_I Work As A Tour Bus Driver in Smoky Mountains...There Are Strange RULES TO FOLLOW__ Creepypasta

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:05):
My name is Silas Buchanan, and I've been driving tour
buses through these Tennessee Mountains for three years now. Before that,
I was fixing transmissions at Amos Whittaker's garage in downtown Gatlinburg,
but the arthritis in my hands got too bad for
wrench work. When Ezra Hulcom at Blue Ridge Mountain Tours
offered me a job driving his tourist buses, I figured

(00:28):
it beat unemployment. The pay was decent forty two thousand
dollars a year plus tips, and all I had to
do was drive folks around the scenic routes, point out
a few landmarks, and keep everybody happy. My route covers
the eastern section of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park,
Newfound Gap, Cataract Falls, the old settler cabins near Elkmont,

(00:51):
pretty standard tourist stuff. Most days I get retirees from
Florida or families from Atlanta wanting to see fall foliage.
They climb aboard my thirty two passenger bus at nine
am sharp and I bring them home by four pm.
The tourists love my stories about Cherokee settlements and bootlegger caves.
They take selfies at every stop, buy overpriced fudge and gatlinburg,

(01:15):
and leave five star reviews about their authentic mountain experience.
What they don't know is that every trip, I'm counting passengers,
not just at the beginning and end, but constantly, because
sometimes when we're winding through the remote backcountry near Mount Lecante,
the count changes. Someone appears in a seat that was
empty twenty minutes before, someone who doesn't smell quite right,

(01:38):
whose clothes seem older than they should be, whose presence
makes the temperature drop five degrees, And that's when the
real rules kick in. Ezra handed me a laminated card
with six rules typed on it. When I started, said
they were company policy for driver safety. Most of them
seemed like common sense. Check your mirrors every thirty seconds,

(01:58):
never exceed twenty five five miles per hour on mountain roads,
always carry two emergency flares in the front compartment. But
rule number four made me pause. If passengers report seeing
people walking alongside the bus on remote stretches, do not
acknowledge these sightings. Redirect conversation to local wildlife or historical facts.

(02:20):
Ezra caught my expression. Mountain folk around here got active imaginations,
he said, scratching at his graying beard, stress of the altitude,
unfamiliar surroundings. You just keep them focused on the real attractions.
I should have asked more questions, should have wondered why
a tour company needed rules about hallucinations. Should have noticed

(02:42):
how Ezra's eyes kept darting to the tree line while
he talked, like something might step out at any moment.
My first week driving for Blue Ridge Mountain Tours, I
thought the weirdest thing would be dealing with cranky tourists
complaining about the winding roads. Boy was I wrong. It
was a Tuesday morning in late September when I met

(03:03):
Dotty Ramsey. She'd been driving these routes for Ezra longer
than anyone, fifteen years, she told me, and her weathered
hands gripped the steering wheel of bus number three like
she was holding on to life itself. We were both
parked at the depot on River Road, waiting for our
morning groups. Silas, honey, she said, leaning out her driver window. Ezra,

(03:24):
give you the rules, yet I pulled out the laminated card,
got them right here, Pretty straightforward stuff. Dotty's laugh came
out harsh as sand paper. Straightforward, right, she glanced around
the empty parking lot, then motioned me closer. Listen carefully.
Now that list you got, that's just the beginning. Real

(03:46):
rules ain't written down anywhere. Before I could ask what
she meant, a white van pulled into the lot. Today's
tour group seventeen people from a church in Knoxville, here
to see the changing leaves. Dotty straightened up her whole
a meaner shifting. Remember what I said, she whispered, then
drove off toward the cade's cove route. The church folks

(04:08):
were pleasant enough. Pastor Jenkins, a round man with kind eyes,
helped an elderly woman named missus Caldwell onto the bus.
A young family with twin boys around eight years old,
took seats near the front standard Tuesday morning crowd. I
ran through my usual spiel as we pulled onto Highway
four forty one. Welcome aboard Blue Ridge Mountain Tours. I'm

(04:32):
Silas your driver and guide for today. Will be heading
up through Newfound Gap, stopping at Cataract Falls, and finishing
at the Chimney Tops Overlook. The first hour went smoothly.
I pointed out a black bear foraging near the roadside,
told them about the CCC workers who built these roads
in the nineteen thirties. Missus Caldwell took pictures of everything,

(04:54):
every deer, every historic marker, every scenic vista. We were
climbing toward Newfound Gap when one of the twin boys, Tyler,
pressed his face against the window. Mom, look, there's a
man walking up there. I glanced in my rear view mirror.
The boy was pointing at the steep hillside to our left,
where thick rhododendron bushes crowded between the trees. Honey, I

(05:17):
don't see anything, his mother said, but Tyler kept pointing.
He's wearing old clothes, like a farmer or something, and
he's keeping up with the bus. My stomach dropped. I
checked the odometer. We were doing twenty two miles per
hour up a steep grade. Nobody walks that fast up
hill through dense brush. Rule number four echoed in my head.

(05:40):
If passengers report seeing people walking alongside the bus on
remote stretches, do not acknowledge these sightings. Tyler, I called back, cheerfully.
You know these mountains are home to over sixty species
of mammals, black bears, white tailed deer, even some elk
that were reintroduced in two thousand one. The boy looked confused.

(06:02):
But the man, oh, you might be seeing shadows moving
through the trees, I continued. Mountain light can play tricks
on your eyes, creates all sorts of interesting shapes. Tyler's
brother Mason joined him at the window. I see him too.
He's got a beard and he's carrying something long like
a stick. Pastor Jenkins moved to their seats. Boys, don't

(06:25):
bother mister Silas with tall tails. But Missus Caldwell had
turned in her seat, squinting at the hillside. My word,
she said quietly, there is some one out there. I
felt sweat beating on my forehead despite the cool mountain air.
Three passengers now all seeing the same thing, folks, I announced.

(06:45):
Coming up on our right, you'll see Cattaloochee Creek. This
waterway was crucial for early settlers who used the mineral
deposits for tanning leather. I was rambling now, desperate to
redirect their attention. But in my rear view mirror I
saw more heads, heads turning toward the left side of
the bus. Half the group was staring out those windows. Now.

