Tourist Disappeared in the Appalachians — Torn Backpack and Small Animal Bones Surrounded

Some stories never make the headlines. They gather dust in police archives, marked as unsolved cases, while whispered tales circulate among locals, rescuers, and hunters. These narratives often turn out to be the most terrifying, for they lack easy answers. Today, we delve into one such case—the disappearance of Jeremy Wells in the Appalachian Mountains in the fall of 1997. What was found at the site where he was last seen defies logical explanation and continues to make even the most seasoned trackers wary of what lurks in the North Carolina woods.

This is not just the story of a missing tourist. It is a tale filled with strange footprints, a torn backpack, and the primal horror that lingered in Turtle Ridge.

Jeremy Wells was 29 years old, not an extreme sports enthusiast nor a novice hiker. He was an ordinary guy from Charlotte, working as a systems analyst at a small tech company. Spending five days a week in front of a computer screen, Jeremy often sought refuge in nature on weekends. Hiking was his passion—a way to clear his mind and enjoy the tranquility of the outdoors. Methodical and cautious, he meticulously planned his routes, registered with park rangers, and packed all the necessary gear.

In September 1997, Jeremy took a week off to hike solo along one of the most scenic yet isolated stretches of the Appalachian Trail in Pisgah National Forest. Locals referred to this section as Turtle Ridge, named for the distinctive rock formations resembling a turtle’s shell. His plan was simple: a five-day trek, leaving his car at the trailhead parking lot on Monday, September 15, with a note on the windshield indicating his expected return date of Friday, September 19.

Before departing, he called his parents, as was his ritual. He briefly outlined his route, assured them he would be careful, and promised to check in on Wednesday night when he reached a spot with cell service. That was the last time they heard his voice.

When Jeremy failed to call on Wednesday, his mother began to worry. Cell coverage in the mountains was unreliable, and his father attempted to calm her fears. But when Thursday came and went without a call, their concern turned to panic. By Friday night, when Jeremy had not returned to his car, they reported him missing to the Avery County Sheriff’s Office the following morning.

## The Search Begins

A search operation commenced immediately, involving local rescuers, rangers, and volunteers—about 30 people in total. For the first two days, they scoured the area without results. As the weather worsened, with overcast skies and temperatures dropping near freezing at night, the search teams combed the area square by square, following the path Jeremy was supposed to have taken. His car remained in the parking lot, untouched, with everything in order inside: a map, an empty water bottle, no signs that his plans had changed.

By the third day, hopes of finding him alive began to dwindle. The ridge was a wild place; a person could slip on wet rocks, fall into a ravine, or encounter a black bear. There were many theories about what might have happened, but none could be confirmed. There were no signs of struggle, no blood, no abandoned gear. Jeremy Wells had vanished into the forest.

The breakthrough came on the sixth day of the search, Thursday, September 25. An experienced hunter and volunteer decided to deviate from the main trail and check a small ravine covered in dense underbrush, about 800 meters from the path. There, he stumbled upon Jeremy’s backpack.

The discovery immediately raised questions. The backpack was not simply lying on the ground; it was wedged between two rocks, as if someone had placed it there deliberately. But what was most peculiar was its condition. It was a durable Cordura backpack designed for heavy loads, yet it had been cut—not torn or shredded, but sliced with precision. Three deep, parallel cuts ran across the back, from the top flap to the bottom. The edges were smooth, as if made by something incredibly sharp—like three blades attached to a single handle. No known predator in the Appalachians could have left such marks.

Bears tear and rip, leaving shreds of fabric and deep holes; lynxes and cougars scratch, but their claws couldn’t have cut through such thick material so cleanly. The contents of the backpack were partially scattered around: a tent, sleeping bag, and some clothing lay nearby, soaked from the rain. But something was missing—all of the food had vanished. Freeze-dried meals, energy bars, nuts—gone. The first aid kit was also missing, yet Jeremy’s wallet with cash, documents, map, compass, and even the book he had brought remained untouched.

It didn’t seem like a robbery, nor did it appear to be the act of someone who had lost their mind. It looked as if something had opened the backpack solely to take the food and medical supplies. But the most unsettling detail that unnerved even the most experienced rescuers was what surrounded the backpack.

## The Bone Collection

Within a three-meter radius, the ground was littered with small bones. Upon closer inspection, it became clear they were the remains of squirrels, chipmunks, and some small birds. The bones had been gnawed clean, and some bore strange scratches—fine, deep marks. They weren’t scattered randomly but formed small piles, as if something or someone had been sitting there for a long time, feeding and discarding the remains in one spot. It resembled a den or feeding ground of some sort.

