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

A dusty mattress sagged against the far wall. I spotted an old journal discarded on a makeshift shelf, its cover cracked and brittle. Flipping through brittle pages, I paused at an entry marked July 16, 1987, ink smudged by hurried handwriting.

more kids missing today it started when colby began feeding that bear we told him to stop but he insists the bear talks to him he says it knows things the kids believe him they're curious but the bear it's not right something's changed out there I swallowed hard, my throat dry. Suddenly the absurdity of being trapped here felt darker, more dangerous.

Behind me, somewhere outside the cabin, faint laughter drifted in. A child's high, ringing laugh, playful yet distant. i moved swiftly toward the sound stepping outside pulse drumming in my ears footprints small barefoot appeared in the thin layer of ash leading away from the cabins toward a shack i had not noticed before nestled further back under thick trees the laughter had stopped

I approached cautiously, my boots crunching softly. The shack was crude, wooden planks hastily nailed together, the door ajar. Inside the air smelled stale, heavy with decay. Dozens of teddy bears sat arranged neatly in a circle on the floor, soot-covered, their button eyes dull and unblinking. They surrounded a dark hole in the wooden planks, gaping downward into the earth. My breath quickened.

Near the edge, I spotted a faded Polaroid, curled and half-melted. Children sat smiling in this exact shack, clutching those same bears. One face, centered, had eyes scratched out violently, revealing rough white paper beneath.

i leaned closer heart thudding then from beneath the shack came a low growl slow and wet a guttural sound resonating through the planks something large stirred breathing heavily labored and moist as though struggling through fluid filled lungs my blood ran cold I stumbled backward, nearly falling over a pile of burned wood stacked by the entrance. Fear surged, primal and raw.

Bursting out into the open again, I raced toward higher ground, away from that shack and whatever lingered below it. My breath tore at my throat as I climbed, desperately seeking clarity or escape. When I finally risked a glance back, a figure moved at the camp's edge, a shape that chilled me to the bone.

It stood partially hidden by the shadows of spruce branches, silhouetted and motionless at first glance. A bear, I thought at first, but it wasn't right. Its limbs were elongated, awkwardly proportioned,

patches of its fur were missing revealing burned flesh beneath raw and mottled and the eyes those horrible humanlike eyes watched me with a dreadful intelligence the creature took a slow step forward upright its stance disturbingly human

another step shambling stiffly toward me arms hanging limp long and thin at its sides i dove behind a tree heart pounding in my ears pulse frantic i waited pressed against rough bark praying for silence forcing myself to slow my ragged breathing the minutes stretched painfully

when i finally risked another glance the creature was gone but darkness had swallowed the valley and down at camp black ridge faint flickers of orange light danced from cabin windows as though lanterns had been lit by invisible hands my chest heaved shadows shifted between the trees amorphous shapes drifting silently purposefully

Behind me, close enough to feel breath on my neck, a familiar voice whispered hoarsely. Unmistakably, my teammate Joe's voice. Derek? I spun, stumbling backward, ready to shout with relief, but the darkness stared emptily back at me, Joe nowhere to be seen. Only fresh footprints in the ash, small and bare, led silently away into the trees. And again I was alone.

My watch read past midnight, the glowing digital numbers a pale beacon in the oppressive darkness. I hadn't slept, couldn't sleep, not here, not now. My throat felt raw, parched from hours of shallow breaths and whispered curses. I'd rationed the last of my water, sipping sparingly as the shadows thickened around me.

I was exhausted, nerves frayed, senses heightened to every rustle and snap of twigs in the blackness. Desperate to ground myself in some semblance of reality, I stumbled back down toward the old dock area, hoping for a clearer route back to familiar terrain. Near the collapsed dock, something caught my eye, a rusted metal sign partially buried beneath rotted timber and ash.

Kneeling down, I scraped away dirt with trembling fingers. The faded lettering emerged like an accusation. U.S. Forest Quarantine Area, July 1987. A chill crept up my spine. Quarantine? There had been no records of any quarantine in these mountains. Not officially. Yet here it was, stark and undeniable. Someone had buried this place deliberately, kept it hidden. Why?

Dragging myself upright, I turned toward the nearest cabin. Perhaps answers lay somewhere inside, anything to unravel this madness. Pushing open the swollen door, hinges creaking, I stepped cautiously into a dusty interior. In the corner was an old footlocker, its latch rusted but unlocked. My pulse quickened. Lifting the heavy lid, I peered inside.

There were three VHS tapes labeled neatly in faded ink. Feeding 1, Feeding 2, and Shut Down. Beside them lay an ID card in a cracked plastic sleeve. I held it closer to my flashlight, my breath hitching as I read the name. Supervisor Richard McAllister, U.S. Forest Service Missing, July 1987. My gut tightened, nausea rising. This place had taken people before.

I shoved the card into my pocket, grabbing the tapes as evidence, though they felt useless without a way to view them. I moved swiftly back outside, the cool night air only slightly easing my tension. Then my radio crackled softly from its holster, startling me. I hurriedly pulled it out, adjusting the knob, hopeful for clarity. Dispatch, this is Hanley. Do you copy? Please confirm.

The static surged, replaced by a strange modulation, tones shifting slowly, methodically. Then a distorted voice, strained and deliberate, emerged from the static. Return to line. Do not acknowledge them. Do not follow. I stared dumbfounded at the radio, the transmission fading back into silence. Before I could respond, movement caught my attention.

A subtle shifting in the darkness near the shack I'd fled earlier. Shapes moved through the trees, small and hesitant. pale figures stepping cautiously from behind trunks. Children, dressed in outdated summer clothing, untouched by ash or fire. Their faces were expressionless, eyes blank, unseeing. They watched me silently, forming a rough semicircle around the shack.

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