(07:05):
Pastor Jenkins came forward silas son. I think there really
might be someone out there. Should we call park rangers?
Man could be lost or injured. The radio crackled to life,
Ezra's voice from the depot bus number four. What's your twenty?
I grabbed the handset with shaking fingers. About two miles

(07:27):
from Newfound Gap, heading north, copy that how's your passenger count?
Strange question seventeen same as when we left. Good keep
it that way. The radio went silent. Pastor Jenkins gave
me a puzzled look, but I pretended to focus on
the road. Around the next curve, the hillside leveled out

(07:48):
into a small meadow, and whatever the passengers had been
seeing was gone. The tension in the bus eased slightly.
We reached Cataract Falls without further incident. Everyone climbed off
to stretch their legs and take photos of the thirty
foot cascade. I did my standard head count as they
reboarded seventeen, But as we pulled away from the parking area,

(08:10):
I caught movement in my peripheral vision. Someone was sitting
in the back row seat fourteen B, which had been
empty all morning. My blood turned to ice water. I
forced myself to count again, slower, this time eighteen. The
figure in fourteen B wore old Denham overalls and a
faded plaid shirt. His beard reached nearly to his chest,

(08:34):
streaked with gray. Most disturbing of all, he was looking
directly at me in the rear view mirror, with eyes
that seemed too pale, too knowing. I thought about Ezra's
radio check. Keep it that way, he'd said, keep the
passenger count at seventeen. The man in fourteen B smiled
at me, a cold expression that never reached those colorless eyes.

(08:57):
I understood now why Dotty's hands never left her steering wheel.
I had two choices, panic and potentially get everyone killed
on these narrow mountain roads, or pretend everything was normal
while figuring out what to do about the man who
shouldn't exist sitting in my bus. I chose option two,
though my hands were slick with sweat on the steering wheel.

(09:19):
Next stop coming up as the historic Elkmont District, I
announced my voice, somehow steady. This area was once home
to a logging community, then became a retreat for wealthy
families from Knoxville and Chattanooga. In the rear view mirror,
I watched the figure in fourteen B. He hadn't moved
since appearing, just sat there with his hands folded in

(09:40):
his lap. Those pale eyes fixed on me. None of
the other passengers seemed to notice him. Pastor Jenkins was
pointing out wild flowers to the twin boys, Missus Caldwell
was organizing her camera equipment, and the young mother was
helping her husband identify bird species in his field guide.
But the temperature on the boo had dropped noticeably. I

(10:02):
could see my breath forming small puffs when I spoke.
As we descended toward Elkmont, my radio crackled again, Bus
number four, This is Dotty on bus number three. You copy.
I grabbed the handset. Copy. How are you doing over there? Honey?
Everything normal? The way she emphasized that last word told

(10:26):
me she knew exactly what was happening. Well, it's been
an interesting morning, I said, carefully, I bet it has. Listen,
when you get to Elkmont, make sure everyone gets off
for the full tour, every single paying passenger. You understand,
Copy that, and silas, don't you dare look directly at

(10:48):
seat fourteen B. Not until they're all off the bus.
The radio went dead. Leaving me with more questions than answers.
But Dotty had been doing this for fifteen years. If
she said don't look, book, I wouldn't look. We pulled
into the Elkmont parking area, where the preserved cabins from
the nineteen twenties stood among towering hemlock trees. I parked

(11:10):
near the trailhead and stood up, clipboard in hand. All right, folks,
everyone off for our walking tour of the historic district.
Will be exploring the Appalachian Clubhouse and several original vacation cabins.
Pastor Jenkins helped missus Caldwell down the steps. The family
with twins gathered their backpacks and water bottles. One by one,

(11:31):
all seventeen paying passengers filed off the bus. I stayed
focused on my clipboard, counting each person as they passed.
Seventeen good The bus fell silent except for the ticking
of the cooling engine. I could feel the presence behind me,
that wrongness that made the air feel thick and hard
to breathe, but I kept my eyes forward, just like

(11:54):
Dotty said, you're new. The voice came from directly behind
my seat, closer than fourteen b much closer It sounded
like wind through dry leaves with an accent. I couldn't place,
old fashioned, maybe from the early nineteen hundreds. Been driving
these roads since eighteen forty seven, the voice continued. Seen

(12:17):
a lot of drivers come and go. Most don't last
past their first month. I gripped my clipboard tighter, knuckles white.
Don't engage, don't turn around. Don't acknowledge that Hulcomb boy
thinks his little rules will keep you safe, the entity said.
But rules change up here, always have. Through my windshield,

(12:37):
I could see my group gathering around Pastor Jenkins as
he read from a historical marker about the logging industry.
They looked so normal, so alive and warm in the
afternoon sunlight. You want to know why we ride along,
the voice asked. It's lonely up here, so very lonely.
And you folks from down in the valleys, you smell

(12:57):
like home, like family, like belonging. My mouth had gone
completely dry. I wanted to radio Ezra, call for help, anything,
but some instinct told me that any response would be
the wrong response. But don't you worry none, the entity continued.
I ain't staying not today, got somewhere else to be.

(13:18):
There was a pause, and I heard what sounded like
fabric rustling. Though I might have imagined it, but I
might see you again real Soon the temperature on the
bus suddenly returned to normal. I felt the wrongness lift,
like stepping out of a walk in freezer into summer air.
When I finally worked up the courage to check my

(13:38):
rear view mirror, seat fourteen B was empty. I sat
there for several minutes, just breathing and trying to process
what had happened. My radio crackled Bus number four status report,
Ezra's voice all clear. I managed good, bring them home safe.

(13:58):
Twenty minutes later, my group reboarded for the trip back
to Gatlinburg. I counted them carefully. Seventeen Missus Caldwell showed
me pictures she'd taken of a red salamander near one
of the cabins. The twins chattered about finding arrowheads, though
they'd only picked up interesting rocks. Pastor Jenkins thanked me
for the educational tour. Everything seemed normal until we reached

(14:22):
the scenic overlook, where I always made my final announcement
about taking pictures. As the group filed off for one
last photo opportunity. Tyler tugged on my sleeve. Mister Silas,
why didn't that old man in the back get off
at the cabins? My stomach lurched. What old man, buddy,
the one with the long beard. He was sitting behind

(14:44):
us the whole time, but he never got off the bus?
Is he okay? His mother overheard and joined us. Tyler, honey,
there wasn't anyone sitting behind us, Yes, there was. He
was wearing old clothes, and he ca staring at mister Silas.
Mason saw him too. Mason nodded vigorously. He looked sad

(15:08):
like he wanted to tell us something, but couldn't. I
knelt down to their eye level, thinking fast, boys, sometimes
the mountain light creates shadows that look like people. Your
imagination fills in the details. But Tyler started tell you
what I interrupted. How about you take some extra pictures

(15:29):
of the mountains. Sometimes cameras can show us what's really
there versus what we think we see. The twins ran
off with their disposable cameras, snapping photos of everything in sight,
but their mother lingered, studying my face. There was someone there,
wasn't there? She asked quietly, I met her eyes. Ma'am.

