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.

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

I had barely slept, half dozing in fits by the dying embers, my eyes fixed anxiously on the open hatch. Every minute felt like an hour. Every hour felt like eternity. Ben had vanished without a trace, leaving only unanswered questions echoing inside that concrete darkness. Desperation overcame my fear as daylight strengthened.

Ignoring the scream of instinct in my head, I gripped my flashlight tightly and leaned cautiously over the edge of the hatch. The latter descended into black water, flooding the space that had been empty just hours before. My stomach turned sharply. There had been no rain, no sound of flooding overnight.

ben my voice broke as it echoed down into the water-logged void i climbed down two rungs holding my breath shining the flashlight into the murky depths there was nothing but dark water stagnant and cold the surface still as glass i reached out brushing my fingers against it Immediately, a cold shock jolted through my body, intense enough to wrench a startled cry from my throat.

Panicking, I nearly lost my grip on the ladder, scrambling desperately back up until I was safely above ground again. Staring numbly at the hatch, I knew something was profoundly wrong, unnatural. I moved instinctively upstream, half running, half stumbling, seeking clarity, or a source, or just an escape. But the runoff abruptly stopped.

no spring no creek no source the stream-bed simply ended dry as bones at a flat stone basin my mind raced none of this made sense geologically or practically the water simply appeared beneath that concrete wall no rational explanation fit i felt sick disoriented I retreated downstream, but the woods quickly became unfamiliar. Paths I was sure I'd traveled turned unfamiliar and confusing.

Hours passed. The sun rose higher, scorching now as if mocking the earlier cold. My head spun from thirst and exhaustion, lips cracking painfully. Night crept in mercilessly. settling over the forest once more i tried to build another fire hands trembling uncontrollably but managed only the smallest flame i huddled close shivering feeling vulnerable beneath endless dark branches

Hours crawled by, paranoia setting in, eyes darting toward every rustle and snap from the forest around me. Then came a distinct sound, a dragging, stumbling noise, slow and deliberate. My breath halted, heart thudding painfully. From the gloom, a figure appeared, pale moonlight illuminating just enough to recognize a familiar shape. Ben? My voice cracked again, tentative, almost pleading.

He walked stiffly, unnaturally upright, face vacant and pale, eyes staring forward blankly, seeing nothing. I stumbled back in horror as he drew closer, feet dragging limply. His mouth hung slightly open, dried blood crusted around cracked lips. He looked drained, hollow, a twisted imitation of my friend.

ben i shouted desperately hoping somehow to break him free of whatever terrible trance held him captive he halted sharply head tilting slightly as if listening to something distant then without warning he turned sharply away disappearing silently into the darkness again Terror surged through me. Without thinking, I bolted blindly through the trees, fleeing from whatever he'd become.

Branches tore my clothes and scratched my skin raw. My ankle twisted painfully, sending me sprawling face-first into a bed of pine needles. Pain exploded up my leg. Whimpering, I dragged myself beneath a thick bush, lungs heaving, heart hammering painfully. Minutes blurred into hours as I lay hidden, terrified to move, listening desperately for signs of pursuit.

Morning found me dehydrated and disoriented. The next days blurred together, wandering, staggering aimlessly, hallucinating vividly from hunger and thirst. Faces appeared in shadows, whispers floated from nowhere, my sense of time and place fractured. Somehow, after days I couldn't count, I stumbled out onto the rocky shoreline of Fontana Lake.

Sunlight stabbed painfully into my eyes as voices called to me urgently, the world spinning into incoherence as I collapsed onto sharp stones. When consciousness returned, I lay in a sterile hospital room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, harsh and disorienting. Doctors hovered, asking questions I couldn't answer, words tangled in my throat, too large, too painful to utter.

My tongue felt thick, my voice lost in that dark void below ground. Eventually someone pressed a small pad of paper into my trembling hands, urging me gently to write, to say something, anything. My hand shook violently as I gripped the pen. The image of Ben's empty, pale face burned deeply into my mind. I stared helplessly at the paper, heart-clenching painfully,

with great effort i scrawled one single trembling word drained the nurses exchanged nervous glances whispering quietly later rangers visited their questions careful probing they claimed no structure existed where i described no hatch no run-off like i remembered They seemed uneasy, hesitant, as though my memories frightened them.

Late at night in my hospital bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, I knew with chilling certainty they'd never find Ben, or understand what we'd uncovered. I couldn't explain it, even to myself. Only the emptiness remained, deep and cold inside me, a wound I feared would never heal.

And as I drifted into restless sleep, I felt an irresistible pull toward the runoff, toward that unnatural darkness beneath the smoky mountains, knowing somewhere deep inside it wasn't done with me yet. I've spent most of my life wandering these forests.

The Allegheny National Forest, sprawling along the Pennsylvania-New York border, has been my backyard, playground, and hunting ground for as long as I can remember. My name is Cal Mayfield, and alongside my closest friend John Hart, I've mapped just about every deer trail, fishing hole, and hidden hollow tucked among these thick woods.

John's always been the cautious one, the guy who'd double-check maps before heading out and pack extra batteries every time. I tended to wing it more often than not, relying on instinct and stubbornness to see us through. In late October, just a week after an unusually fierce storm had ripped through the forest, John and I decided to scout a new deer hunting spot near Minister Creek.

Branches and trunks littered the ground, making old trails nearly impassable. We'd been at it all morning, fighting through briars and waist-high undergrowth to map out alternative routes. Cal, check this out. John knelt beside a gnarled spruce, pulling away a thick layer of moss and decaying leaves. I stepped closer, squinting at the rusted corner of something metal jutting from the forest floor.

Do not enter. John frowned, running a hand over the sign's corroded surface. Ever heard of this? I shook my head, scanning the woods around us. The silence pressed heavily on my ears. Nothing, not even old maps ever mentioned this. Digging deeper, we uncovered two more identical signs, each equally weathered.

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