The Loop at Milepost 14

The logging road cut through the pines like a scar, a fresh gash of gravel and compacted earth that the forest hadn’t yet begun to heal. I’d walked it a few times with my two dogs, Bruno and Pippa, but never past the first bend. There was something about the way the trees leaned in, their branches knitting together overhead, that made the sunlight feel thin and borrowed.

That morning, I decided to push further. The air was cool and smelled of sap and damp moss. Bruno, a stocky black lab, trotted ahead, while Pippa, a nervous border collie mix, stayed close to my heel. We walked for over an hour, the road climbing steadily until it ended abruptly at a cliff edge. The ground fell away into a bowl of green, and beyond that, nothing but unbroken forest to the horizon. I sat on a mossy stone, poured water into a collapsible bowl, and watched the dogs lap it up, their tails wagging.

Then I heard it. A voice, faint but clear, calling my name. ‘Elliot.’ I froze, my heart doing a quick, startled rhythm. The dogs’ ears perked up. They looked back down the road, but there was no one. I waited, breath held. The voice came again, a little louder: ‘Elliot.’ It was flat, without urgency or emotion, but unmistakably my name. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, the pitch was so neutral, like a voice recorded and played back.

I stood up, shielding my eyes against the dappled light. ‘Hello?’ I shouted back. ‘Who’s there?’ The forest answered with silence, save for the rustle of wind in the pines. But then the voice returned, repeating my name over and over, each repetition a second apart, like a broken record. ‘Elliot. Elliot. Elliot.’ The dogs began to whine, pressing against my legs.

I backed away, grabbing the water bowl and leashes. The chanting followed me, growing neither closer nor fainter, as if it were pinned to the air itself. I walked quickly, then jogged, the dogs pulling ahead. The voice continued, relentless, until I rounded the first bend and the sound cut off abruptly, like a switch flipped. I stopped, panting, and looked back. The road was empty, the forest still.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the sound in my head, the way it called my name as if it knew me, as if it had been waiting for me. I decided to go back the next day, with a friend, to see if I could figure out what it was. My friend, a keen naturalist named Mara, laughed it off as a trick of the wind or a bird. But when we reached the dead end, the voice started again, this time calling my name and then Mara’s. ‘Mara. Elliot. Mara. Elliot.’ She turned pale. ‘We need to leave.’

We didn’t make it far before the voice changed. It started to mimic our own voices, repeating our last words back to us in eerie harmony. ‘We need to leave. We need to leave.’ We ran, and the voice followed, but it never got louder, never closer, just a persistent echo. When we reached the car, it stopped. Mara refused to speak about it, and we drove home in silence.

I should have left it alone, but a week later, I returned alone, determined to understand. This time, the voice didn’t wait for me at the cliff. It started as soon as I stepped onto the gravel. ‘Elliot. You came back.’ I spun around, but there was no one. I walked to the edge and looked down. Below, on a ledge, I saw a small figure, like a child, waving up at me. My blood ran cold. I squinted, and the figure began to move, climbing the cliff face with unnatural speed.

I turned to flee, but the road behind me was gone. Instead, there was a wall of dense, thorny brambles, and the forest floor was covered in a thick, gray moss that didn’t exist here before. The voice now came from everywhere and nowhere, a chorus of my own name, layered and distorted. I ran through the brambles, tearing my skin, but they only grew thicker. The dogs were whimpering, and then Bruno let out a sharp yelp. I looked back to see Pippa was gone, and Bruno was staring into the trees, his tail tucked.

I called for Pippa, but only my name echoed back. ‘Elliot. Elliot.’ I stumbled through the brambles until I broke through onto the logging road again, but it was different. The gravel was darker, the trees were older, and the sky was a bruised purple. A signpost read ‘Milepost 14,’ but I had never seen it before. I heard a crunch behind me and turned to see Pippa standing at the edge of the woods, her head cocked. She let out a low growl.

Then I saw it. A figure emerged from the trees, tall and featureless, like a man made of smoke. It opened its mouth, and from it came the sound of my name, but now it was not a voice—it was a whisper, a hiss, a scream. I ran, but the road looped back on itself, always leading me to the same spot. The figure grew closer, and I could feel its cold fingers on the back of my neck.

I woke up in my own bed, the morning light streaming through the curtains. My heart was pounding. Bruno was asleep at my feet. Pippa was nowhere. The phone rang, and when I answered, there was only silence. Then, a voice, flat and familiar: ‘Elliot.’ I dropped the phone. I knew then that the forest had kept a piece of me, and it would keep calling until I came back. But the road was gone now, replaced by a landslide. And I couldn’t get back. Yet every night, I hear it, faint but constant, as if from deep underground: ‘Elliot. Elliot. Elliot.’

I don’t go outside anymore. The windows are sealed. The doors are locked. But the sound follows me from room to room, and sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see a shadow standing behind me, featureless, with its mouth open in an endless, silent call.