Investigators from the sheriff’s office arrived, equally perplexed as the rescuers. They carefully examined the area. There was no trace of Jeremy—no blood, no clothing scraps. But next to the backpack, on the damp ground, beneath a layer of fallen leaves, they found something else.

What they discovered were not clear paw prints or boot tracks, but wide, blurry impressions, as if something heavy and soft had been dragged across the ground. There was no defined shape—only long, broken strips leading away from the backpack and into the thick woods, disappearing into rocky terrain. It was as if something enormous had slithered across the earth.

Attempts by dog handlers to follow the trail with service dogs failed. The two German Shepherds brought to the scene acted strangely. They whined, tucked their tails between their legs, and refused to follow the direction of the tracks. The dogs were clearly frightened by something. Their unusual behavior prompted one of the handlers to admit later in an informal conversation that in 15 years of service, he had never seen his dog react this way. It wasn’t the scent of a predator that scared them.

The official search for Jeremy Wells was called off after ten days. Helicopters ceased to fly over Turtle Ridge, and volunteers returned to their daily lives. For the Avery County authorities, Jeremy became just another statistic in the long list of missing persons in the mountains. The case remained open but no further action was taken. The official explanation given to his parents was vague—missing, presumed dead, possibly due to an accident with a wild animal.

However, this explanation did not satisfy those who had seen the torn backpack and the strange tracks surrounding it. In particular, it did not convince Jeremy’s parents. His father, Martin Wells, an analytical engineer, could not accept the illogic of what had transpired. He was convinced that the official investigation had hit a dead end because it had encountered something that did not fit within its guidelines and protocols.

In the months that followed, the Wells spent a significant portion of their savings trying to find answers. They hired a private investigator named Frank Collier, a former rally cop in his fifties who was cynical and believed only in what he could touch or read in a forensic report. He considered stories about monsters in the woods to be fairy tales for tourists. When he took on the case, Collier was confident he would find a simple explanation. Most likely, the young man had stumbled upon poachers or illegal distillers in the woods, had become an unwelcome witness, and they had disposed of him, making it look like an animal attack.

This version seemed plausible to him. First, Collier gained access to the case files. He spent hours studying the photos of the backpack. He was troubled by the three parallel cuts. Enlarging the images, he examined the edges of the fabric. It truly did not appear to be the work of a knife. A blade would have left a finer, cleaner mark, but they also didn’t seem like claw marks.

He sent copies of the photos to a zoology professor at the University of North Carolina without divulging any details about the case. The response came two days later and was categorical. No known animal in North America has claws or teeth capable of causing such damage. Bear claws tear and shred; teeth leave puncture marks. Lynx claws are too small. The professor jokingly suggested that the backpack could have been cut with some agricultural tool like a three-pronged cultivator. This theory made no sense in the context of the wild forest.

Then there were the bones. Collier found a mention in the report that they had been collected for analysis, but the results were inconclusive. The remains belonged to at least a dozen small rodents and birds. The biologist who examined them noted a strange characteristic. Many of the bones not only had tooth marks but also fine, almost microscopic scratches, as if they had been scraped with something sharp.

Moreover, the very idea that a large predator capable of taking down a human would sit in one place and methodically hunt squirrels seemed absurd. It would be energetically inefficient. A predator that killed a human would likely have dragged the body away to eat it in a more secluded spot rather than feast on the remains at the site of the attack.

Finally, there was the first aid kit. Its disappearance struck Collier as the strangest detail of all. An animal doesn’t need a first aid kit. The person who took Jeremy would have taken the money, but the first aid kit was gone. Collier pondered this fact repeatedly. What if the creature that attacked Jeremy had some primitive intelligence and had been injured in the process, somehow realizing that the small red bag contained something that could help it? The thought seemed so absurd to Collier that he dismissed it. But it had taken root in his mind, realizing that studying the evidence in the police files would lead nowhere.

## Seeking the Truth

Collier drove to Avery County and began interviewing locals. He spoke with rangers, hunters, and roadside motel owners. Most shrugged it off, but after a week, he encountered an elderly man named Hank, a former ranger who had worked in the Pisgah Forest for over 40 years. Hank lived in a secluded cabin on the edge of the woods and was reluctant to speak with strangers. When Collier showed him the photos of the backpack, the old man fell silent for a long time before recounting a strange story.

