What Waits Below: The Cave That Took My Friend

I haven’t slept right in three years. Not since that October weekend in the Appalachian Mountains when my best friend and I entered a cave we should have left alone. He never came back out. I did, but nobody believes what really happened down there. They think stress scrambled my brain, that grief made me invent a monster to explain his disappearance. But I know what I saw. I know what chased us through those tunnels. And I know he’s still down there in the darkness with that thing.

Every night when I close my eyes, I’m back in that chamber. I hear the breathing, smell the musky animal scent, see those yellowish eyes opening in the beam of my headlamp. And every night, I make the same choice—I run. I leave him behind. I save myself and let him die.

We were the kind of people who lived for the thrill of finding places nobody else dared to go. Not professional cavers, just two guys who loved the adrenaline rush of squeezing through passages most people would panic in. For seven years, we’d started with easy tourist caves and gradually worked our way up to the dangerous stuff. We learned the basics, the gear, the importance of backup lights, and the sacred pact: Never leave the other behind.

We never broke that pact. Not until that October day.

It was late October, perfect for caving. We’d heard rumors about a hidden entrance in a remote section of the Appalachians. The guy who told us about it was cagey with details, said he’d been there once and never went back. He gave us rough coordinates and wished us luck, his eyes warning us off even as he pointed the way.

We left before sunrise, hiked for hours through beautiful autumn woods, found the entrance hidden behind a rockfall, and squeezed inside. The passage was claustrophobic, just two feet wide, but we loved it. We crawled for twenty minutes until it opened enough to stand. Our lights revealed stunning limestone formations, and after an hour we found a vertical shaft dropping fifteen feet into darkness. We rappelled down into a larger passage with a cold, clear stream running through it. Two branches—one up, one deeper. Of course, we went deeper.

The air felt different—musty, organic, wrong. We noticed scratch marks on the walls, vertical gouges that looked like claws had dragged down the limestone. Too high for a bear, too deep, too regular. We kept going, ignoring the warning signs.

Deeper in, the temperature warmed strangely. The passage widened into a massive chamber our lights couldn’t reach the ceiling or far walls. The floor was covered in dust and rocks—and footprints. Huge, bipedal, not bear, not human. We should have left, but curiosity pushed us onward.

We found a nest, crude but deliberate, made of leaves and moss, surrounded by animal bones—recent kills. Then we heard it: deep, rhythmic breathing, powerful and resonant, echoing from the darkness. Something massive was asleep nearby.

My friend, always the explorer, wanted to see it. I followed, unable to break our pact. We crept closer, dimming our lights, hearts pounding. There it was—an enormous form, curled on the cave floor, covered in shaggy hair, arms too long, legs bent at wrong angles. Its breathing shook the ground. We were frozen with fear and awe.

My friend took photos, edging closer. He stepped on loose rocks; the breathing changed, then stopped. He shined his light on its face. The creature—Bigfoot, or whatever it was—woke instantly, eyes glowing yellow in the beam. It sat up, muscles bunching, towering over us.

We ran. The thing roared, shaking dust from the ceiling, footfalls pounding behind us. In our panic, we split up. I dove behind stalagmites, turned off my light, tried to quiet my breathing. The sounds of pursuit faded, and I found my friend hiding behind a boulder, bleeding but alive.

We tried to find our way out, but the chamber was a maze. The creature blocked the exit, eyes glowing. My friend suggested a risky plan—he’d be the decoy, draw it away so I could escape. I argued, but he insisted. He ran, yelling, the creature chasing him deeper into the cave. I ran for the exit, heard his screams cut off, climbed out through the narrow passage as the creature roared behind me, unable to fit.

I waited outside for hours, calling his name. He never came out.

Rescue teams searched, but the cave was too unstable, too narrow. They found no other entrance, no massive chamber, no evidence of what happened. The official story was a tragic accident, a collapse, a lost body. I was treated for minor injuries and released. Nobody believed my story. His family stopped talking to me. The photos on his phone—proof—were lost with him.

Three years later, I still dream of that chamber, those yellow eyes. I quit caving, sold all my gear. I check the news for missing hikers in that mountain range—three cases in three years, all vanished without a trace. Official explanations are falls, animal attacks. But I know better.

I know what’s down there, still hunting. I broke our pact, left my friend behind, and the guilt eats at me every day. I’ve tried to warn people, but nobody listens. Maybe it’s better that way. Some caves should stay unexplored. Some things in the darkness aren’t meant to be found.

Every night, I’m back in that chamber. Every night, I run. Every night, I leave him behind. All I have left is his last text: “This is going to be epic.” And the nightmares. And the knowledge that something massive and hostile lives beneath the Appalachian Mountains, waiting for the next curious soul to crawl into its domain.

Waiting to kill again.