The Bone Trail

Last fall, my uncle and I went to a motocross track called the Ashford Ridge in the Ozarks. When we got there, it was a Tuesday morning, and the place was practically deserted—just a couple of old-timers on vintage bikes near the entrance. We were the only ones on the main loop, a winding path through the scrub pines and red clay hills. My uncle was about thirty yards ahead, kicking up dust, when my quad started coughing and losing power. I twisted the throttle, but the engine sputtered and died. I coasted to a stop at the edge of a dry creek bed.

My uncle didn’t seem to notice. He just kept going, disappearing around a bend, leaving me in that silent hollow. I tried the electric start—nothing. I got off and checked the fuel line, the spark plug, everything I knew. The engine was warm but not overheated. It just refused to turn over, like something was holding the piston. I felt a cold breeze blow through the pines, and the air smelled faintly of decay, like wet leaves and old bones.

I decided to walk back toward the entrance, figuring I’d get help. But after a few minutes, I realized the path looked wrong. The trees were older, thicker, and the sky had turned a sickly gray. I checked my phone—no signal. I tried to retrace my steps, but the trail branched in ways I didn’t remember. Then I saw it: a rusted sign half-buried in the dirt, reading “BONE HOLLOW” in faded, hand-painted letters.

A chill ran up my spine. This wasn’t Ashford Ridge. The map at the entrance didn’t show this. I pushed forward, hoping to find the main path, but the forest grew denser, and the smell of decay grew stronger. I stumbled over a mound of earth and fell, my hand sinking into soft, loamy soil. When I pulled it out, I was holding a small, smooth bone—a finger bone, maybe, or a toe. I dropped it and scrambled back.

The trail ahead opened into a clearing where dozens of small cairns stood in neat rows, each topped with a bleached white skull—deer, coyotes, and some I didn’t recognize. One skull was clearly human, its jaw missing, and it was facing me. I backed away, but the ground behind me felt spongy, and I turned to see a shallow pit filled with a jumble of bones, like a mass grave.

I ran. I didn’t care where. Branches whipped my face, and my lungs burned, but I ran until I crashed through a thicket and found myself back on the main dirt path. My quad was still there, untouched. I tried the start again—it roared to life immediately. I rode hard back to the entrance, where my uncle was waiting with a frown. “Where’d you go?” he asked. “I’ve been looking for you.”

I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t find the words. Instead, I just said, “Bike died. Had to push it back.” On the drive home, I looked at the map they’d given us. There was no Bone Hollow listed. But I couldn’t shake the image of that human skull, and the feel of that bone in my hand. Later, I googled the Ashford Ridge. Turns out, the track had been closed for years after a series of disappearances in the 1970s. They never found the bodies, just scattered bones in the woods. The locals called it the Bone Trail. I haven’t ridden a dirt bike since.

That night, I dreamed of the bone pit, and I saw a figure standing at its edge, waiting. It was tall and thin, with antlers like a deer, and it was pointing at me. I woke up sweating, and I knew that whatever that thing was, it had marked me. And somewhere deep in the Ozarks, the bones are still waiting, and the trail still calls.