Evan Mallory
speaker
161 appearances
1 recordings
1 series
first heard May 2025
last heard May 2025
Evan Mallory’s voice in public audio — every appearance, attributed to the second.
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Appearances
Just slammed energy bars and started hiking downhill. We figured if we kept going down, we'd hit a road or a stream, something. We didn't say it out loud, but we all knew the truth. We weren't on the Appalachian Trail anymore, and whatever trail we were on, someone had put us there. We didn't talk much that morning, not because we were tired, none of us had slept, but because we were scared.
Josh still hadn't said another word. He just followed us, eyes down, like he was being led. We moved fast, choosing the steepest downhill we could find, hoping it would lead us to water. A forest road. Anything. We tore through brush, tripped over roots. Didn't care. Compass needles kept twitching. Phones were still dead. Fog pressed in tighter the lower we went. And that feeling?
Like we were being watched? It hadn't left. About an hour in, Ray spotted something ahead. A structure. We thought maybe it was a trail shelter or a ranger outpost. Turned out it was an old half-rotted lean-to with a collapsed roof and moss covering half the frame. We stepped inside anyway, just to breathe. Inside were drawings, dozens of them, nailed to the wooden walls.
Crayon, charcoal, blood-colored paint. All of them were the same. Stick figures walking in a line into a spiral. In one drawing, five stick figures were colored red. The rest were black. There was also a Polaroid tacked to the back wall. It was us. Standing at Springer Mountain two weeks earlier. Same clothes, same gear, same smiles. None of us remembered anyone taking that photo.
The moment I saw it, the nausea hit me. Not the kind you can walk off, the kind that comes from deep, like your body knows something before your mind does. Then we heard the dragging sound, metal scraping over stone, slow, heavy. Right outside, Liam whispered for everyone to shut up. We backed into the far corner behind a stack of old crates.
Through the cracks in the wall, we saw them, the children. Same eight kids, same dead expressions, same clothes. They weren't walking this time. They were standing still, in a semicircle, humming something tuneless. Their mouths didn't move. Behind them was the tall figure, the adult.
still hooded still silent he stepped forward and unrolled a massive piece of paper a map our map same trail route same campsites but now there were new marks symbols we didn't recognize loops and slashes and spirals The trail didn't lead to Hot Springs anymore. It led right back to that clearing with the stone piles. At the center of the spiral, written in black ink, was one word. Return.
Josh stepped forward like he was about to walk out and join them. Caroline grabbed him. Ray flicked a lighter. That tiny flame felt like our last defense. We ran. Didn't look back. Just booked it through the trees, slicing through thornbush and undergrowth. I don't know how long we ran, maybe an hour, maybe three. At some point the fog started thinning. The air felt lighter. Sound returned. Birds.
Leaves rustling. Distant water. Then the trees opened up and we hit gravel. A fire road. Five minutes later, a green US Forest Service truck pulled around the bend. The ranger inside gave us a weird look when he saw our condition. Torn clothes. Dried blood. No packs. But didn't ask many questions. Just radioed for backup and drove us to the station near Hot Springs.
We told them we got turned around and lost our gear. That's all we said. No one mentioned the kids. No one mentioned the map. A few days later, I went back online and looked up missing persons reports. Found eight cases from the last 40 years. All from that same stretch of trail. All unsolved. Ages ranged from 6 to 12. A few were listed as runaways. Most weren't.
I also checked the lean-to, not on any map. Rangers said no such structure existed there. Josh still won't talk about it. He barely talks at all now. The rest of us don't hike together anymore. But sometimes, when I can't sleep, I think about that girl's voice. The way she said it. Calm. Sure. This isn't the Appalachian Trail. I believe her now.
And if you ever find yourself lost in the fog on that section of trail, and you hear laughter, don't look for where it's coming from. Just keep moving. And whatever you do, don't answer them back. The trail register at Massey Gap felt colder than the air. The metal box beaded with a dawn frost so fine it looked like powdered glass.
I signed my name, Evan Mallory, Asheville, North Carolina, then scribbled a note for my fiancé. Seven days of quiet, ten miles a day, back with a clearer head and better stories.
i shut the lid the clang echoed through the high meadows where wild ponies pawed at frosted grass their breath foggy plumes in the dim blue light if there was a more peaceful place to put a restless mind right i hadn't found it For the first two miles the world felt brand new. Hooves clipped stone behind me, and a chestnut pony trotted close enough that I could stroke its shaggy mane.
Beyond the bald summit of Wilburn Ridge, spruce needles glittered under a rising sun, and somewhere to the east a pileated woodpecker hammered out a rhythm that matched my heartbeat. I breathed deep, tasting wood smoke on the wind, odd because campfires were banned until winter rains returned. I told myself a hunter down in the lowlands was burning crop stubble and pushed on.
By late afternoon, I reached a sheltered saddle below buzzard rock and pitched my tent on ground padded with needles. While the jet boil hissed, I filmed a quick GoPro diary. Day one. Easy miles. Strange hint of smoke all day. Probably nothing. Missing you already, Jules. The stove clicked off.
Silence reclaimed the forest, save for an occasional pop hiss, like damp logs flashing to steam inside a distant blaze. I lay there afterward, headlamp off, letting darkness settle. But as night thickened, that firecrackle seemed closer, drifting between ridge pines and slow pulses, as though someone were coaxing reluctant coals back to life.
cold pulled me from sleep just after midnight my breath floated white in the tent then a soft scrape fabric brushing against something rough and my vestibule wall flexed inward pressed by an unseen hand i froze Another pop hiss sounded inches from my ear, the unmistakable snap of sap boiling. I fumbled for the zipper, yanked it open, and shone my headlamp into the trees.
Nothing, except a faint orange glow hovering twenty yards away, a single ember brightening, dimming, brightening again like a firefly trapped in a bell jar.
i tried to fix my eyes on it but the light winked out the moment i focused wind eased through spruce crowns yet the air smelled sharper the smoke thicker with no courage to investigate i zipped the door and lay stiff until dawn washed the ridge in gray Morning revealed something I couldn't explain.
Showing 61–80 of 161 · page 4 of 9
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