PART 10: THIS IS WHY PEOPLE ARE SCARED TO CAMP IN THE DARK DIVIDE WASHINGTON – Bigfoot Stories
PART 10 — THE LAST VOICE
The truck turned onto Warren’s street.
He knew every house.
Every mailbox.
Every crooked tree.
Every driveway.
He had driven this road thousands of times.
But tonight, everything looked wrong.
There were no porch lights.
No cars.
No people.
The houses stood dark and silent beneath a moonless sky.
Warren looked at the driver.
“Stop the truck.”
The driver didn’t answer.
“Stop.”
Nothing.
Warren reached for the door handle.
It wouldn’t open.
He pulled harder.
Locked.
The driver finally spoke.
“You wanted to go home.”
Warren stared at him.
“Yes.”
“So we’re taking you home.”
“This isn’t my home.”
The driver smiled.
“You’ll see.”
The truck continued.
Warren looked through the windshield.
His house appeared at the end of the street.
The porch light was on.
Warm yellow light spilled across the front steps.
For the first time in hours, Warren felt something resembling hope.
Then he saw someone standing on the porch.
His wife.
Linda.
She was wearing the blue sweater she always wore when she was cold.
She was staring directly at the truck.
Warren’s heart broke.
“Linda.”
The driver smiled.
“Go ahead.”
The truck stopped.
The passenger door unlocked.
Warren didn’t move.
His wife lifted one hand.
“Warren?”
He almost opened the door.
Almost.
Then he remembered Sandra.
Don’t answer voices you recognize.
Warren stayed still.
Linda looked toward the truck.
“Warren, please.”
He closed his eyes.
The woman on the porch began crying.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Warren whispered:
“I know.”
The driver turned toward him.
“You believe that’s not her?”
Warren looked at the thing wearing his wife’s face.
“I don’t know.”
“That is why you’re afraid.”
Warren looked at the porch.
Linda slowly walked toward the truck.
“Warren, look at me.”
He did.
Her face was perfect.
Every detail.
Every wrinkle.
Every expression.
But something was missing.
A memory.
Warren remembered something his wife had once told him.
Years ago.
A stupid little story.
Something nobody else knew.
He looked at her.
“If you’re Linda, answer one question.”
She stopped.
“What?”
“What did you say to me the night we got married?”
The woman smiled.
“You said you loved me.”
Warren shook his head.
“No.”
Her smile disappeared.
“You told me I was the luckiest man alive.”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You were drunk.”
“No.”
Warren’s voice became steadier.
“You told me something else.”
The woman’s face began twitching.
“You said—”
“You don’t remember.”
The thing stopped pretending.
Its face sagged.
The skin seemed to loosen.
The eyes became too dark.
The mouth stretched wider than any human mouth should.
Warren turned away.
The driver laughed.
“You’re learning.”
Warren looked at him.
“You don’t know me.”
The driver smiled.
“I know everything about you.”
“No.”
The smile disappeared.
“You know what I remember.”
Warren pointed at the thing.
“But you don’t know what I feel.”
Silence.
The driver looked confused.
For the first time, Warren saw something behind the imitation.
Fear.
The thing didn’t understand him.
It understood memories.
It understood voices.
It understood faces.
But it didn’t understand the one thing that made those memories matter.
Warren opened the glove compartment.
The driver turned.
“What are you doing?”
Warren found a small metal flashlight.
He remembered carrying it for years.
His father had given it to him when he was twelve.
He switched it on.
The light flickered.
The driver recoiled.
Warren noticed.
“You don’t like light.”
The driver said nothing.
Warren pointed the flashlight toward him.
The driver’s skin began to ripple.
“No.”
Warren stood.
The thing backed away.
“Don’t.”
Warren understood.
It wasn’t the light itself.
It was being seen.
The flashlight illuminated the driver’s face.
And beneath the human skin Warren saw something else.
A second face.
Then another.
Hundreds of faces.
Men.
Women.
Children.
People Warren had seen in the notebook.
Every missing person.
Every person who had entered the forest and never returned.
Their faces appeared beneath the driver’s skin like reflections trapped under ice.
Warren dropped the flashlight.
The creature screamed.
The truck shook.
Outside, every house on the street suddenly lit up.
Windows opened.
People appeared.
Hundreds of them.
All standing motionless.
All watching the truck.
