Explore Campfire Stories For Adults
Explore Ghostly Encounters Along the Veterans Memorial Highway
Step into the eerie side of Eastern Alberta, where ghostly whispers, phantom footsteps, and lingering spirits await. From haunted railway stations to spectral sightings in historic hotels, the Veterans Route is home to chilling tales and unexplained mysteries. Whether you're a believer or a skeptic, these haunted locations will leave you wondering—who, or what, still walks these roads? Explore the legends, visit the sites, and uncover the haunted history that makes this journey unforgettable. 👻🚗
The Phantom Traveler of Highway 36
The road stretched before Mark, dark and empty. Highway 36 was long and lonely, a perfect place for silence to sink into the bones. It was past midnight, and he had miles to go before the next town. The only sound was the hum of his truck and the occasional whisper of wind against the windows.
Then, the headlights caught movement up ahead.
A man stood by the roadside, his thumb outstretched. His clothes looked outdated—dusty jeans, an old leather jacket, and a wide-brimmed hat that cast his face in deep shadow.
Mark wasn’t in the habit of picking up hitchhikers, but something about the man’s stillness made him uneasy. Just as he passed, he stole a glance in the rearview mirror.
The man was gone.
A chill crawled up Mark’s spine. He hadn’t heard footsteps. He hadn’t seen movement. Just gone.
Shaking it off, he focused on the road. Then—a weight shifted in the passenger seat.
Mark’s breath caught. He didn’t turn his head. He didn’t have to. He could feel it—the presence beside him. The air turned ice-cold, his breath visible in the sudden chill. Slowly, cautiously, he moved his eyes to the mirror.
A reflection stared back at him. But it wasn’t his.
The hitchhiker. Sitting right beside him. Watching.
Mark slammed the brakes, the truck screeching to a halt. He threw open the door, stumbling out into the cold night, heart hammering in his chest. But when he turned back—
The seat was empty.
Only the faint impression of dust disturbed on the fabric told him something had been there.
He never drove Highway 36 at night again. And when others told stories of the Phantom Traveler, he simply nodded, saying nothing.
Because he knew.
He had seen him.
Hanna’s Ghostly Watchman
The Hanna Roundhouse loomed like a skeletal giant against the night sky, its crumbling walls and shattered windows standing in defiance of time. Though the railway had long since gone silent, the stories never had. Some swore they had seen a lantern flickering inside when no one was there. Others claimed they had heard the unmistakable sound of boots pacing the corridors. But the most unsettling legend of all was that of the old watchman—a man so devoted to his post that even death hadn’t stopped him from keeping his rounds.
On a bitter autumn night, with a cold wind knifing through the rafters, the watchman made his way through the abandoned train yard. His lantern swayed in his grip, casting sickly yellow light on rusted cars and oil-stained floors. The silence was thick, suffocating—until the sound of boots on wood shattered it. The heavy thud… thud… thud of footsteps echoed from the corridor behind him. Slowly, steadily, closing in.
He turned sharply, raising his lantern. Empty air greeted him, but the sound did not stop. It grew louder. Closer. A shadow, darker than the unlit corners of the roundhouse, shifted just out of reach of the flickering light. His breath hitched as the temperature plunged, his skin prickling with an unnatural chill. Then, before he could react, his lantern flickered violently—then died.
A breath, colder than winter’s grasp, ghosted against his ear. “You should not be here.” The voice was low, rasping, each syllable dragging through the dark like something half-buried clawing its way to the surface. His breath turned white in the freezing air. The weight of unseen eyes pressed on him, heavy and oppressive. And then—the footsteps ran.
They weren’t walking anymore. They were sprinting. Toward him.
He stumbled back, heart hammering, the shadows twisting as if something unseen was rushing straight for him. A force slammed into his chest, invisible fingers curling around his throat. His pulse roared in his ears as he fought to move, to scream, but the weight held him still. The whisper returned, this time a growl. “Leave. Now.”
Then—nothing. The air lifted. The weight vanished. He gasped for breath, clutching his lantern, and ran.
The next morning, his coworkers found the lantern on the floor, still burning. But the watchman? He was gone. No resignation, no goodbye. Just gone. Some say he fled, unable to shake what he had encountered. Others whisper that he never truly left—that something had taken his place.
Now, when the wind howls through the broken windows and the night grows still, those who dare step into the roundhouse say they hear footsteps in the darkness. Not slow, steady pacing anymore. But running. Coming closer. And if you listen long enough… a voice, barely a breath, will whisper in your ear—
“You should not be here.”