(15:54):
I've been driving these mountains for three years. Sometimes folks
see things that don't have easy explanations. But as long
as everyone gets home safe, that's what matters. She nodded slowly,
then went to collect her sons. As we loaded up
for the final leg back to Gatlinburg, I made my

(16:14):
usual announcement about the pictures. The tourists obliged, their camera
flashes popping like tiny lightning strikes among the trees. I
watched the tree line carefully, but nothing moved in the shadows.
Seventeen passengers loaded back onto the bus. I counted twice
to be sure, but as we pulled away from the overlook,

(16:34):
I caught something in my peripheral vision that made my
blood freeze. In the last row of seats fourteen B
sat a different figure than before. This one was smaller,
wearing a faded floral dress that looked like it belonged
to the nineteen fifties. A woman with graying hair pulled
back in a bun, her hands folded primly in her lap.

(16:54):
She smiled at me in the rear view mirror and
mouthed a single word, tomorrow. I understood now, why Ezra
needed drivers who could follow rules without asking questions, and
why most of them didn't last past their first month.
The bus felt crowded with eighteen passengers, though only seventeen
were breathing. The alarm clock's shrill cry cut through the

(17:18):
pre dawn darkness at four thirty a m. I'd been
awake for an hour, already staring at the water stained
ceiling and replaying yesterday's encounter with the pale eyed man
in seat fourteen B. His words echoed in my mind.
Been driving these roads since eighteen forty seven. I pulled
on my Blue Ridge Mountain Tour's uniform khaki pants and

(17:41):
navy polo and headed out into the cool October morning.
The streets of Gatlinburg were still quiet, just a few
early risers heading to work at the pancake houses that
would soon be crawling with tourists. Dolly's Diner sat on
a side road most visitors never found. A weathered building
there had been serving coffee and biscuits to locals since

(18:02):
the nineteen sixties. The neon sign flickered sporadically, casting pink
shadows across the empty parking lot. Dotty Ramsay's bus was
already there, parked under the lone street light. I found
her in the back booth, nursing a cup of black
coffee and staring out the grease stained window at the mountains.
In the fluorescent light, she looked older than her sixty

(18:24):
some years, her face mapped with lines that spoke of
hard living and harder knowledge. Figured you'd show up, she said,
without looking at me. Most folks who last past their
first encounter usually due. I slid into the booth across
from her, the vinyl seat cracking under my weight. Dotty,
what the hell happened yesterday? She reached into a worn

(18:47):
canvas bag beside her and pulled out something that made
my stomach clench. It was a spiral notebook, thick with
added pages and held together with silver duct tape. The
cover had once been blue, but years of handling had
faded it to the color of old Denham. Different pens
and pencils had marked it over the years, creating a
patchwork of handwriting. This hear's the real rules, she said,

(19:11):
pushing the notebook across the scratched for mica table. Not
that sanitized list. Ezra gives new drivers the things that
keep you alive up there. I opened the notebook with
trembling fingers. The first entry was dated fifteen years ago,
written in Dotty's careful script. New drivers need to understand

(19:31):
these mountains are old. Cherokee knew it. Early settlers learned
it the hard way. Some things never left when the
people did. Page after page contained entries from different drivers,
each one a piece of a larger puzzle. Names I
recognized from the depot roster. Some I didn't. Brief accounts
of encounters, warnings about specific locations, advice passed down like folklore.

(19:57):
Jeremiah Odam had written about mile mark seven point three
on the new Found Gap road stop appeared that wasn't
there before. Old wooden bench and shelter. Woman in nineteen
forty's dress waiting with suitcase didn't acknowledge her, but she
watched the bus pass. Stop was gone on return trip.

(20:18):
They're not ghosts exactly, Dottie explained, watching me read more
like echoes people who died up here with strong attachments
to these roads. Most are harmless, just riding along, remembering
what it was like to go somewhere. I flipped through
more pages, each entry more unsettling than the last. Temperature drops,

(20:39):
passengers appearing and disappearing, conversations with people who'd been dead
for decades, all documented with the matter of fact tone
of maintenance reports. Then I found the red ink section
Curtis Thorn had written about a possession incident. Elderly man
in seat twenty D looked normal at first, started talking

(20:59):
to Missus Patterson and about logging operations from nineteen twenty three,
using names of people who died decades ago. Passenger's voice changed,
got deeper, started speaking with old timey accent. Missus Patterson's
eyes went blank, started responding like she was someone else.
Took two hours and help from Cherokee elders to get

(21:19):
the old logger to move on. Missus p didn't remember
any of it afterward. That's the dangerous kind, Dotty said,
tapping the red ink with a weathered finger, the ones
who don't just want to ride along, They want to
live again, and they're not particular about whose life they borrow.

(21:40):
My hands were shaking as I closed the notebook. Why
doesn't EZRA tell drivers about this, because most people would
quit before they started, and because some things can't be explained,
only experienced. Before I could ask more questions. My phone
buzzed with a text from Ezra. Private charter canceled, need

(22:00):
you to take their group different route Cataluki Valley pick
up at eleven a M. Dotty read the message over
my shoulder and her expression darkened. Cherokee Land deeper in
the park than your usual roots. Fewer tourists mean fewer witnesses,
and the things up there are older, more connected to

(22:20):
the land. She handed me a small pouch made of
soft leather Cherokee blessing sand Charlie Swimmer gave me this
years ago. Keep it in your pocket, and whatever you do,
don't open it unless things go real bad, real fast.
The leather was warm to the touch, heavier than its
small size suggested. I slipped it into my uniform pocket.

(22:44):
At exactly eleven a M. I pulled up to the
Asheville Historical Society building to collect my passengers. Eight people
waited on the sidewalk, all carrying the serious demeanor of
academics and researchers. Their leader was a woman in her
sixties with the steel gray hair pulled back in a
tight bun and sharp eyes that missed nothing. I'm doctor

(23:07):
Margaret Cornett, she said, climbing aboard with a briefcase full
of documents. We appreciate you taking us on such short notice.
The others introduced themselves as they boarded, Professors, graduate students,
and local historians, all part of a research project on
undocumented settlements in the Smoky Mountains. They were particularly interested

(23:29):
in the Kataluki Valley area, where they believed they'd found
evidence of homesteads that didn't appear in any official records.
We're looking for the Caldwell place, doctor Cornett explained, as
we left Ashville behind. County records show a family by
that name purchased land in the valley in eighteen eighty eight,
but there's no record of what happened to them after

(23:49):
eighteen ninety two. The drive to Kattaluchi Valley took us
deep into the park's back country, along roads that narrowed
from asphalt to gravel to dirt. The trees rest closer
to the path here, their branches forming a canopy that
blocked most of the afternoon's sun. We reached the Caldwell
homestead around two thirty pm. The remains of the cabin