In the mid-1970s, 20 years before Jeremy’s disappearance in the same area at the foot of Turtle Ridge, a farmer began losing sheep—not just one, but two or three every night. The farmer suspected bears or a pack of coyotes and set traps, but they remained empty. One day, he found the remains of three sheep. Their carcasses had been opened with near-surgical precision, missing internal organs—the liver, heart, and lungs.

The rest of the meat was intact, but most bizarrely, there was not a drop of blood around, as if someone had carefully collected it. The story caused a small stir at the time but was dismissed as the work of some strange cult. No one was ever found. Hank said that since then, he had always felt uneasy in Turtle Ridge. He spoke of strange noises at night—deep, guttural gurgles that sounded like nothing else—and how he sometimes found trees with the bark stripped away, with horizontal scratches instead of vertical ones like those made by bears.

This information was not direct evidence, but it created a certain background. Collier began to dig deeper, reviewing local newspaper archives and police reports from the last 50 years. He found three more cases of missing persons within a 30-kilometer radius of Turtle Ridge that had never been resolved. All were solo hikers, men in good physical shape. There were no bodies, no traces.

The decisive shift in his perception of the case came when he found a couple who had been hiking in the same area on the same days as Jeremy. Their route had taken them along a neighboring ridge. They hadn’t seen Jeremy, but on Wednesday—the day he was supposed to call his parents—they heard something strange.

That night, after dark, a noise came from the ravine next to Turtle Ridge. The woman described it as the wet cough of a giant. A man compared it to someone very large trying to dislodge a bone stuck in their throat. The sound was low, guttural, and intermittent. It repeated three or four times, sending chills down their spines. They had never heard anything like it in their lives. The noise was so unsettling that they broke all the rules, packed their belongings in the dark, and hiked several kilometers to get as far away from that place as possible. They didn’t report it to the rangers because they didn’t know how to describe what they had heard and feared being thought insane.

For Frank Collier, a man who had dealt with human cruelty all his life, this story was a turning point. People could lie about what they saw, but they rarely invented such specific, absurd, and terrifying details about what they heard. For the first time in his investigation, he allowed himself to think that he wasn’t looking for a man and that Jeremy Wells had encountered something for which there simply was no name in police reports.

As early winter approached in 1988, the private investigator had gathered enough scattered data to realize that standard investigative methods were not going to work in this case. Sitting in his office, with walls covered in maps of the Turtle Ridge area, he stared at the photo of the missing analyst given to him by his parents—a smiling young man with a waterfall in the background. The detective felt he was going in circles, the stories of an old ranger, the frightened tourists’ testimonies, and old unsolved cases painted a disturbing picture but provided no concrete leads.

He realized the only way to move forward was to go there himself, not as a tourist but as an investigator looking for what the official search team had overlooked. They had been looking for a man. The former cop was no longer sure he was looking for the right person.

In March, as soon as the snow melted, he returned to Avery County. He found the volunteer who had discovered the backpack—a quiet man in his sixties who knew those woods like the back of his hand. The detective didn’t bother telling him all the details of his suspicions; he simply said he was working for the family and wanted to take another look at the site. The guide agreed to take him but without much enthusiasm. He bluntly told Collier, “It’s a bad place. Animals avoid it. I wouldn’t go there without a weapon.” They arranged to meet at dawn the next day.

It took several hours to reach the ravine where the backpack had been found. The terrain was rugged, filled with fallen trees and covered in thorny bushes. When they arrived, the detective immediately understood what his companion meant. A strange, oppressive silence hung over the ravine. There were no bird songs or buzzing insects, despite the rest of the forest buzzing with life. The air was still and felt denser.

Nearly six months had passed, yet the place seemed as if the search team had left just the day before. The leaves on the ground were trampled, and among the rocks, there was still a small patch of bare earth where the backpack had been. The detective began a methodical search, moving in spirals, expanding circles from the central point. His companion stayed at the edge of the ravine, watching him with his rifle at the ready.

For the first hour and a half, nothing turned up. The former cop only found old energy bar wrappers, likely discarded by one of the rescuers. He was beginning to think the whole trip had been a waste of time when suddenly his attention was drawn to one of the trees growing on the slope of the ravine—a thick, old oak. About three or four meters above the ground, there were strange marks on the trunk. They weren’t scratches but deep grooves, as if someone had scraped the bark with something hard and blunt.