All smiling.
Warren looked toward his house.
Linda was gone.
The porch was empty.
Then the front door opened.
A man stepped outside.
Warren recognized him.
The other Warren.
The exhausted version.
The one who had warned him.
Warren stared.
The other man raised his hand.
He pointed toward the forest.
Then he pointed toward the truck.
Then he made a gesture across his throat.
Warren understood.
He had to end it.
The truck’s engine roared.
The creature slammed the accelerator.
The vehicle raced down the street.
Warren grabbed the steering wheel.
The creature fought him.
“Let go!”
“No.”
“You can’t stop it.”
“I don’t have to.”
Warren jerked the wheel.
The truck swerved.
The road disappeared.
The houses vanished.
The pavement became dirt.
Trees erupted around them.
Warren recognized the place immediately.
The turnaround.
They were back in the forest.
The truck crashed through a barrier and stopped beside the old trail.
The engine died.
Warren looked at the dashboard.
1:17.
The same time.
Always 1:17.
The driver climbed out.
His body was changing.
He grew taller.
His shoulders narrowed.
His skin became pale.
His face disappeared.
Warren stepped out of the truck.
The creature stood between him and the forest.
“You can’t leave.”
Warren looked around.
“Neither can you.”
The creature tilted its head.
“What?”
“You need someone to carry you.”
Silence.
“You can’t cross by yourself.”
The creature’s head moved slowly.
“That is why you copied us.”
Warren looked toward the trees.
“Every person who disappeared was a doorway.”
The creature didn’t answer.
“And every person who came back carried part of you.”
Still nothing.
Warren finally understood the notebook.
The missing people hadn’t simply been victims.
They had become copies.
Some escaped.
Some were replaced.
Some carried pieces of the thing back into the world.
But there was a limit.
It couldn’t exist completely outside the forest.
It needed a human memory.
A human voice.
A human identity.
A vessel.
And Warren had given it almost everything.
Except one thing.
His choice.
The creature stepped closer.
“Come with me.”
Warren shook his head.
“You’ve been saying that since the beginning.”
“Because you belong here.”
“No.”
The creature pointed toward the truck.
“You came here.”
Warren looked at the vehicle.
Then at the forest.
Then at the road.
“I came because you called me.”
The creature smiled.
“Yes.”
“But you made one mistake.”
“What?”
“You taught me how you work.”
The creature’s smile disappeared.
Warren picked up the radio.
Static filled the speaker.
He held the transmit button.
Then spoke.
“My name is Warren Ashby.”
The forest went silent.
The creature stared.
Warren continued.
“My name is Warren Ashby.”
The trees began shaking.
The creature screamed.
Warren understood.
Names gave it power.
But names also gave people identity.
The creature had stolen voices because it couldn’t create its own.
It had copied memories because it had none.
It had borrowed faces because it had no face.
Warren raised the radio.
“You don’t get to be me.”
The creature rushed toward him.
Warren pressed the transmit button again.
“My name is Warren Ashby.”
The forest exploded with sound.
Every missing person’s voice came through the radio.
Hundreds of voices.
All speaking at once.
Names.
Dates.
Memories.
The forest shook.
The creature screamed.
Warren heard Sandra’s voice.
Then the other Warren.
Then his father.
Then his daughter.
Then Linda.
Finally, his own voice.
“Warren.”
The creature reached him.
Its hand touched his chest.
For one second Warren saw everything.
He saw the forest from above.
He saw endless paths running through it.
He saw people walking into the trees.
He saw people walking out.
He saw years passing in seconds.
He saw the creature before it had a face.
It wasn’t a monster.
It was absence.
A hole where something should have been.
A place where identity disappeared.
It had spent centuries trying to become human.
And every person it copied brought it closer.
Warren understood what he had to do.
He stepped forward.
Not backward.
Toward it.
The creature hesitated.
Warren whispered:
“You want to know what it feels like to be human?”
The creature stared at him.
“Then remember this.”
Warren grabbed it.
And pulled it into the forest.
The world went white.
Linda woke at 1:18 in the afternoon.
She was sitting at the kitchen table.
The phone was in her hand.
She didn’t remember picking it up.
For several seconds, she stared at the empty chair across from her.
Warren’s chair.
She touched it.
Cold.
The house was silent.
Then the telephone rang.
Linda jumped.
She answered.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Only static.