The Cursed Shadows of Writing-on-Stone
*
The Cursed Shadows of Writing-on-Stone *
The vast landscape of Writing-on-Stone had always felt like something outside of time, its hoodoos standing like sentinels, their jagged silhouettes casting eerie shadows beneath the moonlight. The Blackfoot people had long spoken of spirits that roamed the valley—watching, whispering, and punishing those who trespassed too deep. Some stories claimed that those who lingered too long would vanish into the night, swallowed by the land itself.
Sarah, a photographer obsessed with capturing the folklore of abandoned and haunted places, arrived with her two colleagues, Mark and Julia, ready to document the hoodoos under the full moon. They set up camp just beyond the rock formations, the desert wind whistling through the narrow passages. As the last rays of sunlight disappeared, they huddled by their fire, flipping through the day’s photos when Sarah’s breath hitched. In one of the shots taken just before sunset, a figure stood behind a hoodoo—a gaunt, shadowy shape with hollow eyes. It hadn’t been there when she clicked the shutter.
Nervous excitement filled the group as they grabbed their cameras and followed the narrow path deeper into the formations. The wind had died, leaving an unnatural stillness in its wake. Then, without warning, a golden light flickered ahead, weaving between the rocks like a flame dancing in the dark. “Someone’s out there,” Mark whispered.
They called out, but silence answered. The glow drifted deeper into the valley. Against their better judgment, they followed. As they stepped between two towering hoodoos, the light suddenly blinked out, plunging them into darkness. The air grew thick, pressing against their chests. Then came the sound—a whisper, low and urgent, like a voice carried from another world.
The murmur grew louder, overlapping, shifting in tone. Not English. Not anything familiar. Sarah felt something cold brush against her arm, like unseen fingers tracing her skin. Julia gasped. "Something just touched me!" Then—the whispers turned into wails. A deep, guttural sound reverberated through the valley as shadows moved among the rocks. They weren’t human. Their forms were stretched and twisted, shifting in ways the mind couldn’t comprehend. Eyes—dozens of them—opened in the darkness, watching, waiting.
A sudden gust of wind slammed into them, carrying voices that were no longer whispers but cries of warning. Or was it hunger? Mark turned, his breath ragged. “Run.”
They did. Their feet pounded against the uneven ground, breathless sobs catching in their throats. The shadows followed, flickering at the edges of their vision, keeping pace without sound. The land itself seemed to close around them. The pathway they had taken no longer looked familiar, as if the hoodoos had shifted while they weren’t looking.
By the time they stumbled back to camp, their fire had nearly died out, its embers barely glowing. The wind was gone. Everything was silent. The night stretched on, but they refused to sleep, huddled together, their ears straining for any sound beyond their own breathing.
At dawn, Sarah checked her camera. The last image she had captured showed the moonlit valley, beautiful yet unsettling. But within the rock formations, nearly imperceptible, were figures—not quite human, not quite shadow, but something in between.
They packed up in silence, their hands shaking. None of them spoke of what they had seen, but they all felt it—an unshakable certainty that if they had lingered even a moment longer, they would have never left the valley at all.
Sarah never returned to Writing-on-Stone, but sometimes, when she was alone in the dark, she would hear the whispers again—growing louder, calling her back.
Lost Time at
St. Paul’s UFO Landing Pad
St. Paul’s UFO Landing Pad was meant to be a symbol of hope, a gesture welcoming travelers from beyond Earth. But over the decades, the stories surrounding it had taken a darker turn. Visitors reported strange lights, eerie whispers, and worst of all—time that simply disappeared.
Mike and Lisa weren’t the kind of people who believed in ghost stories or aliens, but when they visited St. Paul with their friend Jared, they couldn’t resist stopping by the famous site after dinner. The night was clear, the air cool. They walked around the landing pad, taking photos and laughing about the wild stories they had read online.
Then, the lights appeared.
Soft at first, then brighter. A greenish-white glow hovered above them, pulsing like a heartbeat. “A drone, maybe?” Jared muttered. But as the light shifted color—blue, violet, then pure white—Mike felt something… off. The air around them hummed with energy, like static before a lightning strike.
Then, everything slowed.
Mike’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. His breath took forever to leave his lungs. The light stretched, expanding in his vision, until everything blurred. His limbs felt wrong, disconnected from time itself.
Then, nothing.