(24:12):
sat in a small clearing, surrounded by oak trees that
must have been ancient. When the Cherokee first walked these paths.
Most of the structure had collapsed decades ago, leaving only
a stone chimney and foundation. That's when the temperature began
to drop. It started gradually, a chill that could have
been explained by the shade, but within minutes my breath

(24:34):
was visible in the suddenly frigid air. Frost began forming
on the bus windows despite the warm October afternoon outside.
She appeared at the edge of the clearing, like morning mist,
taking human shape, a young woman, maybe twenty years old,
wearing a simple cotton dress that had been handmade from
faded blue fabric. Her dark hair was braided and hung

(24:57):
over one shoulder, and her feet were bare despite the
increasingly cold ground. But it was her eyes that made
my blood freeze. They were the pale blue of winter sky,
and they held a sadness so deep it seemed to
pull at something fundamental in my chest. Unlike the passengers
who had appeared on my bus, silent, watching otherworldly, this

(25:21):
one spoke directly to doctor Cornett. You're looking for graves,
she said, her voice carrying clearly across the clearing, despite
being barely above a whisper. Doctor Cornett looked up from
her clipboard startled, I'm sorry, who are you. We didn't
hear anyone approach. My name is Ruth Caldwell. The temperature

(25:44):
dropped another ten degrees as she spoke. Ice crystals began
forming on the fallen leaves around her feet. The graves
you're looking for, they're under the old oak grove behind
the cabin, not marked because we died of the fever
and the family were afraid to put up stones. Ruth
began walking toward the bus, and with each step she took,

(26:06):
the temperature plummeted further. By the time she reached the
open door, frost was covering the windshield, and I could
see my breath in thick puffs. Been waiting so long
for someone to ask the right questions, she said, looking
directly at me, someone who might listen to the whole truth.
Doctor Cornett followed her scientific curiosity overriding her obvious discomfort.

(26:31):
Miss Caldwell, if that's really your name, how do you
know about these graves? There's no official record of the
deaths you're describing, Ruth smiled, Sadly, official records don't tell
the whole story. Never have the families who buried us
were too frightened to mark our resting places properly, but
were still here, still waiting. She climbed aboard the bus,

(26:55):
and the temperature inside dropped so quickly that frost began
forming on the seats. The oak grove behind the cabin,
Ruth repeated, seventeen paces from the largest tree toward the
setting sun. You'll find what you're looking for there, Doctor
Cornett pulled out a digital recorder, her hands shaking from
cold rather than fear. Would you be willing to tell

(27:17):
me more about what happened to your family? The fever
came in late summer, Ruth said, settling into a seat
near the front. With each word, ice crystals spread further
across the bus. Windows. Started with the children. Thomas was
only four, such a sweet little boy. Then Mary and Samuel,
my cousins who lived just over the ridge. I was

(27:38):
the oldest at nineteen. Thought I might survive it, but
the fever don't care about age or hope. My radio
crackled to life, making me jump. Ezra's voice cut through
the frozen air bus four status report. I grabbed the handset,
trying to keep my voice steady, all secure, academic group

(27:58):
is doing their research. How many passengers, I looked back
at the seats, counting quickly. Doctor Cornett sat near Ruth Caldwell,
still taking notes from Ezra's perspective. I knew he was
asking about living passengers. Only eight. I said, same as
pick up copy. That weather service is reporting temperature anomalies

(28:21):
in your area. Keep an eye on conditions. For the
next hour, Ruth shared details about life in the valley
that no written record could have preserved, the location of
a well that had been filled in after the fever,
the names of other families who had lived in the area,
stories about Cherokee families who had helped the settlers. When
Ruth finally stood to leave, the temperature began returning to

(28:44):
normal so gradually that I barely noticed at first. The
frost on the windows melted slowly, leaving streaky trails down
the glass. Thank you for listening, she said to doctor Cornet.
It means more than you know to have someone care
about what happened here. She paused at the bus door,
looking back at me. Driver, you're walking a dangerous path.

(29:08):
The things that ride with you most mean no harm,
but there are others in these mountains that hunger for
something more than just attention. Be careful who you listen to.
Then she stepped off the bus and walked back toward
the oak grove, fading like morning mist until she was
gone entirely. Doctor Cornett sat in stunned silence for several minutes,

(29:31):
staring at her notes. Finally she looked up at me.
Did that just happen? Did we just interview someone who
died in eighteen ninety two? Before I could answer, one
of her team members called from outside, Margaret, you need
to see this. We climbed off the bus to find
the researchers gathered around their equipment. The ground penetrating radar

(29:55):
had revealed clear evidence of four graves in exactly the
location Ruth had ended, dedicated seventeen paces from the largest
oak toward the west. Within an hour, doctor Cornett had
confirmed Ruth's story through historical records. The eighteen ninety two
death records for the area listed four typhoid fever victims,

(30:16):
Ruth Caldwell, age nineteen, Thomas Caldwell, age four, Mary Caldwell,
age twelve, and Samuel Caldwell, age seven, but those records
had been filed in a different county in documents that
weren't digitized and required special access to view. There was
no way Ruth could have known those specific details unless

(30:38):
she had lived them. As we loaded back onto the bus,
doctor Cornett's excitement was palpable. I'm bringing a full paranormal
investigation team back here next week. She told me, this
could be the breakthrough. We need to prove that consciousness
survives bodily death. My blood ran cold at those words.
I thought about the notebooks read in warnings about researchers

(31:01):
and investigations. Ma'am, I said, carefully, maybe it's better to
let sleeping dogs lie. Some things don't want to be studied.
But she was already out of her seat, excited by
the possibilities. This is the discovery of a lifetime, mister Buchanan.
We can't just pretend it didn't happen. As I watched

(31:22):
her team discuss plans for a return visit, I knew
I needed to call Ezra immediately. This was exactly the
kind of attention the notebook warned against. My radio crackled
as I pulled away from the curb, but it wasn't
Ezra's voice. It was Willie Hemsley, another driver, and he
sounded panicked. Any unit, any unit I need backup at

(31:44):
Cade's cove. Got twelve college kids on board, and something
is following the bus, something that's keeping up on foot
at thirty miles per hour. Ezra's voice cut in immediately, Willie,
what's your exact location, mile mark er twelve on the
loop road. This thing it looks like a man, but
it's moving all wrong. Passengers are starting to panic. Dotty's

(32:07):
voice joined the radio chatter, Willie, Honey, listen to me carefully.
Do not stop the bus, do not let anyone off,
and whatever you do, do not acknowledge what's following you.
But the passengers will be fine if you follow instructions,
keep driving, keep them focused inside the bus, do not
engage with whatever's outside. Ezra's voice was grim silas I