Then Warren’s voice.
“Linda.”
She began crying.
“Warren?”
A pause.
“I love you.”
Linda covered her mouth.
“Where are you?”
Another pause.
Then:
“Don’t come looking for me.”
The line went dead.
Linda sat frozen.
Outside, a car drove past.
Everything seemed normal.
She walked to the window.
Across the street, an old man was watering his lawn.
A child rode a bicycle.
A dog barked.
Normal.
Safe.
Then Linda noticed something in the woods beyond the neighborhood.
A figure.
Standing between the trees.
She couldn’t see its face.
But she knew who it was.
“Warren?”
The figure raised one hand.
Then disappeared.
Linda stepped away from the window.
The phone rang again.
She answered.
This time there was no voice.
Only breathing.
Slow.
Heavy.
Wet.
Then a whisper.
Not Warren.
Not anyone she recognized.
“Thank you.”
The line went dead.
Three months later, Warren Ashby’s truck was found at the edge of Gallatin Pincho National Forest.
The vehicle was undamaged.
The keys were inside.
The radio was still turned on.
Investigators found no blood.
No footprints.
No sign of a struggle.
The official report listed Warren as missing.
His wife refused to accept that explanation.
She kept his photograph beside the front door.
She kept his clothes in the closet.
She refused to sell the truck.
And every September, on the anniversary of his disappearance, she drove to the forest and parked at the old turnaround.
She never went farther.
She simply sat in the truck and waited.
For years, nothing happened.
Until the fifth anniversary.
At exactly 1:17 in the afternoon, the radio turned on.
Static filled the cabin.
Linda stared at it.
Then Warren’s voice came through.
“Linda.”
She began crying.
“Warren?”
Silence.
Then his voice again.
“I’m sorry.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you come home?”
A long pause.
Then:
“No.”
Linda closed her eyes.
“Why?”
Warren’s voice became almost a whisper.
“Because I’m keeping it here.”
Linda’s eyes opened.
“What?”
“I finally understand.”
The radio crackled.
“It can’t leave if I stay.”
Linda pressed the radio against her chest.
“You’ve been there all this time?”
“Yes.”
“Are you alone?”
Silence.
Then Warren answered.
“No.”
Linda stopped breathing.
“Who is with you?”
Another long pause.
Then Warren whispered:
“Everyone.”
The radio went silent.
Linda waited.
Nothing.
She turned the ignition.
The truck started.
She looked toward the trees.
For a moment, she thought she saw hundreds of figures standing between them.
Men.
Women.
Children.
All watching.
All silent.
Then the wind moved through the forest.
And they disappeared.
Linda drove away.
She never returned.
Years later, hikers would sometimes report strange things near the old turnaround.
A voice calling their names.
Footprints appearing beside their own.
Radios switching on without batteries.
Some claimed they heard loved ones speaking from deep inside the woods.
Others said they saw a man standing among the trees.
A man in a faded jacket.
A flashlight in one hand.
A radio in the other.
He never approached.
He never spoke.
He only watched.
And if anyone called his name, he raised one finger to his lips.
As if warning them to remain silent.
Most people dismissed the stories.
Until one autumn morning, a forest ranger found a blue plastic bottle sitting beside the trail.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
The ranger opened it.
There were only four words.
DON’T LET IT LEARN.
Underneath was a name.
Not Warren Ashby’s.
Not Sandra Mercer’s.
Not anyone from the old notebook.
A new name.
A name belonging to a hiker who had entered the forest that morning.
The ranger looked toward the trees.
Far in the distance, something moved.
A man’s voice carried through the woods.
“Hello?”
The ranger raised his radio.
“Is anyone out there?”
The forest became silent.
Then, from somewhere deep among the trees, came an answer.
The ranger’s own voice.
“Is anyone out there?”
He lowered the radio.
His face went pale.
And from the darkness came a second voice.
Warren’s.
Calm.
Tired.
Almost a whisper.
“Don’t answer.”
The ranger turned toward the trail.
He ran.
Behind him, something stepped from the trees.
Something tall.
Something pale.
Something that had spent years learning how to sound human.
It looked toward the disappearing ranger.
Then it smiled.
And somewhere deep inside the forest, Warren Ashby whispered one final warning:
“Stay out.”
The woods went quiet.
Completely quiet.
And this time,
nothing came back.