The next thing he knew, Lisa was shaking his arm. The world snapped back into place. The night was normal again. But something had changed. Lisa looked pale, her hands shaking as she pointed at her phone. “My timer was running,” she whispered. "Three minutes are missing."
Mike checked his watch. The time was wrong, exactly three minutes ahead. Jared cursed under his breath. “I was recording,” he said, voice tight. He pulled up the video, scrolling through—then his hand froze. The screen was black for three minutes. No sound, no static. Just pure emptiness.
They left in a hurry, not daring to look back.
Later that night, Mike sat in his hotel room, staring at the last photo Lisa had taken before the blackout. The landing pad, empty. Silent. But in the far-left corner, a shadow stood just beyond the light. Featureless. Watching.
Had they been watched the entire time? Or worse—had something else been there with them, in that missing time?
They never spoke of the night again. But deep down, they all knew—whatever happened in those three minutes was never meant to be remembered.
The Curse of Devil’s Coulee
The Devil’s Coulee Dinosaur Museum was supposed to be a place of history, a quiet corner of Warner where ancient fossils told the story of a prehistoric past. But as every staff member knew, something else lurked in the coulees beyond the museum—something that whispered, watched, and sometimes, followed.
Mark, a paleontology intern, had heard the stories. Cold spots. Disembodied voices. The feeling of being watched. But he hadn’t believed them—until the night he stayed late cataloging fossils.
It was nearly midnight when he stepped outside, the museum silent behind him. The coulees stretched beyond, dark and endless, the wind whispering through the hills. As he locked up, something moved at the edge of his vision. A flicker of light, low to the ground, glowing blue-white.
Mark turned, heart hammering. There, just beyond the coulee’s ridge, was a floating orb of light. He blinked. It was gone.
He exhaled, shaking his head. Just exhaustion.
Then, the whisper came.
Not the wind. Not the rustling of grass. A low voice, just behind him.
“You should not be here.”
Mark spun, the blood draining from his face. The museum’s glass doors reflected movement behind him. A shape. A shadow. Something standing right there.
He whirled around—nothing. Just the empty lot. But the temperature plummeted, his breath misting in the night air.
Then, footsteps.
Soft at first, then deliberate. Heavy. Coming from the coulee. He backed away, his pulse roaring in his ears. But the lights reappeared—two now, hovering, pulsing closer.
The wind carried a whisper. More distinct this time.
“Go.”
Mark ran.
He didn’t stop until he was inside, locking the doors behind him. The museum was dark and silent, but outside, through the large front windows, the lights remained.
Watching. Waiting.
By morning, they were gone. But the next night, another staff member saw them. And the night after that.
And if you listen closely, just outside the museum, you might still hear the whisper that follows them all.
The Tragedy of Battle River Trestle
The Battle River Trestle Bridge had long been abandoned, its rusted rails stretching across the valley like an old scar. But for those who ventured near it at night, the past was never truly gone.
Ethan had heard the stories—phantom trains, eerie whistles, the restless spirit of a railway worker who had died in a tragic accident. But he was a skeptic, always had been. So when his friend Josh dared him to cross the bridge alone at midnight, he didn’t hesitate.
The night was cold and silent as he stepped onto the wooden planks, his flashlight casting long, flickering shadows. The valley below was shrouded in mist, the river running dark and sluggish beneath the towering structure. Halfway across, he paused.
Then, the air changed.
A deep, unnatural cold settled around him. The wind died. And then—a whistle.
It was distant at first, carried through the valley like a memory. But then it grew louder. Closer. Impossible.
A low rumbling started beneath his feet. The wood trembled. A sound like iron wheels grinding against tracks filled the air. He turned, heart hammering, expecting to see—what? There hadn’t been trains on this bridge for decades.
But there it was.
A glowing, spectral locomotive barreled toward him, its old-fashioned headlamp blazing, steam billowing from its ghostly engine. Figures moved inside—dark, indistinct shapes that shouldn’t be there.
Then he saw him.
The railway worker. Standing near the edge of the bridge, half-transparent, his face obscured by shadow. He lifted one arm, reaching toward Ethan—beckoning.
The train was almost upon him.
With a gasp, Ethan stumbled backward. The moment his feet hit solid ground, the sound stopped.
He turned.
The bridge was empty. No train. No figure. Nothing but the distant wind whispering through the valley.
But when he looked down at the wooden planks, his breath caught in his throat.
There, in the dust, were fresh footprints.
