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
The rainfly, once moss-green, bore a streak of soot the width of a hand that smeared down from the apex to the stake loop. I touched the mark, and the residue blackened my fingertip. Somehow a burning ember had brushed the fabric without melting it. I packed quickly, eager to leave Buzzard Rock.
The trail climbed toward Mount Rogers under a sky thin as milk, and every switchback delivered the same scent. Wood smoke. but layered now with the sour note of singed hair. At Wilburn Ridge I paused to drink and spotted hoof prints, yet several were scorched black, edges crisp as cookie cutters burned into the turf. Steam curled from one as though it had cooled only moments earlier.
A pony herd grazed a hundred yards off, none limped or seemed hurt. Still, unease crawled up my spine like cold drizzle under a collar.
late light slanted gold between rhododendron thickets when i found a level spot beneath two hemlocks their trunks leaned together like conspirators shielding me from bitter wind i gathered dead twigs careful not to break the fire ban and settled into my sleeping bag twilight painted the tent walls amber then violet
Sometime in the black hours, a shape loomed against the fly, kneeling, shoulders hunched. Lightning, silent and distant, flashed on the horizon, illuminating a silhouette whose head was cocked as though listening to my heartbeat. I slapped the knife clipped to my ridgeline, unzipped the door, and jabbed my light forward. The figure was gone, but on the ground lay a neat pile of cedar shavings.
they formed an arrow its barbed point aimed south deeper into the wilderness the shavings smouldered at their tips tiny curls collapsing into gray dust without flame i scooped a handful still warm and scattered them in the wind sleep deserted me
with each hour the air grew warmer my breath no longer visible condensation beaded on the map inside my journal and when i turned the page to tomorrow's date the ink bubbled and ran the paper itself curling as if held above a candle i wanted to believe dawn would make sense of it that daylight would blow away childish dread instead sunrise lit the forest in bruised purple
and every step south felt like descending into a kiln my pulse drummed in my ears sweat traced icy rivulets down my ribs though the thermometer read forty-two around me sap bled from spruce knots and sizzled on the bark i quickened my pace repeating a quiet litany seven days ten miles clear head but behind that mantra another thought clawed for attention
Something out here is burning, and it wants me to follow the smoke. The fallen hemlock looked as if a colossal hand had twisted it from the soil and slammed it across the white-blazed corridor. Its shattered crown blocked the trail so completely I could not even snake under the branches. I studied my map and spotted a faint dotted line. Devil's Ladder.
an unofficial connector said to shave a mile off the ridge if you were willing to endure knee-busting grades at that moment the main trail felt like a chimney spewing smoke straight at me so i chose the detour and plunged into the understory almost at once the forest temperature leapt my breath no longer steamed instead a damp heat pressed against my skin warm enough that sweat pooled under my pack straps even though the thermometer on my watch still insisted it was forty-five degrees
Sap blistered from spruce trunks and dripped to the duff with a hiss, as though the trees themselves were cooking from within. I checked my phone to mark the side trail, but the bars dropped to zero before the screen faded to black. Battery dead. I told myself I could navigate by compass just fine, yet something about the phone's abrupt silence felt like a door closing behind me.
Devil's Ladder earned its name with every step. The path pitched downward so steeply I half-skied on loose needles. Around me the air grew thicker, shimmering in waves that made the nearest boulders wobble like mirages. Then I smelled it again, burning hair mixed with scorched cedar, and my pulse pounded high in my throat. I rounded a switchback and halted.
Five paces ahead, half concealed by rhododendron leaves, stood the man from last night. He faced away, shoulders hunched, blackened skin cracked in flakes that revealed depths of glowing red as if he were forged iron left too long in the coals. His clothes had melted to his flesh.
tatters fluttered in wind that i could not feel smoke curled from his scalp in thin blue threads he turned and those ember eyes fixed on mine without blinking i wanted to scream but the air in my lungs tasted of ash the figure stepped forward every branch he brushed ignited in a brief tongue of flame that vanished the instant he passed
leaving needles intact yet smoldering at the tips their green turned ghost white he extended a hand sparks pinwheeled off his fingertips and died before touching the ground as if the fire existed only for him reflex broke the trance i stumbled backward boots skidding on gravel and the sudden movement seemed to startle the thing its head tilted cracking skin along its neck that glowed brighter hotter
Without warning, the image fragmented, my vision wavered in ripples of heat distortion, and the GoPro strapped to my pack beeped an error tone, its display filling with static bands even though it was powered off. My nostrils flooded with the chemical tang of melting circuitry. I turned and ran.
The grade was so steep I barely controlled each stride, careening off trunks, branches whipping my arms. Behind me came slow, deliberate footsteps, charcoal crunching under burned feet. No matter how wildly I zigzagged, the cadence never quickened, but it never paused either. It sounded patient, inevitable, like the tick of a metronome marking the moment the forest would ignite.
by the time dusk bled through the canopy i had lost the tread of devil's ladder and found myself in a narrow hollow choked with hemlock skeletons dead man's draw if the locals warnings were right even here the ground sweated heat I slashed at vines to clear a flat patch no bigger than a coffin and threw up my tent, hands trembling so badly the poles clicked like chattering teeth.
Night sealed the hollow, and at once the forest began to breathe. A low, rasping inhale, then a bellows, soft exhale, again and again, each breath exuding a faint red glow that rolled over the hillsides like banked coals stirred by wind. Inside the tent, darkness pressed against the nylon. My watch read 92 degrees, though outside it had to be near freezing. Sweat soaked my base layers.
Then the footsteps returned, shuffling in a widening spiral, circling. I heard skin crackle with every step, like ice shifting on a thawing lake. The thing whispered my name, drawn out, syllables stretched thin, as if exhaling through shredded vocal cords. Even. Each time it spoke the temperature spiked and my water bladder ballooned with expanding air until seams creaked. Hours dragged past.
Showing 81–100 of 161 · page 5 of 9
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