Private Detective Real Life Ghost Story in Woods (Subreddit)

I am a private detective in Slovakia. There's a reason why I stay away from The woods.

I had spent all night chasing ghosts and had the hangover to prove it. Were it not for the shrill ring of the telephone, I would have slept through the whole day.

‘It’s noon,’ the kid said, over the wire. ‘You planning on coming to the office today?’

I wanted to say something witty but last night’s libations only allowed for phlegm-coated coughs.

‘Charming, boss.’ Even though the sky was overcast, the light of the outside world hit my eyes with the tenacity of a freight train. ‘There’s a lady here. Missing person’s case. Says it’s urgent.’

Getting off the couch was a labor fit for Hercules. The prospect of taking on a new case seemed downright impossible. In this economy, however, those that are work shy end up on the street. Once I wheezed off the midnight gin and got my footing, I told the kid I was on my way.

Her figure only accentuated her nervousness. She was a scientist type. All skin and bone with specs that magnified her eyes to the realm of cartoon characters. When I offered her a cigarette she declined. When I asked her if she’d mind me tarring up my lungs while we discussed the case, she didn’t say anything. She just dodged each puff of smoke with a faint look of disgust.

The missing person was Thomas Keenes, a fellow wildlife researcher. He was stationed up near the Polish border observing the denning habits of the Carpathian lynx. Thomas was staying up at the cabin with a ladyfriend of his. The first two weeks of reports he sent back to home base were fairly sparse — probably on account of his female companion.

Last night, however, he sent out a frantic message about seeing flying snakes. When asked for clarification in the morning, there was no response. His research outpost had gone into complete radio silence.

I didn’t make a show of asking why she came to me and not the police. I already knew the answer. The cops didn’t go into the forest. Sure, if there was a missing person’s report they would check eventually, but they would take their sweet time with the paperwork. The journey would take the state boys a week at least. If the client wanted quicker results, they came with a premium.

I do my best to stay out of the woods. Urban life is predictable. Its rhythm is steady and reliable. If things ever go tits up on a job, there’s a decent chance a civilian will call the state boys to get you out of a clinch. As loud and crowded as the city might be, there’s an air of safety in it. Nothing of that sort exists in the wilderness. You’re either on your own or you’re surrounded by things you can’t negotiate with.

I do my best to stay out of the woods, but I was a month behind paying the kid. He’s family and all, but both of us are aware he could be making better money somewhere in the tech sector. Knowing that even blood will eventually come to reclaim debts, I told the scientist broad I would look into her missing colleague.

I gave the kid some of the upfront cash and kept the rest for petty spending. While I made my way up to the cabin, he’d dig around the net for more information about Thomas Keenes and his mysterious female companion.

It was a forty-five-minute drive through hilly country where the radio signal strains. The longer I spent behind the wheel, the worse the sky looked. I feared getting washed off the road into a fiery death below but mercifully enough, the rain didn’t start in earnest until I reached the village. It was last bastion of civilization before Keenes’s cabin. I didn’t want to go to the woods without any upfront intel. Figured the best place to loosen tongues would be at the village pub.

The outside of the establishment had a veranda sheltered by a large tarp bearing the name of a beer that’s been off store shelves since before the country split. The series of worn benches outside of the pub were completely empty with the exception of a scrawny redhead that couldn’t have been older than nineteen.

He had no appetite for words. His attention was solely focused on the mug of stale beer and shot glass of slivovitz he had in front of him. The young buck seemed to be going through some internal crisis I wasn’t privy to. Not wanting my shoes to get wet, I left him to it and went to order a drink.

The pub was filled with a thick curtain of cigarette smoke and the unmistakable scent of manure. An island of mud and grime covered what remained of the doormat and then spread out in dirty tendrils to the tables at which the farmers sat. The table cloth was of tartan plastic and the walls were covered with folk illustrations which decried the evils of alcoholism with a wink and a nod.