And they didn’t belong to him.
The Lost Guest of Bruce Hotel
The Bruce Hotel had seen generations of travelers, its wooden walls holding memories of a century’s worth of stories. Some guests, however, never left.
Chris had been driving through Beaver County when a heavy storm forced him to stop for the night. The Bruce Hotel, with its old-fashioned charm, seemed welcoming enough. The owner gave him a key with a heavy brass tag and warned him to expect some noise—the walls were thin, and the building was old.
He didn’t mention the other guests.
Chris settled into his room, the floorboards groaning beneath his feet. He set his bag on the rickety dresser and lay down, exhausted. The wind howled outside, rattling the old windowpanes. Somewhere down the hall, he heard soft footsteps.
Then, a knock.
Chris sat up, heart pounding. It wasn’t at his door—but close.
Another knock. This time at the next room. Then, after a few seconds, another.
Someone was knocking on every door. One by one.
His breath hitched as the knock came to his door. He swallowed hard. “Hello?”
No answer.
He stepped out of bed and slowly approached the door. His fingers hovered over the handle. He took a deep breath—then yanked it open.
Nothing.
The hallway was empty. Silent.
Chris exhaled shakily and turned back inside. The moment he did, the temperature dropped. The air turned ice-cold, and his breath misted in the dim light. Then—a whisper.
“Not your room.”
Chris spun around. The closet door was open.
He swore it had been shut when he arrived.
The hotel owner found him in the lobby an hour later, fully dressed, bag in hand, refusing to go back upstairs. He only smiled and said, “Ah, yes. Our lost guest. Never did check out, you know.”
Chris drove through the storm that night.
And he never stopped in Bruce again.
The Sasquatch of Wood Buffalo
The forests of Wood Buffalo stretched for miles, its thick canopy swallowing the light, its trails twisting into forgotten places. For years, people had spoken in hushed tones about something in those woods. Hunters claimed they had heard strange howls at dusk. Campers woke to find huge footprints around their tents.
But no one ever stayed long enough to see what made them.
Jake was an experienced hiker. He didn’t believe in legends, only trails and maps. So when he set out to explore the Athabasca Sand Dunes area, he didn’t think twice about the warnings from the locals. “Stick to the marked trails,” they said. “Don’t be out after dark.”
He went anyway.
The deeper he walked, the quieter it became. The air felt thicker, heavier. Around him, the trees stood like silent sentinels, watching. Then—he smelled it.
A stench—musky, thick, like damp earth and rotting wood. He wrinkled his nose.
That’s when he saw it.
A footprint. Deep in the mud. Huge. Far too big to be human.
A branch snapped.
Jake froze. His pulse pounded in his ears. He turned slowly—and saw movement.
At first, it was just a shadow between the trees. Then, it stepped forward.
A massive figure, covered in thick, dark fur. Broad shoulders. Long arms that nearly reached the ground. Eyes deep and dark, watching.
Jake’s breath caught.
The creature exhaled—low and guttural. Then, it stepped back into the trees, disappearing as fast as it had appeared.
Jake ran.
By the time he reached his truck, his hands were shaking. He looked back one last time. The woods were still, as if nothing had happened.
But when he slammed his door shut, the echoes of a distant, inhuman howl sent a chill through his spine.
Somewhere, deep in the forest… it was still watching.
The Watchful T-Rex of Milk River
The Milk River T-Rex had been a harmless roadside attraction for decades—a towering green dinosaur, meant to welcome travelers and amuse kids. But over the years, rumors began to spread. People swore it wasn’t always in the same position. Some claimed it shifted ever so slightly, tilting its head, adjusting its stance, always just enough to make you question if your memory was wrong.
Rob didn’t believe in ghost stories.
Driving home late one evening, he passed through Milk River, the highway nearly deserted. As he approached town, the headlights caught the familiar grinning face of the T-Rex, its painted eyes staring blankly over the road.
He barely glanced at it—until his stomach twisted with unease.
Had it moved?
He slowed down, pulling into the empty parking lot nearby. The air was too still, the night sky deep and endless above. Rob rubbed his eyes, telling himself he was imagining things. The dinosaur had always faced the highway, hadn’t it?
Except now… it seemed to be turned. Just slightly.
Facing him.
He swallowed hard. "I'm just tired," he muttered, but a chill crept up his spine. He snapped a quick picture with his phone before driving off.
A few miles down the road, curiosity gnawed at him. He pulled over and checked the photo.
