Voices in the Ravine

In the summer of 1889, I was twenty-two and desperate for work, which is how I ended up with a railroad crew pushing track through the high country between the mesas and pine hills. The company was out of Denver, and our camp sat in a shallow valley where the air was dry and dust worked its way into everything. At dawn, the ground held the night’s cold, and by noon the sun burned the back of your neck. The wind cut through our tents without slowing.

There were twenty of us—men drifting from job to job after the war or after bad luck. Our foreman, Briggs, was broad and harsh, caring only about the schedule and the rail. My bunkmate was Eli, a thin, careful fellow who’d worked telegraph lines before the rails. Morgan was big, loud, and liked to test his strength against anyone. Tomas worked the spikes with steady rhythm and spoke little English. At the edge of camp was Jonas, our guide and scout, older and gray at the temples, with eyes that never rested. He knew the trails, the weather, and listened when locals spoke.

We were cutting a path through a stretch called Section 12—a set of lines on a map, but in reality, ridges, canyons, and silent slopes where our noise faded quickly. The work was hard and routine: wake before dawn, swallow coffee and beans, swing hammers until dusk, return to camp, eat, and sleep. Some men played cards; others collapsed onto their bunks.

The first sign that our days wouldn’t remain simple came one evening when three local men arrived on horseback. They stopped just beyond our camp’s firelight, wrapped in blankets despite the heat, faces lined and serious. Briggs met them, arms folded, but they didn’t answer at once. The oldest looked past him, up toward the hills and the rocky ridge to the east. Jonas spoke to them in their tongue, and their shoulders eased. They talked quietly, and the rest of us drifted closer, pretending not to listen.

Jonas explained: the men were from a settlement beyond the hills. They’d come to warn us about crossing a ravine ahead—not about land rights or hunting, but about something that moved through that place after dark. Briggs scoffed, saying the company owned the right-of-way. Jonas didn’t argue, but kept his gaze on the old rider, who spoke again, voice low and steady. Jonas translated: there were places where the boundaries of the world were weak, where certain things walked that weren’t meant to be seen. The ravine ahead was one of those places. The men didn’t give it a name we could say. Jonas explained: it was once a person who broke a grave promise and became something else, something that wore shapes that didn’t belong and fed on fear and blood. It could copy a voice, but never the soul behind it.

Most of the crew shifted or laughed. Morgan said he didn’t fear ghost stories. Briggs grew impatient and told Jonas to say we’d be careful. The old rider’s jaw tightened. Before leaving, he warned: never answer a voice in the dark unless you see the speaker clearly; never follow footsteps that don’t belong; if someone returns from the shadows looking wrong, remember not everything wearing a man’s body is still human.

That warning stayed in my thoughts as I lay on my bunk. The next morning, when we marched toward Section 12, I found myself counting the men in our line more often than usual.

The land changed as we neared the stretch the riders warned about. The scrub thinned, the soil turned dull gray, and the air felt heavier though the sky stayed clear. Conversation faded. By midday, we reached a shallow cut in the ground, narrowing into a deeper split to the east. Jonas walked ahead, studying the land. Briggs joined him. They stared toward the darker notch of the ravine.

“We can bridge most of this,” Briggs said. “That deeper part will take some doing.” Jonas asked for a day to walk the rim before we set plans. Briggs swore but agreed.

We set up camp near the edge. Jonas took a lantern and rifle, circling the ravine before sunset. After supper, most of us gathered around the fire. Eli sat near me, turning a tin mug in his hands, eyes on the edge of light. “You heard what they said—about that thing that wears people.” I nodded. Morgan snorted, dismissing the story. Tomas watched the circle, matching voices to faces, and I found myself doing the same.

The night cooled fast. Stars sharpened overhead, the fire’s glow smaller than before. Men drifted to their tents. Briggs checked his watch—Jonas wasn’t back. He took a lantern and three men: Eli, Morgan, and me. We walked toward the ravine, lantern light shaking, throwing moving shapes on the ground.

At the edge, we saw Jonas’s bootprints, leading toward a narrow outcrop over the ravine. The prints ended there; below, a narrow ledge showed fresh scuffs. Briggs cursed—Jonas had climbed down. We listened—just the trickle of water below. Briggs called out, “Jonas, answer if you hear me.”

A voice rose from the ravine: “I hear you.” It was Jonas’s voice, but something was wrong. The tone was close, but flat, the pauses in the wrong places. Briggs didn’t notice, shoulders easing. “Where are you?” he shouted. “You hurt?”

“Down here!” the voice answered. “Follow the ledge. It is safe.” Jonas never spoke that way. Eli whispered, “That isn’t right.” The old rider’s warning about voices in the dark returned to me. Briggs stepped toward the edge. “We’re coming down,” he called. I grabbed his arm. “Wait. We can’t see him. He wouldn’t call us along a ledge in the dark. He’s careful.”