And again, the same detail the old ranger had mentioned. The grooves were not vertical but horizontal, wrapping around the trunk. No animal could have left such marks at that height and at that angle. To do so, it would have to fly or have incredibly long and strong limbs that could wrap around the trunk.

While the investigator studied the tree, his companion, who had been inspecting the area all this time, called him in a low voice. He had found something else. A short distance from the ravine, hidden among dense rhododendrons, there was a small cave, or rather a deep crevice in the rock. The entrance was narrow and almost completely concealed by branches.

According to the hunter, the search party had passed by without noticing it. They approached. A faint but distinct odor emanated from the entrance of the crevice. It was a strong, musky smell with a sweet undertone reminiscent of rotting flesh. The detective pulled out the powerful flashlight he had brought and turned it on inside. What he saw made him recoil.

The crevice extended deep into the rock and widened as it went. The ground was covered with a layer of dry leaves and moss, and on that ground lay bones, but this time they were not the bones of squirrels. Among them, he could distinguish the remains of a deer, several raccoons, and even what appeared to be the skull of a black bear.

The skull had a large hole with smooth edges, but that was not the worst part. At the back of the cave, illuminated by the flashlight, something red glimmered. Overcoming his revulsion at the smell, the detective stepped inside. It was the first aid kit belonging to the missing tourist. It was open, with its contents scattered around.

The bandages were unrolled, and the pill packets were opened. And beside it, on the rock, there was a dark, dry stain. It didn’t look like blood. It was a thick, tar-like substance of dark green that had seeped into the surface of the rock. The ex-cop carefully scraped a small sample and placed it in a plastic bag.

At that moment, a crack echoed from outside. The man who had stayed at the entrance cursed under his breath. The detective quickly exited. “What’s wrong?” he whispered. The hunter silently pointed to the opposite slope of the ravine. There, about 100 meters away, a large tree branch swayed slowly. It looked as if someone had just jumped from it.

There were no sounds of a fall, nor any movement among the underbrush—only a branch swaying on a completely windless day. They stood still, listening. The silence surrounding them grew even denser, almost palpable. And in that silence, the detective heard it. It was neither a scream nor a growl; it was a soft, low sound, like a gurgle coming from somewhere above the slope.

The same sound the couple had described—the wet cough of a giant was very close. The guide slowly raised his rifle, not aiming, just holding it at the ready. “Let’s go,” he whispered, keeping his gaze fixed on the slope. “We’ll go back to back. Don’t turn around.” They began to back away slowly, retracing their steps in the direction they had come.

The gurgling sound ceased as abruptly as it had begun, but the feeling of being watched did not leave them for a second. Every crunch of twigs beneath their feet made their hearts race. They walked like this for nearly half a kilometer before daring to turn and walk at a normal pace. They weren’t running, but their pace was nearly a sprint.

They didn’t reach the car until dawn, exhausted and silent. That day, the private investigator, a former cop and staunch skeptic, finally understood that the case of the missing tourist was not just another missing person case. It was a case about something that lived in Turtle Ridge, something that hunted there and considered the forest its territory.

And that something was injured and now knew they had disturbed it. Upon returning from the woods, the private investigator immediately sent a sample of the dark green substance to a private laboratory he had worked with before. He did not reveal where or under what circumstances he had found the sample, presenting it as an unknown organic compound found at the site of the alleged poacher’s den.

He hoped the analysis would at least provide some clue. The results arrived two weeks later and were stranger than anything he had ever seen. The lab technician who called him was completely baffled. The substance had a complex protein composition, similar to that of animal blood, yet it contained elements akin to chlorophyll found in plants. It had a potent coagulant unknown to science—a substance that caused blood to clot almost instantly.

But most importantly, its DNA did not match any known species in the database. It was a biological anomaly, a hybrid of something that should not exist. Now the detective had no doubt. An unknown creature lived in the forests of Turtle Ridge, and this creature had been injured during an encounter with the missing tourist. Likely, the young man had managed to inflict some damage before dying.

This explained the disappearance of the first aid kit and the traces of that strange blood in the den. The creature, possessing some animal intelligence, was trying to heal itself. The detective relayed all the information he had gathered to the missing man’s parents. He sincerely told them there was no chance of finding their son alive.

He described what he had seen in the cave and shared his conclusions. He strongly recommended that they suspend the search and never return to that place, as it was dangerously deadly. But for the detective, the case was still not closed. He had a professional duty, and more importantly, he had to see it with his own eyes, to witness it and, if possible, document it.