(32:30):
need you to head to the depot. We've got a problem.
As I drove through the gathering dusk toward the Blue
Ridge Mountain Tour's office, I realized my second week was
ending with even more questions than my first. Doctor Cornett's
investigation team would be back, bringing equipment and attention that
could disturb things better. Left alone. Willie was dealing with

(32:51):
something that required intervention, and somewhere in my pocket, the
Cherokee blessing sand was warm against my leg, as if
it sensed dangerous times ahead. The real rules weren't just
about passenger safety. They were about maintaining a balance that
had existed for longer than any of us could remember,
and that balance was starting to shift. Three days after

(33:14):
doctor Cornett's promised to return with a full investigation team,
I arrived at the Blue Ridge Mountain Tours depot to
find three black SUVs parked in our gravel lot, like
a federal task force had descended on our small operation.
The vehicles looked expensive and official, their tinted windows reflecting
the early morning Tennessee sky. I watched from the driver's

(33:36):
lounge as doctor Margaret Cornett climbed out of the lead vehicle,
her steel gray hair pulled back in the same tight bun,
but her demeanor more intense than before. She moved with
the focused energy of someone who'd spent the last seventy
two hours planning something significant. Following her were three people
I didn't recognize, each carrying metal cases and electronic equipment

(33:57):
that looked far more sophisticated than anything I didn seen
on those cable ghost hunting shows, mister Buchanan. Doctor Cornett
approached me with a handshake that lingered just long enough
to convey the gravity of what she had planned. I'd
like you to meet my team. This is Marcus Torres,
our equipment specialist. Marcus was a wiry man in his forties,

(34:22):
with the restless energy of someone who worked with his hands.
He was already unpacking electromagnetic field detectors and digital thermometers
from foam lined metal cases. His movements quick and precise.
Sarah Kim, our photographer and visual documentation expert. Sarah carried
multiple cameras, digital SLRs, infrared equipment, and what looked like

(34:46):
specialized night vision devices. Her eyes moved constantly, assessing angles
and lighting conditions with professional efficiency. And Doctor Elena Vasquez
environmental data specialist. Doctor Vasquez clutched a modified tablet that
beeped softly as it monitored air temperature, humidity, electromagnetic fields,

(35:08):
and atmospheric pressure. She wore the focused expression of someone
accustomed to finding patterns and seemingly random data. We're going
to document everything this time, doctor Cornett explained her voice
carrying the excitement of a researcher on the verge of
a breakthrough. Voice recordings, temperature fluctuations, electromagnetic anomalies, photographic evidence.

(35:32):
Whatever happened in Cataluki Valley, We're going to study it
properly with scientific rigor. Ezra stood near by, his weathered
face creased with worry lines i'd never noticed before. He'd
been making phone calls since yesterday evening, probably to Charlie
Swimmer and other Cherokee contacts whose names I didn't know,
but whose involvement made me nervous. The notebook's read ink

(35:55):
warnings about researchers and investigation teams echoed in my mind
like alarm bells. But I was just the driver. My
job was to follow roots and keep passengers safe, not
make decisions about scientific expeditions. My regular group for the
day was six retirees from a Florida RV park, led
by a cheerful woman named Betty Morrison, who wore a

(36:16):
visor decorated with cartoon flamingos. They'd booked the Roaring Fork
Motor Nature Trail Tour, a scenic eight mile loop through
preserved homesteads from the early nineteen hundreds. The route was
perfect for doctor Cornett's investigation and exactly what I'd been
dreading since her phone call. Folks, we have some researchers
joining us today, I announced as everyone boarded the bus.

(36:39):
They're studying the historical sites along our route, so you
might see some additional equipment and documentation activities. Marcus had
already begun positioning his devices throughout the bus. E MF
detectors tucked discreetly under seats, infrared cameras mounted near windows,
temperature sensors placed every few feet along the aisle. The

(37:00):
retirees seemed fascinated by the high tech set up, gathering
around Marcus as he explained the basic functions of his equipment.
This is like being on one of those ghost hunting
shows my granddaughter watches, Betty, whispered excitedly to her friend Marge,
except we're actually here instead of watching it on TV.
If only she knew how accurate that comparison was, and

(37:23):
how much more dangerous this version would prove to be.
The Roaring Fork motor nature trail wound through dense forest
where preserved log cabins sat like monuments to Appalachian life.
Massive hemlock and oak trees created a canopy so thick
that afternoon sunlight filtered through in scattered patches, giving the
entire area and other worldly quality even on normal days.

(37:46):
Our first stop was the Alfred Reagan Homestead, where a
weathered log cabin and barn stood surrounded by split rail
fences that had somehow survived nearly a century of mountain weather.
The historical marker described to a family that had farmed
this isolated valley until the nineteen twenties, when they'd sold
their land to what would eventually become the National Park.

(38:08):
Electromagnetic readings are elevated, Doctor Vasquez reported watching her tablet
screen intently, definitely higher than baseline measurements, and temperature is
dropping despite the afternoon sun. That's when I saw him,
a figure in faded denim overalls and a wide brimmed hat,
standing motionless by the cabin's stone chimney. He cast no

(38:30):
shadow despite the bright sunlight filtering through the trees, and
when I blinked hard and looked again, he was still there,
solid as any living person. My blood ran cold. After
three years of driving these roots, I'd learned to trust
my instincts about supernatural presences, and this felt different from

(38:51):
the usual passengers who appeared and disappeared from my bus seats. Marcus,
doctor Cornett called quietly, her voice tight with controlled act excitement.
Are you getting readings on this? The equipment specialist was
frantically adjusting dials and checking displays. E. MF. Spikes are
off the charts, he reported, whatever's here, it's electrically active

(39:14):
in ways that don't match any natural phenomena. More figures
began appearing around the cabin. A woman in a faded
cotton dress emerged from the cabin's doorway, her movements slow
and deliberate. Three children of varying ages followed her, their
clothing suggesting the early nineteen hundreds. An elderly man with

(39:35):
a carved walking stick hobbled from behind the barn, his
overalls patched and repatched. All of them looked as real
and substantial as the living tourists on my bus, but
I knew better. The temperature around us continued dropping despite
the warm October afternoon, and my breath was beginning to
show in small puffs. One of the children, a girl

(39:56):
maybe eight years old, walked directly to the bus and
spoke to doctor Cornet through the open window. Her voice
was clear as mountain spring water, but carried an echo
that seemed to come from much farther away than her
small body. Mama says, to tell you, the fever took
us all in nineteen eighteen, she said, matter of factly,

(40:17):
we've been waiting so long for visitors who wanted to
hear our stories. Sarah's camera began flashing as she documented
the encounter. Her movements quick and professional, but something strange
happened with each burst of light. Instead of being frightened
away or diminished by the camera flashes, the spirits became
more solid, more present, the opposite of what you'd expect

(40:39):
from ghost stories. Rather than being banished by bright light,
they seemed to feed on the focused attention. This is unprecedented,
doctor Vasquez whispered, watching her environmental readings spike with each photograph.
The electromagnetic activity is actually increasing with our observation and documentation.

