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

By early afternoon, my crew had split up to cover more ground, and I was alone, picking my way through charred brush on a densely wooded ridgeline. The fire had passed through, yet the air felt heavy and damp instead of hot and dry, strangely cooler than it should have been.

Something about the wind felt off too, swirling unpredictably, drawing smoke uphill instead of letting it disperse naturally. Curiosity nudged me to follow the odd smoke flow higher. Cresting the ridge, I saw a cluster of structures below, tucked beneath dense spruce and pine. The forest here should have been scorched to sticks, but the trees surrounding these buildings stood untouched by flames.

It was unnatural. The blackened earth abruptly ended a few feet from wooden cabins and a central lodge, all perfectly intact. Ash drifted lazily downward like gray snowflakes settling in silence. There were no signs or trail markers leading into this camp, just the remains of an old wooden gate. My gut tightened.

Camps in these mountains were logged with the Forest Service for emergencies and fire prevention. But I knew every registered site in this region. This wasn't one of them. I approached cautiously, boots crunching ash underfoot. The cabins looked old, untouched by modern maintenance, yet sturdy, as if the fire had avoided this place intentionally. It made no sense. Wildfires don't discriminate.

A faded wooden plaque hung above the largest building's entrance. Camp Blackridge. The paint peeled away, weathered and forgotten. Pushing open the lodge door I stepped inside, instantly greeted by the stale scent of musty canvas, wood smoke, and something faintly sour. Sunlight filtered through ash-dimmed windows, revealing a room arranged as a dining hall.

Tables and chairs neatly aligned as if campers might file in at any moment for lunch. Children's drawings were still pinned to the far wall, fluttering gently as I passed. Yellowed paper curled at the edges, scribbled pictures of mountains, stick figure campers, and bright smiling suns. Then my eyes settled on one picture set apart from the rest.

It was crudely drawn by a child's unsure hand, a bear engulfed in flames, orange and red scribbles encircling its body. but the eyes unsettled me most they weren't animal eyes they were human staring out with startling realism they looked directly at whoever observed the drawing as if trying to communicate something unspoken the hair on my arms rose a chill tracing down my spine i turned quickly

scanning the room as a creeping unease settled over me. Everything felt wrong. The place was like a snapshot frozen in time, waiting. Unnerved, I reached for my radio. Dispatch, this is Hanley on Black Ridge. I found some kind of abandoned camp here. No fire damage to structures, but the location wasn't marked on our maps. Looks untouched.

Static crackled before the dispatcher's voice emerged, hesitant and unusually tense. Repeat your location? Camp Black Ridge, west side of the ridge near Trout Lake. It's intact, but looks like it's been abandoned for decades. Any records on this place? Silence stretched uncomfortably. Just as I was about to repeat myself, the voice returned, cautious. Hanley, confirm again. Black Ridge.

Confirm dispatch. Black Ridge. Names on the lodge here. Another pause, longer this time, as if a conversation happened far from the mic. When the dispatcher spoke again, their voice was low, almost hesitant. "'Hanley, we've—we've warned teams not to go near that ridge since the late 1980s.' I stared at the radio, baffled. "'Warned? Why? Was this area quarantined?' Again, silence.

Then static filled my ears, layered thickly, drowning out the dispatcher's voice. beneath it barely audible but clear enough i heard what sounded like choking coughing strained raw then it cut off completely dispatch i said sharply can you repeat no answer suddenly the lodge felt tighter the dimness oppressive

I turned to head back outside, intending to regroup with my crew when I caught movement in my peripheral vision. A brief flicker near the window. I turned sharply. Nothing. But the shadows outside seemed to shift subtly, whispering between the untouched trees. Anxiety tightened my chest. I hurried back toward the trail I had followed in, but froze at the edge of the camp. The path was gone.

Before me, there was only dense, unburned forest where charred ground should have been. I spun around, searching desperately for the trail I knew I'd taken, but it had vanished as completely as if it had never existed. The air was too still, the silence profound, broken only by my own heavy breathing. Joe? Mike? Anybody copy? My voice echoed uselessly through the trees.

The radio crackled, still transmitting only faint static and the occasional cough. I stared helplessly at the forest surrounding Camp Black Ridge, swallowing down my rising panic. There had to be a rational explanation. There always was. But logic faltered here, in the cold quiet beneath the ashes, where something long forgotten had started to wake.

I stood frozen at the edge of Camp Black Ridge, staring into the trees where my trail should have been. Every instinct screamed at me to stay calm, to breathe and reassess. But the landscape had betrayed me entirely, shifted into something unrecognizable. The scorched earth I'd walked through minutes ago was lush, thick with untouched trees and tangled undergrowth. Nothing made sense.

Shaking myself loose from paralysis, I pulled out my GPS, desperate for some tangible anchor to reality. The coordinates were stuck, numbers frozen in place as though etched permanently onto the screen. I tapped it harder, panic creeping into my chest. But the digital numbers remained unchanged, mocking my disbelief. My compass spun slowly in my palm, indifferent to direction.

North became south, east rotated lazily to west, the needle wobbling as if magnetized by something invisible nearby. I checked my watch. 3.12pm. But shadows were deepening too quickly, the daylight retreating faster than nature allowed. I needed another route, another landmark, anything to ground myself. The camp seemed to be drawing me inward, though every bone in my body resisted going back.

Still, curiosity pulled me back toward the cabins. Maybe I'd missed something, some clue to my situation, something logical.

near the edge of the largest cabin an old clipboard hung crookedly from a rusted nail faded paper curling at the edges i lifted it carefully the yellowed sheet dated in faded blue ink july nineteen eighty seven a roster of children's names filled the paper each neatly handwritten in shaky script

Halfway down the list, one name was violently scratched out over and over, nearly tearing through the page. Colby. My pulse quickened. Colby. Something about the repeated destruction of the name felt deeply personal. Angry. Disturbed, I set the clipboard down, turning toward a nearby cabin labeled Counselors. The door creaked open, hinges protesting sharply. Inside the cabin was small, cramped.

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