grabbed the house key underneath, laughing at her friend’s incredulous look.  “Yep, we’re in the country!” she quipped.  

They opened the creaky door.  The home looked like a 1970s time capsule.  Sun damaged couches and chairs, in matching Scottish plaid, filled the cozy living room.  An avocado green refrigerator buzzed loudly in the linoleum kitchen.  Water damaged board games like Clue and Monopoly were stacked on card tables.  Everything was dusty, but Ashley could sense this was once the home of a close, loving family.

The girls climbed the rickety stairs and threw their bags into the guest bedroom, with two twin beds where Megan and her brother once slept as children.  Faded pictures of Megan’s grandparents filled the room.  Ashley was surprised to see all the places they’d been: Morocco, Paris, Switzerland.  “Grandma was country, but she saw the world,” said Megan.  “Here, you’ll love this!”

She swung open the closet door.  Inside, crammed behind her grandpa’s worn and stained fishing clothes, was a rack of beautiful gowns, some still in dry cleaning bags.  These weren’t Alabama department store dresses.  The labels were from fancy European shops, many long gone.  

Megan pulled one from the back and tried it on – a flowing, red velvet robe with a puffy, white feather collar that seemed to swallow her head.  It looked virtually untouched since the purchase date, decades ago.  Pouring a glass of wine, she pranced around the house like a silent movie star.  “You must bring that back for Halloween,” laughed Ashley as Megan hung it back on the door.

They retired to the porch and sat in blissful silence, sipping more wine.  They were enveloped in solitude, the sound of every buzzing insect and chirping bird weirdly amplified.  An acorn fell on the tin roof, banging like a gunshot, startling Ashley.  Megan laughed – the country girl needed some country back in her life, she thought.

Late that evening, Ashley awoke to what she thought were timid footsteps on the front porch.  One by one, she could hear the old boards groaning around the house, as if someone was circling them.  She nudged Megan awake.  “It’s probably a deer or something,” she groggily answered.  “They wander up here sometimes.  Go back to sleep.”

Ashley stared at the ceiling as the noise continued.  If Megan isn’t worried then maybe I shouldn’t be, she thought.  She willed herself to sleep.

The next day was filled with hiking, board games, more closet rummaging and, of course, more wine.  After a brief adjustment, Ashley found herself not craving connectivity at all, nor the internet.  It was nice not being at everyone’s beck and call.  They were off the grid, not a care in the world.  Whatever visited them in the middle of the night was a distant, silly memory.

That is, until she was awoken again that evening.  This time, the footsteps were heavier, walking slowly around the porch again, the warped boards groaning loudly.  If it’s an animal, it’s a large one – like a bear, Ashley feared.  She wasn’t going to wake Megan this time.  She just stared at the ceiling, pulling the bed quilt tight around her chin.  Waiting for their visitor to leave.

First thing the next morning, Ashey inspected the house perimeter, looking for footprints, pawprints, broken twigs, anything left behind by their visitor.  But she found nothing.  Megan again reassured her there was no one around the home for miles.  They did have a lot to drink – did Ashley wake up groggy from all the wine, thinking she heard something that wasn’t there?  Ashley scowled at the suggestion.  She knew what she heard.

It was the next evening when Megan finally heard the same footsteps.  They were louder and heavier, almost stomping around the porch, moving closer and closer to the front door.  “You locked the doors right?” whispered Ashley, her voice shaking.  “You didn’t leave the key out there, did you?”

“No, I have the key,” answered Megan.  “Everything’s locked.  Just stay quiet.”

For a brief moment there was silence.  The buzzing crickets and katydids deep in the forest filled the void, their high-pitched calls sounding unnatural and menacing.  Then they heard the footsteps again, but this time not from the front porch.

They were in the kitchen.

Ashley and Megan glanced at each other,  eyes bulging with terror.  The footsteps paced the kitchen, as if searching for something.  They heard drawers slowly opening and shutting.  

“It’s my damn brother,” Megan whispered.  “It’s got to be.  Who else knows how to get in?”

“But…we would have heard his car.” protested Ashley.   “He sees we’re here.  He would have called out…”

But Megan was already up, looking for something to slip on.  She found her grandma’s furry robe.

“I’m gonna see what’s up.  Stay here.”

“Please don’t,” pleaded Ashley.  “Don’t leave me here.”

“I’ll be back, I promise” whispered Megan, closing the door behind her.  Like a child, Ashley threw the quilt over head, shivering uncontrollably, tears streaming down her cheeks.  She heard Megan’s footfalls down the stairs, the noise in the kitchen, the sounds inching closer and closer to each other…

Then there was silence.  She bit her hand, stifling any scream or whimper.  Please God, please send her back, she prayed silently.

Agonizing minutes passed before Ashley heard footsteps slowly climbing the stairs.  The bedroom door creaked open, and in the darkness all she could see was a shadow, staring at her.  It moved toward her bed.  She had nowhere to run, cowering under the quilt.  The figure moved closer and stood silently over her, motionless.  Ashley slowly lowered the quilt, then reached out to the figure with a trembling hand.

“Megan?”

She then felt the soft velvet of the red robe.  She burst into tears of relief, moving her hand up the figure’s body.  “What’s wrong?  Megan?”

She then felt the white feather collar – it was matted and soaked.  Reaching for Megan’s face, Ashley’s hand waved through empty air.  And as her eyes adjusted with the hint of moonlight streaming through the window – to her horror – she saw why.

For before her stood the figure in grandma’s furry robe, a bloody stump where her head once was.

THE END

Where Did This Story Come From?

This is an updated version of a classic campfire tale.  In the 1960s and 1970s, many stories appeared with college-age kids threatened by escaped convicts or serial killers.  We set our version in a remote mountain house, but most versions take place in college dorms.  According to Indiana Folklore, Volume 2, Issue 2, “The Roommate’s Death and Related Dormitory Stories in Formation (page 54):

“The themes of this legend are extremely popular among college students… who are in the critical period of transition between the sheltered life of adolescence in the family home and that of independence and responsibility as they abandon a former life of protection.”

A similar urban legend is The Coughing Dog. Yet another popular story is The Hook, or Hookman, where a killer with a hook for a hand threatens a young couple on Lovers Lane.  If your storyteller was good, she even used sound effects for the scraping hook on the car hood!

Story Credits

Adapted from folklore and directed by Craig Dominey

Audio Production: Henry Howard

Storyteller and Musician: Lanny Gilbert

Banner photo by Janet McKnight. Licensed under CC BY 2.0

Sources

Reader’s Digest, “The Furry Collar,” American Folklore and Legend, The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc. 1978.