(41:00):
We continued along the trail, stopping at the Noah Ogle Cabin,
where the preserved homestead told the story of mountain life
in the eighteen eighties. More spirits appeared here, entire families
materializing from different time periods, all eager to share their
stories with someone who would listen and document their words.
At the Ephraim Bale's place, the spirits of loggers and

(41:23):
their families emerged from the forest, some carrying the translucent
images of tools they'd used in life. Each group that
appeared seemed more solid than the last, as if our
attention and scientific equipment were somehow feeding them energy. By
the time we reached the old gristmill near a small creek,
more than twenty spirits surrounded the bus. The historic mill wheel,

(41:47):
which hadn't turned in decades according to the Park Service,
began rotating slowly as a ghostly miller worked at his trade,
his movements precise and practiced. Marcus had to turn down
the audio alerts on his equipment to prevent feedback loops.
Some of these manifestations are showing up on visible light
spectrum only, he reported to doctor Cornett. Others are interactive, intelligent,

(42:10):
and they're definitely getting stronger with our continued presence and attention.
The retirees were alternately fascinated and nervous. Betty Morrison kept
asking questions about the historical reenactors, while her friend Marge
had gone quiet and was gripping the arm rest of
her seat with white knuckles. That's when the Confederate soldier appeared.

(42:32):
He materialized, not gradually like the others, but all at once,
Standing on the roof of the bus. His boots created
metallic groans and pops as he walked across the top,
the ceiling, flexing visibly under his weight. The living passengers
looked up in alarm as dust shook loose from the
interior panels. Driver his voice carried clearly through the metal roof,

(42:56):
tinged with an accent from another century. You need to
turn a road right now. Don't go to the end
of this trail. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, remembering
the notebook's advice about not engaging with supernatural entities. But
this felt different, urgent, like a warning that could save lives.
Why I called back breaking my own rules. What's waiting there?

(43:21):
Something that ain't like us, he said, his boots continuing
their slow pace above our heads, Something that's been feeding
on all this attention you're giving us. Every spirit you've documented,
every reading you've taken, every flash of light. It's been watching, learning,
getting stronger. Doctor Cornett leaned forward in her seat, her

(43:45):
scientific curiosity overriding any fear. What kind of entity are
we dealing with? The kind that don't just want to
be remembered, the soldier replied grimly. It wants to consume
the very act of rems. It wants to be the
only thing anyone ever thinks about. Again, before anyone could

(44:06):
ask more questions, every electronic device on the bus died simultaneously.
Marcus's E MF detectors went silent, their LED displays going dark.
Sarah's cameras stopped functioning, their LCD screens blank. Doctor Vasquez's
tablet's screen went completely black, as if someone had pulled

(44:28):
the plug on everything at once. Emp like interference, Marcus muttered,
frantically checking connections and battery levels. But this level of
electromagnetic pulse isn't possible from any natural phenomenon. Through the windshield,
I saw why our Confederate soldier was so concerned. At
the end of the trail, near a small waterfall where

(44:49):
the creek tumbled over moss covered rocks, stood something that
hurt to look at directly. It towered at least twenty
feet tall, with proportions that defied human anatomy, Its limbs
bent at angles that shouldn't exist in three dimensional space,
folding and refolding like origami made of shadow and hunger.
Its face was the worst part, a shifting blur of

(45:12):
features that never stabilized long enough to comprehend. Eyes that
might have been human appeared and disappeared, mixed with other
sensory organs that belonged to no earthly creature. The longer
I tried to focus on it, the more my head
began to pound with a pain that felt like ice
picks behind my eyes. Nobody looked directly at it, I commanded,

(45:36):
remembering the journal warnings about entities that fed on focused observation,
Look away, focus on something else, anything else. But it
was too late. The thing had noticed our bus full
of concentrated human attention, researchers with their equipment, tourists with
their cameras, all of us focused intently on documenting and

(45:57):
understanding exactly what it had been waiting for. It moved
toward us with flowing, impossible grace, and as it approached,
something even more terrifying happened. The spirits we'd been documenting,
families who had seemed so happy to finally have visitors
began fleeing in absolute terror. They scattered like leaves before

(46:20):
a hurricane, their forms dissolving back into whatever dimension they'd
emerged from. The major entity reached our bus and pressed
one elongated appendage against the passenger window. Where it touched,
the glass turned black, spreading like ink dropped in water.
Within seconds, all the windows were dark, sealing us inside

(46:40):
what felt like a mobile tomb. Then the entire bus
lifted off the ground. We were thirty feet in the air,
suspended by forces I couldn't begin to understand. The Florida
retirees were screaming. Doctor Cornett was trying to maintain scientific
objectivity while clearly terrified, and Marcus was frantically trying to
get any of his equipment working. Again, it's not trying

(47:03):
to hurt us, doctor Vasquez whispered, her scientific mind still
functioning despite the terror. Her voice was steady but strained.
We're being preserved like specimens in a jar. It wants
to study us the way we were studying the others.
The Confederate soldier's voice echoed from somewhere outside our mobile prison,

(47:23):
though I couldn't see him through the blackened windows. Driver,
Now would be a good time to use that Cherokee
sand your mentor gave you. I fumbled in my uniform
pocket for the small leather pouch Dotty had given me.
My hands shaking as I worked the draw string open.
The sand inside glowed with soft, warm light the moment

(47:44):
it was exposed to air, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.
Everyone join hands, I commanded, standing in the aisle, despite
the bus swaying gently in whatever force field held us aloft,
form a circle around me in the center aisle. Right now,
trust me on this. The tourists and researchers obeyed without question,

(48:05):
linking hands as I carefully poured the blessed sand in
a circle around our group. The moment the circle was complete,
the bus dropped back to the ground with a bone
jarring impact that rattled every piece of equipment on board.
The entity's confusion was palpable even through the blackened windows.
Whatever the Cherokee blessing did, it made us invisible to

(48:28):
something that hunted by sensing human curiosity and focused attention.
We could feel it probing around the bus, searching for
prey that had suddenly vanished from its perception. The electromagnetic
interference wiped everything. Marcus reported as his equipment slowly came back,
online displays flickering to life one by one. All our

(48:50):
data is corrupted. Every reading, every photograph, every audio recording,
it's all gone. The entity retreated toward the waterfall. Frustrated
by prey, it could no longer detect. The bus windows
cleared as it moved away, returning to normal glass that
showed us the peaceful forest scene, as if nothing had happened.