Briggs hesitated, then stepped back. “Fine. We hold until first light.” Relief swept over us. We turned to head back when another sound drifted up—footsteps, light and uneven, as if climbing. Then the sound stopped. Briggs called again. Silence. We waited. Nothing moved. No voice answered.

Back at camp, the men were tense. Briggs told them Jonas had gone down the ravine and we’d wait for daylight. Eli pulled me aside. “That wasn’t him,” he whispered. I nodded. “Stay close to me.”

Few slept. The wind brushed the tent walls. Every sound made me alert. At some point, a faint glow flickered through the fabric. I thought dawn had come early, but the light wasn’t warm—it flickered like lantern flame. Outside, a voice called: “Briggs.” It sounded like Jonas, but flat, controlled, no urgency. I shook Eli awake. The voice came again. Briggs stepped out of his tent, lantern in hand. The voice called a third time: “Briggs, come here.” It sounded close, between the tents.

Men froze. Briggs edged forward, calling, “Jonas, where are you?” Then a figure stepped into the light. At first, I thought it was Jonas—the height, the stance. But the arms hung too low, the shoulders too narrow, the head tilted wrong. The face was almost right, but stretched, as if pulled into place without understanding. The eyes reflected lantern light sharply. Eli whispered, “That’s not him.”

The figure stepped forward, stiff and jerky. Its boots dragged. “Briggs,” it said, Jonas’s voice without life, like a memory repeating itself. Briggs stepped back. The figure stopped at the edge of the light, shifting weight in slow, uneven motion, eyes fixed on us. It raised an arm, sleeve hanging strangely, then spoke: “It is safe.” The words fell flat.

Briggs’s face twisted. He stepped back fast. “Stay where you are,” he ordered, voice shaking. The creature stopped, studying us. Then its body twitched, legs bending at impossible angles, neck stretching. It dropped to a crouch, then shot forward toward a tent, skittering across the ground. Lantern light caught its thin, pale limbs. Men shouted, scattered. Morgan swung his shovel, missing as the creature darted behind a tent.

A scream cut through the noise. A man stumbled from the shadows, blood running from his shoulder. Behind him, the creature crawled out on all fours, back arched, head facing forward, body twisted. It rose, face stretched into a near-grin. Briggs shouted, “Back away!” The creature stepped toward the wounded man. Morgan charged, hitting its arm with the shovel. It jerked but didn’t break, then lunged at Morgan, knocking him down and snuffing his lantern. Darkness deepened.

Chaos erupted. Men tried to get between Morgan and the creature. Eli and I pulled Morgan away. The creature crouched over him, jerking. Eli threw a rock, striking its back. It snapped its head toward us, eyes gleaming. Tomas arrived with a pickaxe, striking its shoulder; a sharp, unnatural sound came from it. The creature sprang backward into the shadows.

Briggs called, “Form a line!” Morgan’s arm bled, torn by long, thin fingers. “It tried to pull me,” he muttered. Briggs ordered: “Arm yourselves. Stay together.” We lit more lanterns, threw wood on the fire. Shadows retreated slightly, but everything beyond the tents felt alive.

We formed a rough circle around the fire, weapons raised. The wind stopped. Then, footsteps—slow, deliberate, just outside the lanterns. The steps circled us, steady, waiting for someone to break. The voice came again, Jonas’s voice: “Let me in.” The tone stayed wrong. Eli whispered, “It’s copying what it hears.”

Briggs was firm. “You’re not him. Show yourself or get away.” Silence. Then a clicking sound, like joints snapping. Suddenly, the creature rushed the line, darting back before anyone struck. It tested us, searching for weakness. Morgan’s face was pale with pain and fear. Then we heard it imitate Morgan’s voice: “Help me.” The sound was perfect in tone, but empty. Morgan’s head jerked toward the darkness.

The creature stepped closer, dim outline behind a tent, head tilted too far. Briggs raised his arm: “Hold.” The creature leaned forward, eyes gleaming, voice rising twice in Morgan’s tone: “Help me. Help me.” The repetition overlapped awkwardly. Briggs ordered, “Form tight. Don’t let it slip between us.” The fire blazed higher; the creature stayed just beyond reach.

Then, a new voice from the dark: “Get away from them.” Jonas’s real voice—rough, strained, carrying breath. Every man froze. Even the creature hesitated. Jonas limped into the light, face exhausted, leg dragging. “Don’t come closer,” he said. “I fell, took me a long time to climb out.” His voice was real, his movements strained.

He looked past us, toward the tents. “It’s not gone,” he said. “It followed me up.” The shadow shifted. The creature stepped into view, limbs long and thin, torso barely human, face pale and hollow. It crouched, then charged. Briggs shouted, “Hold the line!” The creature slammed into a man, knocking him into the fire pit. Sparks exploded. It grabbed another, dragging him toward the shadows. Briggs hooked a crowbar around its shoulder, dragged along before the creature released them.

