October 14th, 1972-
I remember it like it was yesterday, even though it was nearly fifty years ago on the night of October 14, 1972 one of those damp, foggy evenings that settles over the Valley when autumn creeps in. The mist hung low and thick, turning the headlights into dull orange arcs in the dark and a fine drizzle made the road slick.
Fog wasn’t unusual out there in the hollers near Point Pleasant, especially around this time of year; the river and the cool night air created it almost every other week.
I was headed home from working late at the service station, the windshield wipers rhythmically brushing away the moisture. My eyes were heavy from the long shift, each mile feeling longer than the last.
I crossed the old bridge that night that’s when I first sensed something was off. Not the kind of off that you can immediately point to but a prickling at the back of my neck, like someone was watching. I slowed the truck, scanning the foggy tree line to my right. That’s when I saw it: a tall, shadowy shape, standing just off the edge of the road, half hidden by the mist.
At first I told myself it was a deer or maybe a big heron. This area had both but even as I blinked it didn’t shift like an animal. It was upright, unnervingly still, and I swear its silhouette was too symmetrical, too balanced to be a creature on all fours.
I brought the truck to a near halt. The fog was so thick by then that I could barely make out its outline, but something about the way it remained perfectly still made my heart hammer. Then, just for a brief second, I thought I saw its dull red eyes, not shining like a reflection, just … there, deep in the gloom. I forced myself to blink hard, and when I opened my eyes again, the figure seemed to stretch or shift, as if unfolding itself almost like wings but the fog swallowed that motion instantly.
I slammed the truck back into gear and didn’t look back. My radio cracked with static the whole way into town, like it couldn’t decide whether to work or not, and the road seemed quieter than it had any right to be. When I finally reached the lights of the first house, I told myself it was just the fog playing tricks on my eyes, a deer mis‑seen at an odd angle, or the exhaustion making shadows dance.
But every fall since then especially on nights heavy with fog and drizzle I think back to that stretch of road. I still look toward the tree line, half expecting to see the same stillness, the same watching silence at the edge of the mist. And for all I want to deny it, some part of me knows that wasn’t just a trick of the light.
Something was there that night.