A month later, at the end of April, he prepared for his final expedition. This time he didn’t take anyone with him. He purchased the best night vision device he could find and several motion-activated infrared trap cameras with powerful flashes. A primitive but reliable setup for 1988. He obtained fresh rabbit carcasses from a farmer to use as bait.

His plan was simple: place the cameras around the den, position himself at a safe observation distance, and wait. He arrived at the site in the afternoon. The silence in the ravine was as oppressive as it had been the last time. Quickly, he set up three cameras aimed at the entrance of the crevice and the paths leading to it.

He placed the bait 20 meters from the entrance. He settled on a rocky ledge overlooking the ravine that offered a good view. As darkness fell, the forest changed. Every whisper, every hoot of an owl made him shudder. The hours dragged on agonizingly slowly. The detective watched the area through his night vision monocular.

The green, ghostly world lived its own life. A raccoon scurried by, then a deer. Nothing touched the bait. It happened well past midnight. First, he smelled it. That strong, sweet, musky odor was much more intense than before. Then he heard movement. It wasn’t footsteps but a soft whisper coming from the trees above him.

He slowly lifted the monocular and saw it. It moved between the branches, gripping them with incredibly long, thin limbs. Its body was pale, almost white, and contorted with a flexibility impossible for a mammal. It had no head as we know it, only a thickening at the end of its torso, where three dark spots were arranged in a triangle.

It moved in complete silence. The detective was paralyzed, afraid to breathe. The creature descended the tree trunk, moving backward, its body stretching and contracting like a giant worm. Once on the ground, it straightened up. It was at least two meters tall. Slowly, as if sniffing, it approached the bait.

At that moment, the first trap camera activated. A bright flash illuminated the ravine for a second, and the creature froze. The detective saw it clearly. At the end of one of its upper limbs were three long, black claws identical to those that had left marks on the backpack. The creature didn’t wait for the second flash.

It emitted a guttural sound and, with an incredible leap, was at the entrance of its den. The third flash went off as it disappeared into the darkness of the crevice. The detective realized he had made a mistake; he had disturbed it in its territory. He quickly began to pack up his gear when he heard a loud crack from the ravine.

The creature emerged again, but this time it wasn’t heading toward the bait; it was coming directly toward the ledge. It knew where he was. Survival instinct took over. He dropped his backpack and ran. He sprinted through the night forest, not caring where he was going, branches whipping against his face.

He heard a crack and a snap behind him. It was chasing him, moving at an incredible speed. He stumbled, fell, and rolled down the slope. When he tried to get up, a sharp pain shot through his left leg. He turned on the flashlight and saw three deep, bleeding cuts just above his knee. It had caught him.

Overcoming the pain, he got up and continued to limp away. The chase continued for several more minutes, which felt like an eternity. Then the noises behind him faded away. Perhaps it decided that a wounded man was no longer a threat, or maybe it simply didn’t want to stray too far from its den. He didn’t reach his car until dawn, bleeding profusely and on the brink of shock.

The next day, he picked up the developed film. Two frames showed nothing but a blur of movement, but in the third—the last—part of its body had been captured by the camera at the entrance of the cave. A pale, hairless limb with three claws. It was enough. He never returned to those mountains.

A week after his return, while he was still recovering from his injury, two men showed up at his office. They did not identify themselves. Dressed in strict civilian suits, they showed him identification cards he had only seen once in his life—those of federal agents responsible for national parks and wildlife, but at a higher level. They were aware of his investigation, including his requests to the lab and his last visit to the forest.

The conversation was brief and polite. They told him they appreciated his work but that continuing to investigate the case was inappropriate and could disrupt the fragile ecological balance of the unique local ecosystem. They strongly advised him to turn over all materials—photos, reports, the sample—and to forget about the matter. It was not a request.

The detective handed everything over. He realized the authorities knew. Perhaps they didn’t know the details, but they were aware of its existence and preferred to isolate the area, concealing information about the true reasons for the disappearances. The case of the missing young analyst remained unsolved. The parents received an anonymous package containing the same photograph and a brief note:

“He didn’t suffer. Now you know. Don’t search for him anymore.”

The private investigator closed his agency and moved to another state. The scars on his leg remained for life, as did the memory of what he saw that night. Turtle Ridge continues to be one of the most remote and least visited sections of the Appalachian Trail to this day. Locals still advise tourists to stay away from there, for some places are better left undisturbed.