The Watcher on Wolf Mountain (Tennessee)

Narrator Profile:

• Name: Sarah Thompson
• Age: 40
• Hometown: A small village on the outskirts of Wolf Mountain, Tennessee
• Occupation: Elementary school teacher
• Background: Sarah is a lifelong resident of Wolf Mountain, a secluded village in the Appalachian foothills. Raised in a family of moonshiners, she’s familiar with the region’s dark and mysterious past, which includes legends of strange happenings on the nearby Wolf Mountain.

Story:

Wolf Mountain has always been a place of mystery. The locals talk about it like it’s alive, like it’s watching you, waiting for you to make the wrong move. I’ve lived in the small village at the base of the mountain all my life, but I never truly believed in the stories. Not until I had an experience that changed everything.

It was fall, a crisp night, when I decided to take a walk. I needed some time alone to clear my head after a long week of teaching. The full moon cast its eerie light over the mountain, illuminating the trees with a silvery glow. It was peaceful, almost serene, but there was an underlying feeling of dread in the air that I couldn’t shake.

I walked along the old dirt road that led to the foot of the mountain, just past the last house in the village. I knew the stories, of course. Old man Wilkins, who had lived at the edge of the mountain, had disappeared years ago without a trace. The children in the village used to dare each other to go into the woods after dark, but no one ever made it far enough to tell the tale. And then there were the lights—the strange, flickering lights seen on the mountain at night. Some said it was the spirits of lost miners; others said it was something far worse.

As I walked deeper into the woods, I began to feel it—the sensation of being watched. At first, I thought it was just my imagination, but then I heard it: footsteps, soft but deliberate, just behind me. I turned around, but there was nothing there.

I quickened my pace, my heart pounding in my chest. The footsteps grew louder, closer. I could feel the cold breath of something in the air, brushing the back of my neck. And then I saw it—a figure standing at the edge of the trees, watching me. Its face was obscured by shadows, but I could feel its gaze burning through me, cold and unblinking.

I tried to scream, but my voice caught in my throat. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe. The figure stepped forward, and for the first time, I saw its eyes—wide, unblinking, and filled with an unholy emptiness.

Suddenly, the ground beneath my feet gave way, and I tumbled into a small ravine. My head hit the rocks, and I lost consciousness. When I woke, the figure was gone. The woods were silent once more, but the feeling of being watched never left.

I made my way back to the village, shaken and disoriented, but when I arrived at my house, I found something strange—my front door had been left open. I closed it and bolted it shut, but I knew then that the watcher had followed me.

From that night on, I never walked near Wolf Mountain again. The villagers say the watcher is a spirit, cursed to roam the mountain for all eternity, seeking lost souls to drag into its dark depths. Some nights, when the wind howls through the trees, I swear I can still feel its eyes on me.