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Don't Wear Red in the Appalachian Mountains

Written by Zacharias Frost.

It was just another normal walk. That's how it started anyway.

A casual morning stroll on the forested trail that ran behind my parents' house.

They own a home on a couple acres in the

small town of Skyline, Alabama. At the time, I was in between jobs and had been living with them

as I tried to get back on my feet. Their property intersects with a winding trail that ran for miles

through some unkempt woods in the boonies.

In the morning the Appalachian hills would come alive with the songs of birds and fluttering of insects.

The crimson sunrise would paint a beautiful portrait as it filtered down through the bristling leaves of aspen and spruce trees.

There was something about the place that just made me feel appease.

It was like all the stress and anxiety of modern-day worries just faded away.

It was my Zen place, until the day it was shattered forever.

The day it happened, I woke up a bit before dawn, had my coffee, and went out for an early

morning walk.

The sun had just begun to creep over the horizon when I left the house.

I had planned I'm being gone any longer than an hour, and it had only been walking about

15 minutes when I noticed something strange.

The path around me was oddly silent, with the only noise coming from the sounds of my own

footsteps against the gravel.

The usual sounds of the woodland creatures or the wind gently rustling the trees were

...