When I entered the pub’s all-male clientele was focused on the rerun of *Komisar Rex* on the battered CRT above the fireplace but their attention quickly turned. Their eyes were far from kind. Even though I was an unwelcome guest to the rural clientele, the bartender seemed to be happy for a new customer. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer. Seeing the faded remnants of lipstick on my glass, I ordered a shot of slivovitz for disinfectant.

I wasn’t worried about the state boys making me blow. They stick to the highways and cities. The drinking laws in the sticks are considerably more improvised.

Once I had thoroughly cleansed my digestive tract with the liquor, I got to chatting with the bartender. The man had the friendliness his occupation required of him. He was quick to recall Thomas Keenes and his companion.

The Brit and the American woman had indeed stopped by a couple times, the bartender claimed. Touchy couple but polite enough. Bought a bottle of slivovitz a couple days back. Keenes even spoke a bit of Slovak. Asked something about flying snakes.

At the mention of flying snakes, a gust of forced laughter escaped from the table behind me. By the time I turned my chair, the rest of the patrons uneasily joined in.

‘Excuse me for eavesdropping,’ said a heavy-set man who sat at the head of the table. Unlike the rest of the clientele, his clothes showed no signs of labor or mud. ‘The foreigner was asking about a little rumor that has sprouted in the village. A snake fell out of the sky last autumn right outside of the church. Quite the stimulating event for our little community. All sorts of theories were floating about. Luckily, nothing nefarious was at play. Turns out a stork just made its nest in the church tower. Clumsy bird had us all worried. There’s no article here, if that’s what you’re looking for.’

‘I’m not a journalist,’ I said. ‘I’m a private detective. Looking into the disappearance of Thomas Keenes and his partner.’

‘Fero Halčín, mayor of this humble settlement,’ the heavy man said, getting up. His clothes were clean, but his palms had the blisters of life-long labor. He shook my hand as if he were trying to squeeze the life out of it. ‘I assure you no one in this pub, or this village, knows anything about the researcher. As a representative of the people, I would also advise you to not upset the local population with questions. If the state police want to discuss matters with us, they are more than welcome to visit.’

The tone in his voice suggested that I leave. The glares from the rest of the table only punctuated that suggestion. Not wanting to end up rotting in a ditch somewhere, I took the unspoken advice to heart. I drank as much of the bitter beer as my stomach could handle, put my money on the bar and left.

I was set on getting in my car and driving up to the cabin, but I paused before going back into the rain. The redhaired youth sitting on the veranda had polished off his shot of slivovitz and was about halfway done with his beer. He was doing his best to not meet my gaze. Sensing the loose thread of a mystery, I turned to him.

‘Hey, friend,’ I said, with as much cheer as my hangover would allow. ‘You know anything about the scientist up in the hills?’

The youth recoiled at the sound of my voice. He said he didn’t know anything about any scientist. What he did know though, was that the hills were no place for a man from the city. They were no place for man at all.

With that, he got up and retreated into the rain. I didn’t notice it when I first saw the youth, but there was a strange bracelet around his wrist. Chunky. Metal. Jagged. I watched it as he walked away from me, trying to figure out what it was.

My theorizing didn’t last long. Soon, my cell rang with new information.

‘Did some digging on Thomas Keenes’s companion,’ the poor reception muffled the kid’s voice, but I could hear him fine enough to understand. ‘Veronica Muller, 28, project manager at a headhunting firm on the East Coast, past twenty posts on insta are the Slovakian countryside. More importantly though, there’s an interesting charge on her credit card from yesterday.’

The farmers inside had turned their attention back to *Komisar Rex*. I figured I was safe for a cigarette. ‘Well? Don’t leave me hangin’,’ I said, lighting up.

‘MA 866, Morana Air, Poprad-Tatry to Atlanta. Single ticket. Flew out the night Thomas Keenes went radio silent.’

Despite the hangover, my senses were still kicking. As I breathed out my first puff, I expelled all my doubts about what happened to Keenes.

