Dear detectives, if you're ever alone in the Appalachian Mountains and hear someone calling your name from the woods, do not answer.

Even if it sounds exactly like your mother.

Even if you can see your friend standing right beside you.

And if the forest suddenly goes completely silent?

Girl, whatever you're doing, LEAVE. 😭

Because Appalachia has a set of rules that sound like the ramblings of someone who's watched way too many horror movies. Until you start hearing the stories behind them.

And suddenly, staying home with your Netflix and snacks doesn't sound so boring anymore.

The Appalachian Mountains stretch across eastern North America, through a vast landscape of forests, valleys, remote communities and mountains so old they've existed for hundreds of millions of years.

Some roads wind through miles of woodland without a house in sight. Some areas become so dark at night that the familiar world practically disappears.

And Appalachia has folklore to match.

Stories of strange lights floating over mountains. Creatures that imitate human voices. Things that look almost human until you notice something is very, very wrong.

The region has deep-rooted traditions and stories passed down through generations, including those of Indigenous peoples whose histories long predate European settlement.

And among the modern stories shared by locals and folklore enthusiasts is a collection of supposed rules for surviving the woods.

Some sound like common sense.

Others make you wonder what happened to the person who decided they needed to be written down.

Rule number one: Never whistle in the mountains.

Which is unfortunate, because apparently even humming along to your favourite song can become a questionable life decision.

And one woman learned that the hard way.

Welcome to another episode of The Crime Times, your weekly dose of chilling crimes, bizarre mysteries, and stories that will make you question everything.

Keep your lights off, wear your detective hat and let’s get back to this week’s case.

Marlin travelled from Madison, Wisconsin, to North Carolina for a little heritage trip. Her grandmother had grown up near Morganton, and Marlin wanted to explore her family's roots while enjoying a writing retreat in the mountains.

She booked a gorgeous cabin near Jonas Ridge. Exposed wooden ceilings, enormous windows, cosy furniture. The kind of place you'd photograph for Instagram and immediately start looking up property prices.

Her grandmother had told her stories about the mountains, including warnings about whistling after dark and leaving a welcome mat facing the wrong way.

Marlin remembered the rules.

Mostly.

During the drive, she played her grandmother's favourite Dolly Parton song and caught herself whistling along. She stopped when she remembered the warning.

But she'd barely been whistling, right? And she was inside her car.

Surely, nothing could hear that.

By the time she reached the cabin, she'd forgotten about it.

She even turned the welcome mat upside down, just in case.

(One point for effort, Marlin. Unfortunately, we're not convinced the mountains care about effort.)

That afternoon, Marlin went for a walk with her notebook. She found a little creek, settled down to sketch and noticed a bright red cardinal near the opposite bank.

Cute little bird. Lovely scenery. Peaceful afternoon.

Except the cardinal dipped its head into the water.

And didn't lift it back out.

Marlin watched as the water continued flowing over the bird. She called out, tried to startle it, and eventually stood up, alarmed.

Nothing worked.

After a few moments, the bird went still and floated away.

Now, birds can behave strangely for perfectly natural reasons. But Marlin couldn't shake what she'd seen.

She returned to the cabin, tried to look up the behaviour on her phone and discovered she had no signal.

Of course she did.

That evening, she sat down to dinner and began choking on a piece of chicken.

After a frantic struggle, she managed to dislodge it.

But when she looked at what she'd spat onto the floor, she noticed something odd.

It appeared to be a bright red feather.

Like the cardinal's.

She told herself it was probably nothing, threw it away and poured herself some wine.

Because if the mountains were trying to tell her something, apparently Marlin's response was to have a relaxing evening.

Later that night, Marlin was watching Netflix when she noticed a red glow outside her window.

A small, perfectly round light.

She remembered the stories about the mysterious Brown Mountain Lights, strange luminous phenomena reported in the North Carolina mountains.

Maybe she'd finally see one herself.

She put down her glass and approached the window.

Then she realised the red light wasn't floating over the hills.

It was looking straight at her.

It was an eye.

Marlin screamed and stumbled backwards.

Outside stood a huge, dark shape. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out the head of a stag and the outline of its antlers.

She yelled at it to go away.

The creature backed away from the window. She heard its hooves knocking against the wooden decking as it moved off into the darkness.

Marlin barely slept.

But surely, once the sun came up, she could pack her things and leave.

Easy.

Except morning brought one final nightmare.

Marlin opened the cabin door, ready to throw everything into her car and get out of there.

And stopped.

The decking was covered in what looked like ribbons of red, pink, purple and blue.

Then the smell hit her.

Blood.

Flies swarmed around the remains of a stag. Its head rested near the upside-down welcome mat.

The mountain breeze lifted the exposed lengths of flesh, making them whistle in the wind.

Remember that first rule?

Never whistle in the mountains.

Marlin ran to her car.

And honestly, detectives? We would not have waited around to find out what the other rules meant either.

But if you think the scariest thing in these mountains is a creature standing outside your window, wait until you hear what happened to Charlie.

Charlie grew up in the mountains of West Virginia. He knew the forests, the trails and the darkness that settled over the landscape after sunset.

One night, while his parents were away, he went for a walk with his friend Mark.

They'd walked the trail before. They weren't worried.

At first, the woods sounded normal. Branches snapped. Birds called from the trees. Something moved through the undergrowth.

Then, suddenly, everything stopped.

No insects.

No breeze.

No birds.

Just silence.

And then they heard a voice.

It sounded distorted, almost mechanical, like a broken doll trying to speak.

Both men froze before bolting back along the trail.

They stopped to catch their breath.

The voice came again.

The same strange sound, apparently coming from the same distance behind them.

They ran harder.

Then, near the edge of the woods, the voice finally became clear.

It called Charlie by name.

Mark backed away in terror. Charlie could barely move.

He'd grown up hearing stories about things in the woods calling people by name. He'd always thought they were stories meant to keep children from wandering off alone.

Now he was standing in the dark, listening to something call for him.

Again.

“Charlie.”

Mark grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the house.

And that's when the voice changed.

A scream erupted from the woods. It was so unnatural and violent that both men knew they needed to get out immediately.

Birds burst from the trees. Small animals scattered across the path. Charlie stumbled, desperately trying to keep up with Mark as they ran for the edge of the forest.

They finally reached the house, exhausted and terrified.

Mark asked the question neither of them could answer.

“Why was it calling you, Charlie?”

Charlie didn't know.

They went inside and tried to sleep.

Then, just as Charlie was drifting off, he heard something outside his window.

A voice.

Calling his name again.

Here's what makes Appalachian folklore so fascinating: the landscape itself is real, the mountains are ancient, and the darkness of those remote forests can be unsettling without anything supernatural happening at all.

But the stories have survived because people keep telling them.

Some are cautionary tales. Some are local legends. Others are personal accounts that leave people wondering what they actually experienced.

And the rules? They make one thing very clear: if you hear something calling your name in the woods, you don't need to investigate.

You don't need to prove you're brave.

You can simply go home.

So, detectives...

If you were alone in a cabin and saw a red eye staring through your window, would you investigate, or would you be halfway down the mountain before it had a chance to blink?

Hit reply. We want your theories.

And please, for the love of everything, don't whistle in the mountains.

— The Crime Times

Your smartest friend who's dangerously obsessed with the weird stuff.