Security Guard Story:
Night patrols in the mountains are usually quiet. Too quiet, most nights. Same roads, same gates, same beam of my flashlight cutting through the same dark trees. There’s one spot near the ridge where I’m required to stop—kill the lights, sit for a while, watch, listen, and report anything strange. We don’t carry weapons. Just a flashlight, a radio, and our instincts.
That night, something felt wrong the moment I pulled up. The air was heavy and still, like the woods were holding their breath. I left the truck idling and stared out into the darkness.
Then I heard it. A voice drifting out from deep within the trees.
Not just any voice.
My mom’s voice. Soft, warm—familiar in a way that hit me right in the chest. And she used the nickname I haven’t heard since I was little.
“Hey, Bubby… whatcha doin’?”
I froze. My mom wasn’t out there. She was miles away, asleep in her bed. She definitely wasn’t wandering the Appalachian woods at two in the morning.
I stared at the steering wheel, trying to steady myself, and that’s when I noticed the odometer.
The last three digits—666—sent a cold rush through me.
I tried to brush it off. Told myself it was the wind, an echo, anything but what it sounded like. I cranked up the heater fan, just to break the silence.
“Sweety… I’m talking to you.”
That was enough. I threw the truck into drive and tore down the dirt road, gravel flying behind me. I didn’t slow down until I was halfway to the next checkpoint. My hands were shaking so badly I grabbed a bottle of water to steady myself.
Just as it touched my lips, the CB radio crackled.
“Don’t drink the water.”
I dropped the bottle like it was boiling and tossed it out the window. No second thoughts. I headed straight back to the security station with my heart slamming in my chest.
The other guard was there when I arrived. I told him everything—the voice, the odometer, the radio. He looked concerned but steady, and said he’d go check it out himself.
So he left. Drove back up to the ridge.
Hours passed. I was watching the clock when it hit 4:07 a.m. That’s when my phone buzzed.
A text. From him.
But the entire message was in Russian.
I copy-pasted it into a translator.
It was a quote from Hamlet—the passage about death, about whether it’s better to suffer or end it all. The kind of thing that’d give you chills even if you weren’t sitting alone in the dark.
When he finally returned, I asked him what that text was supposed to mean.
He looked genuinely confused. Said he never sent anything. Didn’t know Russian. Swore he hadn’t touched his phone. His phone didn’t even show a sent message—just my replies asking, “What?”
We haven’t talked much about that night since.
But I still have to go back to that ridge.
Alone.
After everything I heard.