‘Case solved,’ I said.

‘Is it?’ the kid’s voice replied.

‘Thomas Keenes takes out his gal on a research trip. Bartender said they were a touchy couple. Probably a fresh relationship. Volatile stuff. The lovebirds shack up in the woods, have the time of their lives but then the novelty fades. They fight, she leaves. Keenes suffers a broken heart.’

‘That doesn’t explain anything. What about the radio contact? What about the flying snakes?’

‘They drink rough stuff here. Bartender’s a nice enough fella. Keenes drives down with a broken heart; buys a bottle of something he can’t handle and boom — sends a rambling message back to home base. Maybe messes up his equipment in the stupor.’

‘What about the flying snakes?’

‘Red Herring. Drunken babbles. No such thing as flying snakes.’

‘I don’t know, boss,’ the kid says. ‘Flying snakes wouldn’t be the first thing my mind would go to if someone broke up with me.’

‘That’s cause you’re young, kid,’ I say. ‘Never had your heart broken.’

 

The road that led up to the cabin was a road in only the loosest sense of the word. Even though the GPS denoted it as a possible route for a car, it was solely suited for tractors. The rain turned the packed earth into slippery mud and threatened to send me sliding into the tree line, but the old motor persevered. By the time I could see the cabin the GPS had nothing to say. The signal had faded into obscurity.

Seeing the truck parked by the cabin gave me a sense of calm. If the car was still there, the chances of Thomas Keenes being in the area were solid. For a moment, I congratulated myself on my detective skills. The closer I got to the cabin, however, the more my theory started to faulter.

If what transpired between Thomas Keenes and Veronica Muller had indeed been a domestic scuffle, it was one for the history books. The truck was the one thing that seemed untouched by violence. The door to the cabin was knocked flat off its hinges. The windows were jagged portals of smashed glass. Down by an apple tree, just a dozen meters away from the cabin, lay a broken internet router.

The question of why the cabin had gone radio silent was answered, but my theory about Keenes’s broken heart was starting to crumble. The router wasn’t smashed up in a drunken rage. The plastic was bent and cracked inwards, as if it had been squeezed. I doubted that Keenes could crunch the piece of tech with his bare hands. I was starting to doubt whether it had been destroyed by a man at all.

One look inside of the cabin whipped away all my questions about the router. Thomas Keenes was curled up in the fetal position next to the smashed-up fireplace.

He was dead. He was *very* dead.

The sight of the cabin and state of the router cast doubt on my initial theory of Keenes’s broken heart. The state of his corpse completely blew it out of the water.

His skin was a purplish hue and his bloodshot eyes were bulging out of his skull. Were I not told that he was still communicating with the outside world 48 hours ago, I would have presumed he’d been dead for at least a week. Past the swelling of his discolored flesh, however, I could see the dents of teeth marks.

Snakebites.

Suddenly, the idea of flying serpents didn’t seem like a red herring. It seemed entirely too real. I took out my phone to update the kid. The lack of signal shot an involuntary wheeze out of my lips. The corpse needed further observation but I wanted to count the remainder of my time inside the cabin in seconds. With the camera function on cell, I took a snapshot of the crime scene. 

The circuitry in the phone had decided that the room was too dark for a photograph. Without my consent, the camera lit up the room with a flash. That burst of light set a terrible series of events in motion.

That burst of light nearly ended my life.

A hiss rose from within the smashed-up fireplace. Before I had a chance to properly register the sound, two reptilian eyes were staring at me from the dark ash. I was face to face with a massive serpent.

Running out of the cabin did nothing to dissuade my pursuer. With sweat rolling down my brow, I tried to lift the dislodged cabin door and use it to block the flying snake’s path. It was useless. The winged reptile met the wood with the force of a battering ram. With my breath beat out of my chest, I found myself lying in the mud, surrounded by the splintered remains of the door.

