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

Narrow, delicate prints, like those of a child, leading directly toward the shaft we'd just investigated. John noticed them too, his eyes wide with disbelief. Those weren't here when we came in, he whispered harshly. Move! I urged, voice cracking. Panic edged into my bones as we stumbled hurriedly through the debris-filled passage. Every step toward the tunnel mouth felt impossibly slow.

Behind us, I imagined something unseen rising silently from that dark shaft, following quietly. We burst into open air, gasping, sucking in clean breaths. The sky was overcast, the afternoon oddly quiet. John leaned forward, hands on his knees, struggling to steady his breathing. ''Specimens,'' John repeated numbly, staring blankly toward the gaping mouth of the tunnel.

They kept something locked down there. The forest around us stayed silent, a heavy unnatural hush blanketing the hollow. I shuddered involuntarily. We report it. I finally managed, gripping John's shoulder. We'll head out at first light tomorrow and tell someone at the ranger station. John didn't respond. His eyes remained fixed on the dark entrance behind us, lost in thought.

as we climbed back to camp dusk seeped into the forest shadows growing long and tangled by nightfall john was mumbling quietly to himself by the camp-fire endlessly flipping through the damp clipboard pages eyes wild i lay awake staring into the blackness of the tent feeling a creeping certainty that we had disturbed something long forgotten and deliberately buried and that john might not let it rest until he knew exactly what it was

I jolted awake to cold morning light filtering through the tent. A chill prickled down my spine when I realized I was alone. John's sleeping bag lay crumpled, his gear neatly stacked in the corner. But John himself was gone. My gut twisted painfully. Something felt deeply wrong. Scrambling outside, I called John's name into the crisp dawn air. Only silence answered.

My heart began racing as I glanced around frantically. His shotgun was missing along with his headlamp. Dread gripped me. I knew immediately where he'd gone. In desperation, I dialed the ranger station. A sleepy voice answered, bored until I mentioned the quarantine signs in the hollow. Suddenly the line crackled strangely, then went silent. Hello? I shouted into the phone. Nothing but dead air.

Panic surged. Without thinking further, I grabbed my pistol, extra batteries, and a handful of flares, then raced down the slope toward Warden's Hollow. The forest seemed to close in around me as I approached the collapsed tunnel entrance. John's headlamp lay abandoned just inside the gap, still lit, pointing directly into the suffocating darkness. My breath caught, heart hammering. ''John!''

I shouted. Only echoes returned, ignoring every screaming instinct I crawled inside, flashlight shaking in my grip. The tunnel stretched deeper than I remembered, less obstructed. Soon, I was standing beneath cracked concrete arches, their surfaces slick with moisture. Footprints, drag marks, scuffed along the dirt floor, vanishing into the shadowed corridor ahead. My throat tightened.

I had no choice but to follow. After a few careful steps, I noticed the walls changing. Rusted rebar jutted outward, bent strangely, while overhead, ancient ductwork snaked through the gloom. My pulse quickened as the corridor opened into a larger chamber. The room was lined with rusted medical equipment. Broken monitors lay toppled.

glass shattered across damp stone along one wall a shattered observation window stared blankly into an empty space beyond opposite were several heavy containment doors each marked with faded torn yellow tags impossible to read clearly in the weak light

john i whispered barely able to speak the air felt heavier colder here thick with decades of stale decay a sound behind me a faint shuffle snapped my head around fear surged hot and bitter as i swung my flashlight toward a narrow passage i'd overlooked Footsteps padded softly along stone, accompanied by the rhythmic hiss of breath filtering through masks. My blood turned to ice.

At the passage's edge, figures emerged, stiff, motionless silhouettes in ancient military fatigues, their faces hidden behind cracked, dirt-stained gas masks. They stood rigidly, staring in unison, heads slowly turning toward me in perfect mechanical synchronicity. I stumbled backward, panic overwhelming reason.

Desperation gripped me as I darted into a small side room, slamming shut a rusted metal door. My breath came in ragged gasps. Turning sharply I saw John slumped against a wall, his face pale, eyes staring blankly ahead. John! I rushed to him, gripping his shoulder. He barely registered my touch, whispering incoherently. They were never allowed to leave. Cal, he rasped weakly.

His eyes flickered with frightened clarity. They don't breathe air like we do. They need us down here. A loud pounding echoed suddenly against the door, shaking it violently. My heart seized in terror. They were trying to get inside. "'Come on!' I yelled, dragging John upright. He stumbled, nearly collapsing again, but adrenaline lent me strength.

Supporting him, I wrenched open another door, escaping down a side passage I prayed would lead out. The tunnel narrowed sharply, oppressive stone pressing close. I half-carried, half-dragged John toward a faint glow ahead. We burst outside just as dawn bled weakly through clouds." Gasping, lungs heaving, we fell onto damp grass. Behind us the tunnel lay silent and dark, exuding menace.

The forest remained utterly still, its unnatural quiet returning immediately. John lay trembling, staring blankly at the pale sky. He murmured softly, lost in nightmares I couldn't see. Two days later, after leaving John safely in the hands of emergency responders, I returned with a team of forest rangers. But the hollow was unrecognizable.

The tunnel was gone, collapsed completely, buried beneath fresh dirt and rock. The rusted quarantine signs had vanished. Even my GPS marker had somehow been erased, leaving no trace the place had ever existed. When I asked one ranger about the quarantine zone, he hesitated, eyes clouded with unease. That part of the forest, he said quietly, glancing away. It's always been off the record.

Some places are better left unremembered. That night, alone at our campfire, I threw the faded maps and my hunting logbook into the flames, determined to erase the memory myself. But as the papers turned to ash, something metallic glinted among the embers. Reaching carefully into the cooling ash, I lifted out a small, rusted key. My stomach twisted as I read the inscription, WARDEN'S ACCESS ZONE B

Staring numbly at the key, I knew the forest would keep its secrets. And now, I was part of them. My name's Derek Hanley, and I've been working wildfires for over 15 years, long enough that the scent of scorched pine and hot ash lingers permanently in my memory. When lightning storms rolled across the San Juan Mountains near Telluride, sparking small, manageable blazes.

I figured it would be routine work. Mop-up operations, containment sweeps, making sure nothing reignited. The usual, predictable stuff, exactly how I liked it. We'd just finished containing the main blaze near Trout Lake, and were on a mop-up patrol near Black Ridge when dispatch radioed a standard recon task. but nothing's ever routine in places like these, not really.

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