(49:11):
The Confederate soldier reappeared beside my driver's window, his form
translucent but determined it won't follow you off its home ground,
he assured me. But driver, you tell that Cherokee friend
of yours that the old agreements are being tested. This
thing's been calling to others of its kind, trying to
break boundaries that have held for longer than white folks

(49:32):
have been in these mountains. As we drove away from
Roaring Fork, the atmosphere in the bus was subdued. Doctor
Cornett sat in stunned silence, staring at her useless equipment.
All her scientific instruments had recorded nothing but static and interference.
Her photographs showed empty landscapes. Even her digital audio recorder

(49:52):
contained only white noise. We can't publish any of this,
she finally said, her voice hollow with disappointment. Without evidence,
there's no credible study, no peer review would accept eyewitness
accounts of something this extraordinary. But I knew the real
reason she wouldn't publish her findings. She'd realized what I'd
learned from Dotty's notebook. Some knowledge was too dangerous to share,

(50:15):
especially when it attracted the attention of things that fed
on human curiosity and scientific investigation. The Cherokee Blessing Sand
had saved us, but it had also delivered a warning.
There were entities in these mountains that didn't just want
to be remembered or studied. They wanted to consume the
very act of remembering itself. And according to our Confederate soldier,

(50:36):
they were growing bolder, testing the ancient boundaries that had
kept them contained. As we pulled into the depot parking lot,
my radio crackled, with Willie Hemsley's panicked voice cutting through
the static. Any unit, any unit, this is Willie. I
got a situation at Cherokee Reservation Overlook. Fourteen tourists just

(50:59):
walked into the woods in a trance, all of them
talking in unison about old agreements breaking down and boundaries
that don't hold anymore. They're saying something's calling to them
from deep in the forest. Ezra's voice cut in immediately,
grim and business like. All drivers report to depot immediately,

(51:20):
were calling Charlie Swimmer. This has gone beyond what we
can handle with just rules and blessing sand The investigation
was over, but I could feel in my bones that
the real crisis was just beginning. Whatever doctor Cornett's team
had stirred up was spreading beyond Roaring Fork, reaching out
to other entities, other hungry things that had been waiting

(51:42):
for centuries for the right opportunity. The Cherokee blessing had
saved us today, but tomorrow would bring new challenges that
might require more than protective circles and ancient wisdom. I
parked the bus and helped the shaken retirees disembark, knowing
that this was probably my last normal tour for us
very long time. The call came at six twenty three

(52:03):
a m. Piercing through the pre dawn quiet like a knife.
I'd been awake since five, sitting on the edge of
my motel bed, and staring at my hands, which still
trembled slightly from yesterday's encounter with the major entity at
Roaring Fork. The Cherokee Blessing Sand sat warm in my pocket,
a constant reminder that we'd barely escaped something that wanted

(52:23):
to consume the very act of remembering. Willie Hemsley's voice
crackled through my radio, high pitched with panic. Any unit,
any unit, This is an emergency at Cherokee Reservation Overlook.
I've got fourteen tourists from a family reunion came up
from Knoxville yesterday evening. They all just walked into the
woods in a trance about twenty minutes ago, all of

(52:44):
them talking in unison, saying the same thing over and over.
The old agreements are breaking, the boundaries don't hold anymore.
Come and see what's been waiting. Ezra's response came immediately,
his voice carrying a grimness i'd never heard before. All
drivers report to depot immediately. We're calling Charlie Swimmer. This

(53:05):
has gone beyond what we can handle with rules and
Blessing Sand. I drove through empty streets toward the depot,
my headlights cutting through morning mist that seemed thicker than usual.
The mountains loomed around Gatlinburg like sleeping giants, and for
the first time in three years of driving these roots,
they felt actively threatening, rather than simply ancient and indifferent.

(53:29):
Charlie Swimmer was already at the depot when I arrived,
standing beside a battered pickup truck that looked like it
had been navigating mountain roads since the nineteen seventies. He
was exactly what I'd expected from Dotty's descriptions, a man
in his seventies with silver braids that hung past his
shoulders and eyes that seemed to see far more than

(53:50):
they should. His weathered face held the kind of calm
authority that comes from decades of dealing with forces most
people never acknowledge exist. The entity you folks stirred up
at Roaring Fork has been calling to its kin, Charlie
said without preamble, his voice carrying the weight of traditional
knowledge passed down through generations. It's trying to break old

(54:14):
boundaries that have kept these mountains stable for longer than
your people have been here. Ezra stood beside him, his
usually confident demeanor replaced by something approaching fear. Charlie, what
exactly are we dealing with something that wants to use
those tourists as anchors to establish itself in new territory.

(54:35):
Charlie explained, pulling a canvas bag from his truck, make
them into permanent observers, so it won't need to hide
in remote hollows anymore. First the reservation, then Gatlenburg, then
anywhere those folks might travel when they go home to
their lives. The scope of the threat hit me like
a physical blow. This wasn't just about containing supernatural entities

(54:57):
in remote locations. It was about preventing them from spreading
into populated areas through infected human carriers. Charlie opened his
bag and showed me items I'd never seen before. Carved
stones that seemed to pulse with internal light, dried plants
that gave off a sweet, almost medicinal scent, and animal
bones carved with symbols that hurt to look at directly.

(55:20):
Traditional protections, he explained, your blessing sand is good for
personal protection, but sometimes we need stronger medicine. He handed
me a piece of carved jade on a leather cord.
Where this it'll help you see through illusions and resist
the urge. To study what you're seeing too closely. But remember,
Cherokee and White working together is the only way this works.

(55:43):
Our ancestors learned that lesson the hard way. The drive
to Cherokee Reservation Overlook took us deeper into the park
than I'd ever been, along roads that seemed to exist
only when Charlie was looking at them. More than once,
I was certain we were driving straight into dense forest,
only to have a path appear at the last moment.