The creature breathed fast, eyes darting, measuring. Jonas said, “It doesn’t fight unless it sees weakness. It waits for confusion.” Briggs kept the men together. The creature lingered in the dark, waiting for someone to fall behind.

The breathing came again—short, staggered bursts, circling us. Eli leaned close: “It’s learning how we react.” Briggs ordered more wood on the fire. Shadows shrank, but the creature stayed outside them.

Then, a thin, uneven voice: “Help.” Higher, almost like a child. “No children in this crew,” Morgan muttered. The voice came again: “Help! I’m stuck!” Tomas whispered, “It’s trying different voices, seeing which makes someone break.” Jonas warned: “Don’t speak to it. Don’t answer.”

Suddenly, the creature crawled up the back of a tent, limbs stretching the canvas. Its eyes made two faint points of reflected light. “It’s above us,” Eli muttered. The tent collapsed, and the creature rose through the torn fabric, face pale and empty, eyes cold. It stood, full height, out in the open.

Briggs braced himself. Jonas gripped a broken branch. The creature stepped toward us, then lunged. Men swung picks and hammers. The creature absorbed the blows, grabbed Tomas, hurled him into others, breaking the circle. Briggs charged, striking its ribs; the creature knocked him down, then turned to me. Its head tilted, limbs folding inward, preparing to spring.

Jonas shouted, “Look at me!” The creature froze, head snapping toward Jonas, who stood at the fire pit, holding a burning length of wood. “You want me, not them?” The creature lunged. Jonas swung the burning wood upward, flames meeting its face and chest. The creature recoiled, twisting violently, then scrambled up, limbs bending and snapping back.

“Keep hitting it!” Briggs shouted. Men surged forward, striking. The creature darted away, movements less coordinated. It rushed toward the fire pit, toward Jonas, who raised the burning wood again. The creature stopped, rigid, staring at Jonas. Jonas spoke: “You followed me because I crossed your ground. You followed me because I lived when you expected me to die.” The air tightened.

“You want to finish what you started?” Jonas asked.

The creature lunged, but Jonas sidestepped, swinging the burning wood down on its neck and shoulder. A cracking sound echoed. The creature shrieked, body writhing, then staggered away, collapsing. “Now!” Briggs shouted. Men struck it with hammers and spades, lanterns high. The creature dropped to one knee, tried to rise. Jonas thrust burning wood toward its face; it recoiled, limbs scraping dirt.

“It hates the fire,” Jonas said. “Keep the flames close.” We drove it toward the fire pit, forced it into the embers. The creature thrashed, legs blistering, panic in its movements. Briggs raised a rail tie, swung down on its skull. The creature collapsed, limbs twitching, then went still.

Silence fell. We guarded it until morning, lanterns and burning wood always within reach. Jonas rested, leg trembling. Men fixed camp damage, glancing at the creature’s body. When daylight came, Briggs gathered us. “We bury it,” he said. Jonas shook his head. “Burn it. Nothing else will keep it down.” No one argued.

We built a pyre, wrapped the corpse in canvas, and set it on the wood. Jonas lit the fire. The flames swallowed its outline until only charred folds remained. We watched in silence. Briggs ordered us to pack everything. By midday, we’d put miles between us and the ravine.

We camped near a stand of pines, lanterns only after dark. Jonas rested, Eli tending to his wound. Morgan asked, “You think any others are out there?” Jonas replied, “I think that thing was alone. But the land has old places. Some are safe, some aren’t. We crossed one that wasn’t.”

As the sun lowered, we kept watch. Nothing moved, nothing called. Near midnight, Eli asked, “You think it’s really over?” “Yeah,” I said. “I think it ended back there.” We stayed awake until relieved. Morning broke brighter and cleaner than before. Even Briggs exhaled.

We continued east, away from Section 12. No man ever returned to that ravine, not even Jonas. The company reassigned the route, blaming unstable ground. No one asked for details, and none of us offered any.

A year later, Eli and I parted ways. Tomas went home. Morgan left for a telegraph job. Jonas retired. Briggs took another crew and never spoke of that night again. I stayed on the rails a few more seasons, but something changed in me after Section 12. I learned to listen for things other men ignored, to watch the dark edges, to trust instincts that came without proof.

I never forgot the sound of its voice, how it tried to wear the shape of a man, or how silence feels when something in the night is choosing who it wants. Sometimes, when the light fades just right and the wind dies for a moment, I remember those footsteps circling us in the dark. And every time, I feel the same reminder settle in my chest.

Some warnings are not superstition. Some places are not meant to be crossed. And some things die only because the night allows it.

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