Some Bones Were New

“What stalked the woods was not known, only guessed at.”

I recalled one of my favorite excerpts from Ghosts of the Pineywoods as I took the first few steps through the treeline, the air shifting around me in response. I’d come alone- contrary to conventional wisdom- because I was determined to make every aspect of this excursion mine.

Just last week, I’d graduated high school with honors. In lieu of attending the ceremony, my father gifted me the funds for a trip to any destination I chose. He knew my passion for the supernatural, with my love of the outdoors coming in a close second. This Fall, I’d begin my freshman year at LSU in August pursuing a degree in journalism. With persistence, hard work, and a touch of luck, my name (Rebecca Franks) would earn its place on countless articles and editorials in the journalism world.

This was a pilgrimage, of sorts- and an opportunity to begin my first unofficial journalistic assignment. I reasoned that aside from satisfying personal curiosities, the mission would serve me academically- an argument I used to convince my stepfather, Jason, to lend me his pickup. The drive was eight hours one way- but so far, every mile felt worth it.

Despite the heat and humidity of the day, the woods felt cool- chilling, even- and eerily silent. I scanned my surroundings with my camera poised and ready. I switched on my pocket recorder, which I would reference later for notes. Overhead, silent birds cast fleeting shadows across the ground, and from the distance came the low, mournful call of a dove.

“The ghost had stalked the creek for as long as any of them could remember…”

I stood still. Having achieved my initial goal of arriving safely to Jasper County, I realized that I hadn’t properly planned for this undertaking. What if the journey proved fruitless? Legends remained only legends until someone proved them otherwise—and I intended to confirm my ghostly bias.

Grounding myself in the present, I charged forward into the underbrush, careful not to trip over the uneven soil. Insects buzzed and spiderwebs clung to my clothes. I’d brought along a water bottle, some sunscreen, and a small can of bug spray. Unfamiliar with these parts, I’d also brought trail markers, which I tied to trees every few feet, to ensure I could find my way back to the truck.

I walked until the sun indicated midday, stopping only to drink and mark my path. After resting awhile, I came upon a fork in the road- two paths going opposite directions, none of them more promising than the other. To the right, the path narrowed and curved inward, disappearing around the bend of trees. To the left, the path was straight, but vanished just as completely into the dense copse of pines. A small smile tugged at my lips as I consulted my ever-present guide—and recently deceased friend—Paul.

“What do you think, Paul?” I whispered into the silence.

Paul and I had been best friends since kindergarten—until he was struck by a drunk driver over spring break. He was the reason I believed in ghosts- the alternative was too heartbreaking to bear.

A bird with strange markings alighted on a nearby branch, hunting the tiny insects that crawled within the pine bark. It paused and regarded me, its beak angled toward the path on my right. Without a clearer sign, I took the bird’s cue and turned right.

My legs ached. The path twisted upward, each incline sapping my energy. The sun hung high, beating down, and my water bottle was already running low. So far, I had found nothing worth documenting- just a few small carvings etched into tree trunks. They weren’t words but primitive looking images too fresh to be authentic. According to historical accounts, Native Americans had populated these woods for centuries, and miners after them. Though the woods themselves remained largely untouched, it was no secret that bones were discovered within their depths- some old and new.

I stopped when I heard it- a footfall, quiet and close, like the crunch of dried leaves under a boot. Other hikers in these woods weren’t unlikely, but I had always feared humans more than I did ghosts.

Some bones were new…

I scanned around under the guise of consulting my weathered map. The birds had fallen ominously silent, and the air had turned surprisingly cold. Even the sun seemed to be hiding- the sky taking on an eerie shade of gray. The forecast had promised clear skies.

“Hello?” I called.

I was met with silence. Despite my rational mind, my body tensed, and my heart began to race. My skin prickled under the watchful gaze of something unseen. I had felt this before—two days after Paul’s death- when the doctors determined his brain had stopped working for good. Shrugging off the growing sense of dread, I began retracing my steps toward the pickup. I hadn’t prepared for rain, and I needed to make it back to the hotel by dark—an agreement I’d made with my mom.

I walked at a fast clip, my fear mounting as the certainty that I was being hunted took hold. Pride kept me from running—after all, I could just be imagining things—but I trusted my intuition, and it was telling me to move quickly. I heaved a sigh of relief when the fork in the road came into view. I was certain this was the turn I had taken—it had to be—but the trail markers I’d left behind were gone. I slowed my pace, comforted by the sight of the straight path ahead, though I still had another two miles or so to go. It was the road’s straight trajectory that gave me a false sense of safety.

Something collided into me. Caught unaware, I yelped and tumbled forward onto my face, crying out as pain lanced through my nose and across my cheek bones. Something- or someone- was on top of me, yanking at my backpack. It was a man- judging by his grunting- and the weight of him was suffocating. I thrashed uselessly, pinned beneath him, each gasp of air a battle. Blood from my nose filled my mouth with a warm, metallic tang, and my head pounded with every heartbeat. With a sharp tug, he sliced the straps from my backpack, lifting the crushing weight—but I didn’t hesitate. Summoning every ounce of strength, I twisted and rolled onto my back, heart hammering, muscles screaming.