His breath caught.
In the picture, the T-Rex was facing the highway, just as it always had.
He turned the car around, speeding back toward town. When the dinosaur came into view again, his chest tightened.
It was facing the road once more.
Rob gripped the wheel, his pulse hammering in his ears. Had it moved back? Or had it never moved at all?
A sharp knock on his window made him jump.
He spun, expecting a police officer—but there was no one there.
His phone buzzed in his lap. A new notification. The photo he’d taken was gone.
Not deleted. Just… gone.
Rob didn’t stop again.
And as he drove out of Milk River, the grinning face of the T-Rex watched him go.
The Watchful Sisters of Our Lady of the Rosary Hospital
The Our Lady of the Rosary Hospital in Castor has stood for over a century, its walls echoing with stories of healing, faith, and unwavering dedication. Built in 1911 by the Daughters of Wisdom, the hospital has expanded and evolved, but the spirit of its past lingers in quiet, unexplained moments.
Dr. Emily Carter had heard the stories. Nurses who worked late shifts spoke in hushed voices about feeling watched in the old wing, hearing soft footsteps when no one was there. Some said the air grew thick with the scent of lavender and candle wax, as if the sisters still walked the halls.
Emily wasn’t one for ghost stories.
That changed one night when she stayed late reviewing patient charts. The modern wing hummed with the quiet beep of machines, but the old building was silent, its long hallways dimly lit. As she made her way through the original wing, the air shifted—the distinct scent of old wood, incense, and something floral filled her senses.
She glanced around.
Then—a soft rustling.
She turned toward the end of the hallway. The light from the emergency exit flickered, and for the briefest moment, she saw a figure in a habit, moving gracefully into a patient’s room.
Emily’s breath hitched.
She stepped forward, peeking inside. The bed was empty. No one had been assigned to this room in months.
A chill ran down her spine.
Then—a whisper. Soft. Gentle. Familiar.
“Have faith.”
Emily spun. The hallway was empty.
She didn’t run. Instead, she took a deep breath and felt the weight of a quiet presence. Not something to fear—something watching over her, just as the sisters had for over a century.
From that night forward, she never doubted that the Daughters of Wisdom still walked those halls, ensuring that care and compassion remained within its walls.
The Lost Drifter of Vauxhall
Highway 36 near Vauxhall was long, empty, and wrapped in fog that night. Tom, a seasoned trucker, had been driving for hours when he saw a figure standing by the road near the old Sunrise Motel—a lone hitchhiker, his head bowed, his clothes soaked from the damp night air.
Tom rarely picked up strangers, but something about the man felt... familiar. Worn-out work clothes, an old jacket, boots covered in dust. Just another drifter trying to get home.
He pulled over, rolling down his window. “Need a lift?”
The man nodded silently and climbed into the passenger seat. Tom glanced at him—his face was shadowed by the dim cab light, expression unreadable.
They rode in silence. Tom tried to make conversation, but the hitchhiker never spoke. Never moved. Just sat, staring ahead. The only sound was the steady hum of the engine cutting through the fog.
As they neared Vauxhall’s outskirts, Tom cleared his throat. “Where you headed, buddy?”
No answer.
Tom turned his head—and his blood ran cold.
The seat was empty.
His hands clenched the wheel as his pulse hammered in his ears. He had never stopped. The door had never opened. But the seatbelt hung loose, the faint scent of damp earth still lingered in the air.
Shaken, Tom pulled over at the next gas station. As he told the attendant what happened, the man paled.
“You ain’t the first,” he murmured. “That stretch of road’s got a hitchhiker who never makes it home.”
Years ago, a local farmhand was struck and killed while trying to hitch a ride home one foggy night. Ever since, travelers have seen him waiting by the road—forever trying to get back.
And if you drive Highway 36 on a misty night… you might see him too.
The Phantom Rider of Special Areas No. 3
*
The Phantom Rider of Special Areas No. 3 *
The endless prairie roads of Special Area No. 3 are known for their quiet isolation. Fields stretch for miles, broken only by old fence lines and the occasional abandoned homestead. But those who travel these roads at night tell a different story—of a phantom rider, appearing out of the darkness only to vanish without a trace.
Jack was driving late, heading home from a job site near the Red Deer River. The sky was a deep velvet black, stars scattered across it, and his truck’s headlights cut through the dust swirling on the gravel road. He was miles from the nearest town when something moved in the distance—a shadow against the horizon.
