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

They had bolt holes punched through the metal, as though they'd once hung prominently from a fence or post. Cold War era, maybe? John said, his voice low. A testing site or fallout shelter? I've read about weird military installations tucked away up here. I shrugged, but a strange discomfort crawled beneath my skin. Doesn't explain why nobody ever talked about it.

Folks around here usually gossip about every old cabin or still site. Think we should look further down? John asked, glancing toward a shallow depression ahead of us. I hesitated, then nodded. Curiosity was always my weakness. We slid cautiously into the gully, damp earth slipping beneath our boots.

It wasn't long before we stumbled onto the remnants of an old service road, now fully reclaimed by brush. We followed it downward, branches clawing at our sleeves, until we reached the hollow's floor. Ahead, partially obscured by ivy and moss, loomed a collapsed tunnel mouth. Its concrete archway sagged inward, blocked by debris and twisted lengths of iron grating.

Thick iron chains hung from rotting wooden posts nearby, their rusted links ending in sturdy loops, like restraints or anchors. John kneeled, examining the chains. Who the hell locks up a tunnel this thoroughly unless they're trying to keep something inside? I didn't have an answer. Stepping closer, I peered into the darkness beyond the collapsed entrance.

The air smelled stale, tinged with iron and mildew, heavy enough to make breathing uncomfortable. My gut tightened inexplicably. "'I don't like this,' John said quietly, shining his flashlight into the debris-filled gap. "'Feels wrong.' As if in response, somewhere in the forest behind us, a dog barked sharply. John startled, turning quickly. You hear that? I nodded slowly, straining my ears.

The sound echoed faintly through the hollow, a frantic yelping, short bursts, separated by uncomfortable pauses. But the echoes didn't seem natural. They lingered strangely, never fading or shifting position, trapped somewhere between trees and stones. Sounds lost, John whispered. Maybe a coyote, I offered, but we both knew that wasn't quite right. Coyotes howled, whimpered.

This barking felt mechanical, repetitive. John glanced nervously back at the tunnel. We've marked the spot on GPS. Let's head out, maybe come back better prepared tomorrow. I didn't argue. The hollow's unnatural quiet unsettled me more than I wanted to admit. We climbed back up the steep bank, neither speaking much. I could feel John's unease as strongly as my own.

That night at camp, miles from the hollow, we huddled closer to our small fire. Neither of us felt like talking. The image of those quarantine signs, rusted warnings buried and forgotten, nagged at me like an itch.

just before midnight as the forest pressed close around our camp the distant barking drifted faintly through the trees once again it was no closer than before yet it was clear and sharp as if we hadn't moved at all john met my eyes his expression haunted neither of us voiced the thought that passed silently between us

Whatever had happened in Warden's Hollow in 1962, we'd just stumbled into something that was meant to stay buried. Morning came slowly, gray and heavy. Sleep had avoided me for most of the night, and when I woke to the pale dawn filtering weakly through the canvas tent walls, John was already sitting up, poring over an old forestry map. Shadows ringed his eyes.

We've got to go back, John muttered without looking up. He was tracing a finger along faded lines, his other hand holding the rusted quarantine sign we'd brought back. I couldn't find anything about that place online, not even a passing mention. I groaned softly and pushed myself upright, stretching stiffly. "'Feels like maybe there's a reason it was buried and forgotten, John.'

He glanced sharply at me. "'Exactly. That's why I need to know what they were hiding.' Reluctantly, I agreed. John was rarely reckless, so his quiet urgency unnerved me even more. Within an hour, we'd packed flashlights, ropes, spare batteries, and an air quality sensor John had borrowed years ago from a mine safety course.' He'd always insisted on being prepared for any situation.

This time, I was thankful for his caution. The air felt colder as we returned to Warden's Hollow. Fog settled thickly along the gully's floor, making the twisted iron chains around the tunnel look even more sinister. John approached the entrance slowly, carefully probing the air inside the gap with the sensor. He squinted at the dial and shook his head.

It's stale down there, John said softly, but it's breathable, just not for long periods. let's make it quick i said hoping i sounded more confident than i felt we crawled through the partially collapsed entrance debris scraping against our backs a sense of entrapment tightened in my chest until the tunnel opened slightly allowing us to stand hunched beneath cracked concrete arches

My flashlight beam cut weakly through the gloom, illuminating a side passage carved roughly into the stone wall. John edged forward first and I followed closely, my heart hammering unevenly. Inside, old military crates lay scattered, their wooden frames splintered and rotting. Nearby, rusted oxygen tanks lay clustered, many dented as if thrown aside in haste.

A pile of twisted metal frames resembling cots sat slumped against one wall. "'This place looks like it was abandoned in a hurry,' John whispered. He lifted the air sensor again, checking the dial nervously. "'Fifteen minutes, tops. Then we're out.' I nodded, tension tightening my jaw."

At the passage's end was a junction room lined with metal lockers, their doors hanging ajar or fallen entirely off their hinges. John moved carefully toward one still upright. He shone his flashlight into it, then reached inside slowly. Jesus, he breathed, lifting out a cracked and deteriorating gas mask. Behind it was a damp clipboard, pages stuck together from water damage and age.

Carefully, he peeled a sheet loose. He read aloud, voice hushed, tense. Specimens still viable, no breach since 9, 14. Rangers rotated monthly, do not exceed 20 minutes outside airlock. My mouth went dry. Specimens? John's flashlight moved restlessly, illuminating a dark opening in the corner of the junction room.

It was narrow, smooth-edged, and angled sharply downward, almost like a chute or ventilation shaft. It wasn't built with concrete or steel. It looked as if it had been burrowed or melted directly into the rock. I approached hesitantly, peering down. The darkness felt bottomless, oppressive. Then I heard it, soft at first, rhythmic scraping deep within.

It echoed up faintly, the distant sound of metal dragging slowly across stone, deliberate and unceasing. Did you hear that? John's voice was strained, his flashlight trembling slightly. I nodded slowly. Let's go. We've seen enough. John didn't argue. As we turned back, I caught something else in my flashlight's beam. Small boot prints etched freshly into the dirt beside us.

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