Gide, mates, it's B-Buster here.

And before the episode begins, I would just like to let you know that Be Scared,

which is produced along with Studio 71,

feature scary stories from around the globe on a weekly basis

that aim to fuel your nightmares with a smile.

And if you enjoy the podcast, it would be great if you could hit that subscribe button

and drop a review.

Thanks for listening, guys.

And without further ado, let's begin.

There's a stretch of the cascade range between White Pass and goat rocks that feels wrong when the sun dips behind the ridge line.

It's the kind of place where sound doesn't carry right, where the bogs breathe steam, even when the air's cold and still.

I used to think that that kind of talk was

trail superstition, just stories meant to keep through hikers cautious on the Pacific Crest Trail.

Well, that was before last July. So I'd been heading southbound after flipping at the Sierra, pushing long days to make up some time.

It was late afternoon, the sky a heavy gold through the haze, when I realized that I hadn't seen another hiker in almost two days now.

The section before White Pass is swampy too, ankle-deep water, slick roots, the kind of terrain that steals your speed and your confidence.

I must have been about an hour from where I'd planned to camp when I saw him.

He stepped out of the side of the trail like he'd been waiting for me, tall, wiry, wearing short khaki shorts, and a faded windbreaker zipped up to his throat.

His hair was white, puffed like frost, and his backpack looked ancient, a boxy canvas sort of thing,

with metal buckles that clattered when he moved. Southbounder?

He asked immediately, breathless, like the words had been sitting on his tongue too long.

Uh, yeah, I said, adjusting my pack.

...