As he got closer, he saw it clearly—a man on horseback.
Jack frowned. Who would be riding this far out, this late at night? The rider was dressed like an old rancher, wide-brimmed hat, long coat billowing in the wind. His horse kept an even pace, moving alongside Jack’s truck without effort.
Jack slowed down. The rider didn’t react.
Jack rolled down his window. “You okay out here?”
No answer.
That’s when Jack noticed the horse’s hooves weren’t kicking up dust.
The realization sent a chill through him. He hit the gas. The rider stayed beside him, matching his speed.
Jack gripped the wheel as the truck climbed a hill. He could see a crossroads ahead, an old wooden sign marking the intersection. He blinked, glancing at his side mirror.
The rider was gone.
No dust. No sign of hoofprints.
He stopped at the crossroads, his breath coming fast. He turned his headlights toward the ditch, expecting to see a trail or tracks. There was nothing.
Later, he mentioned it at a café in town. The old-timers just nodded.
“You saw him, huh?” one said. “They say he was a ranch hand, thrown from his horse on that road. Never made it home. Still rides at night, looking for the way back.”
Jack never took that road after dark again.
Burning Echoes of Two Hills
The town of Two Hills had grown from ashes—literally. Between 1929 and 1937, four fires tore through the town, destroying homes, businesses, and pieces of history that could never be reclaimed. But some say the flames never truly died.
Greg was new to town, having just bought a small property near the old post office, which had stood since 1914. He liked its charm, the way the past still whispered through the streets. But it wasn’t until his first night there that he realized some whispers were louder than others.
The wind was still that evening, the town quiet except for the occasional creak of an old sign. As Greg locked up, he noticed a faint orange glow flickering in the distance.
Fire.
His stomach clenched. He grabbed his phone, ready to call it in, but as he stepped outside—it was gone.
No smoke. No embers. Just empty streets.
Shrugging it off as fatigue, he went to bed. But at exactly 3:14 a.m., the smell of burning wood filled his room.
His heart pounded. He rushed to the window—and his breath caught.
Down the street, flames licked the sky. Buildings burned, but no sound came from the fire—no crackling, no sirens, no voices.
Then, shadows moved within the flames.
Figures—people. Rushing, waving, calling for help—yet silent.
Greg stumbled back, grabbing his keys and running to his truck. He sped toward the fire, headlights cutting through the night—but as he reached the street, there was nothing.
No fire. No figures. Just the empty town, dark and still.
The next morning, he told an old-timer what he’d seen. The man nodded.
“You saw it too, huh? Some nights, the fire comes back. Same time, same place.”
Greg frowned. “Why 3:14?”
The old man sighed. “That was the time the biggest fire hit—1931. Wiped out half the town.”
Greg never doubted the stories again.
And every now and then, when the night is still, Two Hills burns once more.
The Phantom of the Forgotten Mission
The old wooden mission stood alone, surrounded by fields that stretched endlessly into the horizon. The building had seen generations come and go—its halls once filled with the quiet footsteps of clergy, students, and those seeking refuge. But time had not been kind. The walls creaked with age, and the once-grand structure now held more shadows than light.
Many believed that when the mission burned, it took more than just wood and stone with it. Whispers among the locals spoke of a presence that still roamed the grounds—a figure dressed in dark robes, appearing near the ruins of the chapel, where he had once led prayers.
Michael was a skeptic.
A historian documenting the site, he stayed late one evening to take final notes on the reconstruction efforts. The farmland was eerily still, the air thick with the scent of damp earth. The rebuilt chapel stood in the moonlight, its presence a reminder of what had been lost.
Then, the wind shifted.
The soft scent of burning wood drifted through the air. The temperature dropped.
Michael frowned, glancing toward the chapel. That’s when he saw it—a shadow moving inside.
The doors were locked. No one should be there.
Heart pounding, he stepped forward, shining his flashlight through the windows. The beam flickered—and for a split second, he saw a man standing at the altar, his back turned.
The figure slowly turned his head.
Michael stumbled backward. The face was blurred, as if hidden behind smoke. Then, just as quickly, the shadow disappeared.
The air grew heavy, pressing against his chest. As he stepped away from the chapel, a whisper drifted through the wind—low, solemn, like a prayer from another time.
Michael didn’t finish his notes that night.
To this day, visitors to the mission report strange shadows in the chapel, the scent of burning wood, and the feeling that they are not alone.
Some say the fire took the mission.
Others say it simply revealed what had always been there.