When I was a kid, my Big Mama used to tell us stories about the monsters that roamed the woods at night. She said it was to keep my brother and me from sneaking out after dark—especially since we lived deep in the woods—but she swore some of those stories were true.
The one that stuck with me most was about Green Eyes. She said she’d seen it herself, years ago, near an old cemetery where Civil War soldiers were buried, not far from her farm. Whatever it was, it scared her half to death. I never forgot her description of it—a shadowy beast with glowing green eyes—and later learned that Native American legends told of the same creature, one said to feed on human death and suffering.
I didn’t think much of it again until years later.
One afternoon, I drove down to visit some friends in Ringgold, Georgia. They’d just gotten married and wanted to take me to the Chickamauga Battlefield, a place they said was crawling with haints. I’ve always been sensitive to that kind of thing, and battlefields tend to hold onto the echoes of death, but when we first arrived, it felt… empty. Quiet. Like an abandoned college campus.
Then we walked into the woods.
That’s when I felt it—something watching us. Not ghosts; those were there too, sure, but this was different. Heavier. Predatory. I asked my friends about the woods, and they said that during the battle, this area had been a brutal hand-to-hand fight—men stabbing, beating, and bayoneting each other to death when the ammunition ran out. Some said the suffering had stained the ground itself.
They told me that after the war, people had tried to build homes on that land, but no one stayed long. Folks swore that a creature with glowing green eyes stalked those woods, and that you could hear the screams of dying soldiers before it appeared. Eventually, the government bought the land to turn it into part of the park—and everyone was more than happy to sell and move closer to Ringgold.
As we stood there, a strange mist clung low to the ground in the woods—but nowhere else. It was unsettling, even to me. I told my friends, “Your ghosts are in there. I can feel them.” That was enough for them; we called it a night, went home, and had dinner, music, and laughter that carried late into the evening.
It wasn’t until I looked at the clock and realized it was 2 a.m. that I decided I’d better head home. My friends mentioned that the woods we’d explored bordered an old state highway—the original road to Cartersville before Highway 41 was built. I knew right then that was the road I’d take home. I wish I hadn’t.
The first thirty minutes of that drive were uneventful—just dark, empty road and thick trees on either side. Then, without warning, something huge stepped out of the woods right beside my truck. It was tall, black, and for a split second I thought it was reaching for my door handle.
A wave of pure terror crashed over me. My heart pounded as I sped past, and when I glanced into the rearview mirror, I froze.
Standing in the middle of the road behind me was a massive, shadowy figure with glowing green eyes—so bright they looked like headlights burning in the dark. Its shape was wrong, almost human but not quite. I felt an overwhelming urge to stop, to look closer… but I didn’t. I slammed my foot down and tore off as fast as my truck would go.
My Big Mama had been right all along—Green Eyes was real. And it had fed on the fear and agony of those dying soldiers for more than a century, growing stronger, hungrier… and that night, it wanted me.
I finally found a road leading back to the Interstate and didn’t look back once. The fear lifted as soon as I left the area, but the memory still makes my skin crawl. I made it home in record time that night—half my usual drive.
I’ve visited Chickamauga Battlefield again since then, but I’ll tell you this:
I’ll never set foot near those woods again.
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