‘The Walkers in the Holler’

The woods stood still and breathless, as if every tree had stiffened and every creature were waiting for something to move first. Lori’s fingers trembled around the lantern’s handle, and the glass threw restless shadows over the forest floor. Her grandmother’s old stories returned to her, the ones about the walkers that crept between the roots and stones of Appalachia. They were not human, but neither were they not. They were something older, bound to the mountains themselves, feeding on memory and voice.

The air pressed against her skin, damp and warm, thick with the smell of moss and something sour beneath it, like smoke that had rotted. Crickets sang in uneven bursts, too loud for comfort, and then a whippoorwill called once, twice, before falling silent. The trees towered close and tangled, their limbs knitting together so tightly that even the starlight could not find her. Every slick root looked like a hand waiting to drag her down. She could have turned back. She should have. But the letters hidden beneath her mother’s floorboard had led her here, and curiosity had always burned hotter than fear. Something cracked behind her. She did not turn. Her grandmother’s warning rang clear in her mind: do not ever look, do not ever answer. Then came a voice, soft and familiar. “It’s just me, baby.” Her mother’s voice. Lori’s grip tightened on the lantern. Her mother would never have called her baby.

Mist began to gather at her feet, curling around roots and rocks. Each step stirred the damp earth, releasing the sharp, cold smell of decay. Moonlight seeped through the trees in thin threads, barely touching the ground. Somewhere far off, a creek whispered, but even that sound seemed swallowed by the stillness.

Her grandmother’s stories had always filled her childhood nights, tales of ghosts born from grief, spirits twisted by solitude, and the walkers who lured wanderers by mimicking the voices of the living. “Never answer when they call your name,” Grandma had said. “Even the sweetest voice might be the one that leads you home, or somewhere worse.”

She pressed forward, the light of the lantern bouncing on the narrow path. The cabin her father had warned her about waited beyond the ridge. He had told her never to go into those woods alone after dark, but the letters written by her mother before she vanished had drawn her here like a tether she could not cut. The forest thickened until every breath sounded too loud. A branch snapped close by, and Lori’s heart jumped. For a moment, she thought she saw a figure moving between the trees, long-limbed, half-gliding, bending at the wrong angles. When she blinked, it was gone. The mist rose higher. Something brushed the back of her neck, cold and deliberate. She whispered an old prayer under her breath, the words rough from disuse.

Then she heard him. “Lori?” Her brother Jacob’s voice, Jacob who had died three winters ago in a hunting accident. The sound cracked her chest open. Every instinct screamed to run toward him, but she stayed frozen, her jaw tight. She knew the trick. She knew how they hunted, through longing.

The lantern wavered in her hands. Its light jittered, throwing spindly shadows across the bark. Somewhere above, an owl called again and again, until the echoes seemed to come from inside her head. She pressed herself against the trunk of an oak, breathing hard. Her grandmother’s charm hung around her neck, a sprig of mountain laurel tied with faded twine.

“Keep it close,” Grandma had said. “It cannot stop them, but it will make them forget your face for a little while.” Lori clutched it tight. The mist shifted again. Voices overlapped, her father’s, Jacob’s, her own, calling softly, begging her to answer. The forest seemed to know every secret her family had buried. A lullaby drifted through the air, one her mother used to hum. The tune sagged and warped, every note stretched too long.

The cabin appeared between the trees like a bruise in the dark. Its roof sagged, windows hollow. The sight of it both relieved and terrified her. She stumbled toward it, the ground slick with roots. Inside, the air was heavy with mildew and dust. The lantern light shimmered across broken furniture, peeling wallpaper, and a floor stained dark from decay. Lori shut the door behind her, pressing her back against it. The forest outside was silent again, too silent.

Her reflection shimmered faintly in the window, but her face looked wrong. Her eyes seemed larger, her mouth tighter. She whispered to herself, “It’s not real.” But her voice did not sound like her own. The walls creaked, slow and rhythmic, almost like breathing. The sweet, cloying scent of her mother’s perfume filled the room. It was too strong, sweet enough to sting her throat. Lori tasted copper. She pressed the laurel to her chest. Scratching began along the walls. Soft knocks on the window beckon her. She tried not to look, but her gaze betrayed her. In the dark glass, her reflection smiled when she did not.

The air thickened until it felt like she was wading through it. Every sound blurred together, the creek, the owl, the wind, but none of it matched the rhythm of her heart. The forest felt inside her now, whispering through the cracks in her mind.

A voice spoke close to her ear, raising the hair on the back of her neck.
“It’s just me, baby.” Instinctively, she turned.

The hallway stretched longer than it should have, bending in strange, breathing ways. Shapes flickered in the lantern’s glow, faces she half-recognized. Her mother. Jacob. Even herself. Their smiles were too wide, their eyes hollow. She stumbled backward until her shoulder hit the wall.

“Stop,” she whispered, but the voice in the room spoke the same word at the same time.

Her throat went dry. She could not tell which of them had said it first. The light flickered violently. The walls pulsed. The scent of laurel turned acrid.

And then silence.

When Lori opened her eyes, she was still standing in the cabin doorway, the lantern steady in her hand. The woods outside were quiet, perfectly normal. No mist, no whispers. Just the smell of damp earth and the faint trill of a whippoorwill. She blinked hard, once, twice. The cabin was gone. In its place stood an empty clearing, scattered with stones and moss. She looked down. The sprig of laurel lay at her feet, dry and brittle, as if it had been there for years. A sound rose from somewhere behind her. Not words this time, just a breath, drawn in slow and familiar, as if someone were standing right next to her.

She did not turn. Instead, she whispered, “It’s just me, baby,” as though testing whether her own voice still belonged to her.

The forest held its breath. And then, softly, almost lovingly, it whispered the words back.