(56:03):
Physical laws are suggestions up here, not requirements, Charlie said,
noticing my confusion. The land remembers different rules, older ways
of being. That's what makes it dangerous and what makes
it sacred. Willie's bus sat empty in the Overlook parking area,
its emergency lights flashing like a beacon. Willie himself sat

(56:26):
on the tailgate of a park service truck, wrapped in
a blanket. Despite the warm October morning. His face was
pale as old paper, and his eyes held the thousand
yard stare of someone who'd seen too much. They just
walked in, he said, when he saw us, all fourteen
of them, moving like they were sleepwalking, but with their

(56:47):
eyes wide open. Kids, grandparents, everyone, and they were all
saying the same words in perfect unison. Charlie nodded grimly.
The entity's call gets stronger the more people it has.
Each person it takes makes the next one easier. We
followed a trail that definitely hadn't existed on any Park
Service map, winding through groves of trees that seemed to

(57:10):
bend reality around them. Charlie threw his carved stones ahead
of us as we walked, and where they landed, the
air shimmered like heat mirages, revealing paths that were otherwise
invisible real trails. But they only show themselves to people
who know how to look. Charlie explained, your people built

(57:31):
roads over the surface. We learned to follow the paths
the land wanted us to use. The tourists stood in
a perfect circle in a clearing that felt wrong in
ways I couldn't articulate. The trees around us were arranged
in geometric patterns that hurt to contemplate directly, and the
ground beneath our feet felt spongy, as if we were
walking on something organic rather than earth. At the center

(57:55):
of the circle stood the entity, or at least a
version of it. This one was different from the massive
presence we'd encountered at Roaring Fork. It shifted constantly between
organic and geometric shapes, sometimes looking almost human, other times
resembling crystalline structures that defied three dimensional space. The tourists
appeared decades younger than they had the day before, their

(58:17):
movements fluid and graceful in ways that human bodies weren't
designed for. They swayed in unison, their voices, creating a
low humming that seemed to bypass my ears entirely and
resonate directly in my bones. It's feeding them an illusion
of youth and vitality, Charlie whispered, pulling more stones from

(58:37):
his bag, making them feel better than they have in years.
That's how it keeps them willing. He threw the stones
in a wide arc around the clearing, and where they landed,
the air shimmered and revealed the truth. The entity's beautiful,
shifting form collapsed into something that was primarily hungry, emptiness,

(58:58):
void spaces that pulled a reality itself, trying to drag
everything nearby into whatever dimension it called home. The tourists
stumbled as their borrowed youth faded, confusion replacing the serene
expressions they'd worn. One of them, a middle aged woman
with graying hair, looked around wildly. Where where am I?

(59:22):
How did I get here? I recognized her from Willie's description,
Margaret Henley, the family matriarch who'd organized the reunion. I
stepped forward, remembering Charlie's advice about personal connections. Missus Henley,
Your daughter Sarah is worried about you. Your grandchildren are
asking where Grandma went. They need you to come back.

(59:46):
The entity couldn't force anyone to stay, Charlie had explained,
but it could make leaving seem impossible. The key was
giving them something stronger to hold onto than the illusion
it provided. One by one, we called to each tourist
by name, reminding them of family members, responsibilities, lives they'd
left behind in the real world. Each person who chose

(01:00:09):
reality over illusion weakened the entity's hold on the others.
The entity's form grew increasingly unstable as its anchor points dissolved.
Its beautiful geometric patterns collapsed into chaotic swirls, then into
something that looked like smoke being pulled into a vacuum
with a sound like wind through broken glass. It folded

(01:00:30):
in on itself and disappeared, leaving only a circle of
disturbed earth where it had stood. The tourists remembered very
little of their experience afterward, felt drawn to explore was
how most of them described it, Like something was calling me,
but I can't remember what. Willie was waiting by his
bus when we emerged from the forest, but I could

(01:00:53):
tell from his expression that this was his last day
on the job. I'm done, he said, simply. This is
beyond what I signed up for. My brothers got a
catfish farm down in Mississippi, normal fish, normal problems. I
couldn't blame him. Some people weren't built for maintaining the
balance between worlds, and that was okay. Better to know

(01:01:15):
your limits than push beyond them and become another problem
that needed solving. Back at the depot, Dotty was cleaning
out her locker. After fifteen years of keeping the real
rules and training new drivers, she decided it was time
to retire. Charlie's people have their own ways of recording
these things, she told me, handing over the duct taped

(01:01:35):
notebook that had been my introduction to the truth about
these mountains. He'll take better care of the real history
than we ever could My route assignments changed after that,
Ezra moved me to safer circuits, Dollywood shuttles, downtown Gatlenburg loops,
places where the worst supernatural threat was a tourist getting

(01:01:57):
lost in a souvenir shop. The peace Charlie had given
me stayed in my shirt pocket, warm against my chest,
a reminder that some knowledge came with responsibility. But I
wasn't done with the mountains, not entirely. When new drivers
started with the company, I became the one who introduced
them gradually to the realities of the job, not all

(01:02:19):
at once the way I'd been thrown in, but carefully,
with proper preparation and understanding. The job isn't to defeat
these things, I'd tell them, echoing something Charlie had said
during our drive back from the overlook. Were not exterminators
or heroes. Were maintenance workers, keeping ancient problems from becoming

(01:02:41):
modern disasters. Tourism continued as normal. Families came from all
over the country to see the changing leaves, take pictures
of black bears, and buy overpriced fudge. In Gatlenburg, they
saw exactly what they expected to see, beautiful mountains, historic cabins,
and natural wonders. What they didn't see were the figures

(01:03:02):
that sometimes walked alongside the buses on remote stretches, or
the way certain locations felt colder than they should, or
the reason why some routes were mysteriously re routed without explanation.
When unusual sightings were reported, I'd radio Charlie Swimmer's grandson,
who worked tribal police and knew how to handle situations

(01:03:22):
that didn't fit into normal law enforcement categories. When researchers
contacted the company wanting to investigate paranormal activities, Ezra would
refer them to standard Cherokee legends and settler folklore, steering
them away from anything that might stir up real problems.
The balance held maintained by people like Charlie Swimmer who

(01:03:43):
carried traditional knowledge, drivers like me who followed the real rules,
and a system that had evolved over generations to keep
ancient things contained in places where they belonged. Sometimes, driving
the night routes to pick up late arrivals from the airport,
I'd catch glimpses of figures outside my headlight beams. They'd
be standing just beyond the road's edge, patient as stones,

(01:04:06):
waiting for someone to acknowledge them or invite them aboard.
I'd keep my eyes forward, my hands steady on the wheel,
and trust that someone else was maintaining the boundaries that
kept the mountains from remembering too much. Things like that
don't die, Charlie had warned me. They just wait for
conditions to improve. But as long as people like us

(01:04:27):
kept following the real rules, those conditions wouldn't improve. The
tourists would go home with their pictures and their fudge
and their stories about authentic mountain experiences. The entities would
remain contained in their remote hollows, and the balance that
had protected both worlds for generations would continue. It wasn't

(01:04:48):
glamorous work. Most days. It looked exactly like driving a
tour bus and pointing out scenic overlooks to retirees from Florida.
But some of us knew better. Some of us carried
jade in our potsuckets and blessing sand in our souls,
maintaining a watch that never ended, following rules that weren't
written down anywhere, but in the memories of people who

(01:05:08):
understood that some jobs were about more than just getting paid.
The mountains remembered everything, and so did we