The Second Rope

My cousin Greta and I never believed in ghosts. We were practical people, raised on a farm in the dry hills of eastern Oregon, where every creak in the old barn had a logical explanation—a loose board, a nesting owl, the shifting of hay. But the summer we turned fourteen, our father sent us to stay with our great-aunt Mabel in the small town of Pine Hollow, nestled at the base of the Cascade Range. Aunt Mabel was a retired park ranger, a sturdy woman with a face like a crumpled map, and she lived in a two-story house that smelled of mothballs and cedar. She had no television, but she had a library wall of books, many of them about the mountain behind her property—Mount Thorne.

Aunt Mabel told us stories, but not the kind we wanted. She spoke of the winter of ’74, when a group of hikers went up Mount Thorne and never came back, their bodies found the following spring, still roped together. She told us of the ‘Thorne Hollow,’ a narrow valley between two ridges where the wind made a sound like a crying child. But her most persistent story was about the ‘Second Rope’—a ghostly climbing rope, frayed and gray, that she claimed to have seen coiling down from a cliff face near the summit. ‘If you see it,’ she said, her voice low, ‘you’ve already gone too far.’

We laughed at her, of course. Teenagers, we thought we knew better. One afternoon, when Aunt Mabel was called away on an errand, we decided to sneak up Mount Thorne ourselves. It was a clear day, the sky a bowl of endless blue, and the trail was well-marked. We packed a small knapsack with water and a couple of granola bars, and we headed up the winding switchbacks. The air grew thinner and cooler, the pines gave way to bare rock and scrubby alpine plants. At noon, we reached a rocky overlook where we could see the whole valley below, with Pine Hollow a patch of green and brown. We felt like conquerors.

We sat down to rest, and Greta noticed something on the cliff face just above us—a length of rope, white as bone, dangling over the edge. At first, we thought it must be a climbing anchor, but as we looked closer, we saw it was old, unraveling, its fibers bleached by sun. The rope ended in a frayed noose, swaying gently in the breeze. We looked at each other, a flicker of unease passing between us. ‘Maybe it’s a warning,’ I said, trying to sound calm. But Greta, ever the skeptic, said, ‘Probably just climbing gear they left behind. Let’s see where it goes.’

She started to climb up the talus slope toward the rope, and I followed, my heart beating faster with each step. When we reached the rope, we saw that it disappeared over the edge of the cliff, into the hollow below. The wind picked up, carrying a low, mournful sound—like a voice, or maybe just the wind through the rocks. Greta gripped the rope, and I grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘Let’s go back.’ But she laughed, and she started to pull on the rope. She pulled, and the rope was taut, as if anchored to something heavy. She pulled again, and I heard a creaking sound from below.

Suddenly, the rope went slack, and Greta stumbled backward. A cloud passed over the sun, casting the hollow into deep shadow. The sound grew louder—not just a wind, but a moaning, a chorus of voices, muffled and desperate. And then I saw them: a line of figures, dressed in tattered climbing gear, emerging from the hollow, one by one, linked by a long rope that looked just like the one we held. They moved slowly, their faces obscured by hoods, their shoulders hunched. The air grew cold, and I could see my breath. Greta’s eyes were wide, her mouth open, but no sound came out.

One figure, larger than the rest, stopped and turned toward us. Its face was shrouded, but I could feel its gaze burning through the gloom. It raised a hand, and in its hand was a loop of rope—the end of the line. It beckoned to us, a slow, deliberate gesture, as if inviting us to join. Greta let go of the rope and grabbed my hand, her grip like iron. We turned to run, but the trail behind us had vanished, replaced by a sheer face of rock. We were trapped on a narrow ledge, with the ghostly procession blocking our only escape.

We stood there, frozen, as the figures shuffled closer, their moans now clear, coherent: ‘One more… one more…’ The leader reached us and stopped, holding out the rope. It did not speak, but I understood its silent command: take the rope. Greta, trembling, whispered, ‘We have to do it.’ I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. But the figure reached out and placed the rope in my palm. It was cold, slimy, as if fresh from a river. Almost against my will, my fingers closed around it.

And then, everything went white. I felt a violent tug, and I was pulled off the ledge, into the hollow. Greta screamed, but her voice was drowned by the chorus. We were falling, but not falling—it was more like being dragged through a frozen darkness, the rope cutting into my palms. I couldn’t see Greta, but I could hear her crying. After what felt like an eternity, I slammed onto a hard surface, my lungs empty. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a narrow crevice, with Greta beside me. Above us, the ghostly figures loomed, still holding the rope, and I realized we were now part of their line, linked by the same frayed cord.

I don’t know how long we lay there. Time had no meaning. The figures stood still, their hooded faces now turned away, staring out at a grey void that was not the mountain. The moaning had stopped, replaced by an eerie silence. Greta and I exchanged a look, and in that look, I saw a future of endless wandering, of being forever bound to this spectral expedition. We had become the Second Rope, the lost hikers of Mount Thorne, joining the others in their eternal climb.

Aunt Mabel found us three days later, huddled in a shallow cave near the summit, unconscious but alive. She never told us what she saw, but she cut the ropes from the cave, and she carried us down the mountain herself. When we woke in her kitchen, we were wrapped in blankets, our hands bandaged, our minds a blur of images—the moaning, the cold, the rope.

To this day, I cannot look at a climbing rope without feeling that cold slime in my palms. Greta and I never speak of it, for if we do, we hear the moans again, and we see the hooded figures waiting. And I know, with a certainty that chills my soul, that the Second Rope is still up there, dangling from that cliff, waiting for the next person to come across it. And if you ever do, do not pull. Do not touch. Run. Because once you take that rope, you become part of the line, and the mountain will never let you go.