The wings that spread up the animal’s spine were like those of a humming bird. They struggled to keep the serpent in the air and left its body sagging towards the ground in places. As small as the wings of the creature were, however, it moved no slower for them. In an instant, the beast circled back to its pray. It floated above me, incomprehensible — a fevered nightmare brought into the world of flesh and blood.

A pair of misshapen fangs extended from the creature’s mouth. With a low, terrible hiss, globs of chunky purple spit started to trickle down onto my duster. I could feel the hot venom burning through the fabric. I was certain I was going to meet my end to this abomination of biology.

Just as the winged serpent was about to deliver its killing blow, I heard a jarring sound whine through the forest. It was like a mix of television static and nails being dragged across a chalkboard.

The snake was suddenly whipped towards the tree-line.

I scrambled to my feet and pulled out my revolver. My mind was frantic with shock, but my training was starting to kick in. My gun was in my hand and I was ready to shoot, but the moment I took account of my surroundings my knees went weak once more.

Two thick vine-like tendrils were holding down the snake in the muddy grass. They were connected to a creature — a beast even further away from conventional biology than the snake.

The amalgamation resembled a cat, but it did so in the loosest sense. Even though it had a remotely feline shape, the creature had six legs and was covered in a layer of leaves and grass. At its back sat a bulbous mass of foreign flowers from which the vine tendrils spread.

‘Don’t shoot!’ yelled the scrawny redhead. He was standing behind the strange cat creature. A metal cube which could have fit into his strange bracelet was sitting in his hand. ‘Bullets won’t stop the snake. Don’t shoot.’

The winged snake was thrashing on the ground, pinned by the vine covered tendrils. They were squeezing the reptile. Hard. The middle of the beast’s body looked like it was about to burst under the pressure. The snakes will to fight started to fade. Soon enough, it was barely moving.

‘Enough,’ said the scrawny villager to the six-legged cat. ‘Enough, I said!’

With some reluctance, the tendrils loosened and retreated to where they came from. The winged snake lay in the grass, twitching on the edge of life and death.

The cube in the villager’s hand let out a distinctive click when it was aimed at the winged serpent. The same horrid static hush scratched across the forest again. In a bright flash, the snake creature disappeared.

‘What the hell was that?’ I demanded, but the villager was too focused on the glowing cube in his hand. My question didn’t register with the youth, but it did get the attention of the six-legged cat. For a moment the creature stared at me with its slitted eyeballs and then, with the swiftness of a circus whip, it shot one of its tendrils across my wrist.

With ease, the thing lifted me off my feet. I had been saved from the flying serpent, but I was now dangling in the air held up by an even more terrible creature.

‘No!’ the youth screamed, as he saw me aim my gun. ‘Don’t shoot it!’

I didn’t give a damn about his opinion. All I wanted was to be standing on solid ground. I aimed my gun at the creature’s skull and pulled the trigger.

The shot would have hit its target, but the villager was quicker. In another flash of light, the creature disappeared and my shot hit the wet earth. Momentarily, my body hit the ground as well.

‘What the hell was that?’ I asked, again, climbing to my feet. ‘Where the hell did those things come from?’

It was just the two of us in the forest now. The red-haired villager met my eyes with caution. ‘You don’t want to know,’ he said, gravely. ‘You don’t want to know anything about what happened to Thomas Keenes or the flying snakes and you certainly don’t want to learn anything about Professor Willow. If you know what’s good for you, get out of the forest while you still can.’

With that, the kid ran off.

I didn’t chase him. Instead, I retreated to my car and lit a cigarette to calm my nerves. Getting the car out of the mud was a lengthy task, but it gave me time to think. Over the labored whines of the engine, I considered the question of Keenes and the redhead and the flying snakes. I had no idea who this Professor Willow character was and by the time I had managed to get the car back on a civilized road I had decided to keep it that way.

The village youth was right. Some cases aren’t worth the squeeze. They’re not mysteries to solve. They’re reminders that a man shouldn’t spend more time in the woods than he has to. 

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