Aaron Miller

speaker

190 appearances 1 recordings 1 series first heard Jun 2025 last heard Jun 2025

Aaron Miller’s voice in public audio — every appearance, attributed to the second.

Trend

recordings per month · last 12 months

No recordings in the last 12 months.Older appearances are listed below; set an alert to hear about the next one.

Appearances

newest first · ▶ plays the moment

Just Creepy: Scary Stories · 4 Scary DEEP WOODS Stories to Listen to While Outside · 4 Jun 2025 podcast

Its pale form was ghostly against the shadows, hunched forward, elongated fingers rhythmically gouging into solid stone. My stomach tightened with nausea. The sound I'd heard, it was digging effortlessly into bedrock, carving deep clawed grooves as though it were loose soil. My breath shuddered as I eased backward into the tent, heart pounding in pure terror.

The creature paused abruptly, its posture shifting slightly. My blood froze. Had it heard me? Its head turned with unnatural smoothness, revealing an elongated face marred by deep hollows where eyes should have been.

empty cavernous sockets stared directly toward me sensing knowing though it had no eyes to see a strangled gasp escaped my lips before i could silence it in that instant the creature lunged upright with unnatural agility towering far taller than i'd expected

i scrambled backward desperately kicking away from the tent's entrance panic blinded me as my hands grasped wildly for anything to defend myself the thing's footsteps were silent yet i felt its presence closing in heavy and overwhelming frantically i yanked open the back flap of my tent and staggered out into the darkness behind me abandoning gear shelter everything

I sprinted wildly through dense underbrush, crashing blindly through branches and brush. My lungs burned, breath ragged, but terror pushed me forward. Suddenly, a jolt of recognition and despair slammed through me. I burst through the trees, stumbling into the clearing of my campsite again. My feet slid to a halt, heart sinking. I hadn't escaped, I'd looped right back.

The tent stood silent and empty, the smoldering fire ring casting weak embers. But the creature was gone. Only the freshly gouged stone marks remained, deeper than before, arranged like twisted handprints clawing into the earth itself. I staggered forward, legs weak, head spinning. My mind screamed for logic, but logic had no foothold here. Then a faint crackling noise drew my attention.

It came from the ground near the fire pit, my trail camera, blinking faintly, its battery indicator nearly drained. Shaking, I lifted it, rewinding to the last captured footage. On the small glowing screen, my stomach turned cold. I saw myself sleeping next to the dying fire. Then, slowly, from the darkness behind the tent, the creature emerged.

Pale, gaunt, horrifyingly tall, it moved with alien grace. The creature paused, looming over my sleeping form, head tilted at an impossible angle. It seemed to study me, no eyes, just those hollow sockets, mouth hanging slack. Then the footage distorted, glitching wildly before cutting to black. I dropped the camera, staggering backward. There was no more denying it.

I was prey, trapped by something impossible in a place that defied all understanding. Despair flooded through me, limbs trembling, the reality crashing in that there might be no escape from this loop. I retrieved my radio from the tent floor, battery nearly drained, my fingers fumbling desperately. Pressing the transmit button, I spoke in a voice I barely recognized. Raw. Pleading.

This is Aaron Miller. Please. I need help. I can't escape. Something's here. Something not human. I'm trapped in a loop on the CDT south of Gibbons Pass. Coordinates frozen. Compass useless. Please, someone. Static crackled violently. For a brief second, a distorted voice came through the interference. Aaron, we hear you. Stay calm. Sending. Then silence. Around me, darkness closed tighter.

A faint scraping echoed through the trees once more, growing closer, purposeful. It had returned. It always would. With no other choice, I turned and ran again, stumbling blindly through the darkened trees, knowing deep down it wouldn't matter. Whatever force had trapped me here had no intention of letting me go. The forest stretched endlessly, looping cruelly back upon itself.

As exhaustion overtook me, I realized the terrible truth. I'd never leave this place, and neither would anyone who followed. I'd grown up fishing these mountains, learning the winding streams and hidden hollers of the Smokies from my dad long before he passed. Now, at 32, these woods felt more like home than anywhere else. More real. More truthful.

Ben, my best friend since elementary school, needed something real, something true. His marriage had collapsed, his career stalled, and the frantic pace of Knoxville life had driven him to a place where he needed silence more than advice. We'd chosen Hazel Creek, deep in the Great Smoky Mountains on the Tennessee side, for two reasons. First, solitude.

Hazel Creek is remote, only accessible by canoe or a grueling hike, shielded by a rugged, silent wilderness. Second, trout. I'd stumbled upon an old fly-fishing guidebook from the 80s at a flea market, its pages brittle and yellowed.

On a whim, I'd bought it for three dollars, and in one of its margins, in faded ballpoint pen, were the words, unmarked runoff, wild brookies, coldest water this side of hell. I'd never heard of it, but the idea stuck. We paddled quietly across Fontana Lake, our gear minimal and purposeful. From the moment we hid the canoe among the pines, the terrain challenged us.

Unmarked and unkept, the wilderness clawed at us with dense underbrush and tangled rhododendrons, like hands determined to turn us away. Ben struggled behind me, swatting at branches and cursing softly, his frustration clear. Why not just fish Hazel Creek itself? Ben finally grumbled. It's right there. It's famous for trout, isn't it?

Famous trout mean fishermen, I replied, stepping carefully over fallen logs. This runoff isn't even named on newer maps. We'll have it all to ourselves. He sighed heavily but trudged on. Eventually the land flattened, and through a narrow break in the thick woods, we saw water glinting in the sun. The runoff was narrow, perhaps six feet wide, with a steady current trickling between rocks.

Despite its modest size, the water was shockingly cold, clearer than glass, and nearly silent. It ran perfectly straight through a shallow valley, as if sliced by a giant's blade. Ben knelt to scoop a handful of water, splashing his face. Jesus, he sputtered, shaking his hands. It's like ice. My eyes drifted to the shore. I paused.

something wasn't right a dead rabbit lay beside the stream eyes wide fur untouched as i examined it closer my pulse quickened its body was strangely intact almost peaceful but something crucial was missing Blood. No bite marks, no wounds, just pale skin beneath the fur. A few yards upstream lay another, a raccoon, then a squirrel, each drained the same way.

Ben approached peering over my shoulder. What happened to it? I shook my head. I don't know. They all look like this. We walked slowly upstream. The trees pressed in tighter. The daylight faded into a muted green beneath the thick canopy. The air grew cooler, heavy and still. Every animal we found lay bloodless and untouched by scavengers or insects.

Showing 41–60 of 190 · page 3 of 10