A pair of icy blue eyes bore into me. The man was tall—at least six foot four—and broad-shouldered, like the athletes I remembered from school. He was dressed like a hiker: plain T-shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap bearing the logo of a commercial hunting store. In his right hand gleamed a short, wicked knife; in his left, he held the remnants of my backpack, which he casually tossed aside. I dug my heels into the dirt and scrambled backward, but he was fast. His hand shot out, gripping my ankle, and he yanked me forward, dragging me closer.

A scream tore from my lips- loud, primal, and unfamiliar even to me. I thrashed wildly, every warning my mother had given me about strangers flashing through my mind. Desperation clawed at my throat as I called for help—but my cries went unanswered. We were alone. I was alone.

The man pulled a length of rope from his jeans pocket and began working it around my neck. Any doubt I had harbored about his intentions evaporated. He was going to kill me. Despite my desperate struggle, the man overpowered me. The fibers of the rope bit into the tender flesh of my neck as they tightened. My fingers dug into his arms in a failed attempt to hold him off. His eyes- so light in color they seemed opaque- burned into me like two malevolent torches waiting to consume me.

Tears tracked down my face as he pulled the rope impossibly tight. My air was cut off- and the pressure behind my eyes and in my head became unbearable. My vision blurred from tears and lack of oxygen, and the world began to tilt and sway, as though I were submerged underwater. My last thoughts flickered and fractured: Would my parents ever learn what had happened to me? Would my bones join the others in their unmarked graves, discovered decades later by some unsuspecting hiker?

These thoughts began to fade as I slipped toward the warm void of nothingness. Teetering on the brink of consciousness, I saw the man’s eyes widen in sudden shock. His back straightened as if struck by lightning, and his massive hands loosened their unforgiving grip. I gasped, drawing in a lungful of sweet, magnificent air.

All at once, my attacker went completely limp, collapsing onto me in a heap. Above him loomed another man—tall, lean, with sharp, striking features and obsidian eyes that seemed to pierce the forest shadows. Bare-chested and clad in trousers straight from the pages of history books, he moved with impossible speed and strength. In one swift motion, he seized the man pinning me and flung him aside like a ragdoll, leaving him crumpled and motionless by the wayside.

He took a cautious step closer, and though my logical mind urged restraint, something deeper assured me this stranger meant no harm. He extended his hand—an offering—and I accepted. With surprising strength, he pulled me to my feet and waited until I regained my balance before letting go.

“Thank you,” I managed, my voice unsteady. I cast a nervous glance at my attacker, who remained silent and still.

“Gone,” said my rescuer.

Gone. The other man was… dead?

I glanced at the body again from a cautious distance, watching long enough to confirm he wasn’t breathing. My fingers twitched toward the recording device in my pocket. I had come into these woods seeking answers, yet somehow he had found me instead.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

Wordlessly, the man drew a small tool from his belt—something like a sharpened bone fragment—and crouched beside the body of my attacker. I held my breath, bracing for more violence. Instead, the tawny-skinned stranger pressed the tool to the tree against which my would-be killer had collapsed, carefully carving a mark into the bark.

The carvings in the trees…

My body trembled with spent adrenaline. All at once I felt impossibly weak, and my vision narrowed and went black.

I woke to the soft symphony of crickets and the cool kiss of night air. The ground beneath me was hard and sculpted like metal. My eyes flew open with the sting of remembered terror, and I sat up too quickly, sending my head spinning and my stomach lurching. The sun had vanished, and I was in the bed of my stepfather’s pickup truck, tucked off the road beside the highway. I touched my face gingerly, finding dried, sticky blood crusted there and tender bruises beneath. My throat ached, raw and sore beneath my probing fingers. Memories surged back like a crashing wave, threatening to pull me under.

I was struck with the horrible knowledge that I’d nearly been killed- and that somewhere in the darkness my attacker's body still lay. Or perhaps not. There, just beyond the first of the trees, stood my rescuer- the warrior- standing guard over me while I’d slept. Something flickered in my peripheral- the dancing red and blue lights of a sheriff’s vehicle heading in my direction. I fought the urge to climb down from the bed of the truck and intercept him, choosing to remain still while the officer negotiated his vehicle off the highway and stepped out.

Casting a final glance at the Pinewoods, I found them empty. My rescuer had gone- vanishing into the depths of the forest- carrying our secrets with him. Later that evening, after recounting the events to law enforcement, I waited in the back of the cruiser for paramedics to arrive.

I hadn’t missed the way the officer’s face drained of color at the mention of the bare-chested man with tawny skin. Similar sightings were reported- but the altruistic stranger had never been found.

I withdrew the sharp object used to inscribe those symbols into the tree that marked my attacker’s final resting place. It was left in my pocket as a gift- a remembrance of the justice done today. I wondered if my killer was still out there- his body an offering for the night creatures to feast upon, or if he’d vanished the same way his counterpart had.

As I watched the ambulance pull off the road and its attendants climb out and consult the officer, I recalled one of my favorite excerpts from Ghosts of the Pineywoods:

“The ghost had stalked the creek for as long as any of them could remember…”