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Set in the shadowed wilderness of Cumberland Gap, The Widow of the Gap tells the chilling tale of Elspeth Harper, a frontier woman whose husband got sick on the trail while crossing the mountains in the late 1700s. Heartbroken but refusing to leave, she stayed behind and camped at the edge of the Gap long after the settlers moved on. During a brutal storm, with no sign of Elspeth, her lantern was still burning, hanging from a limb.

Centuries later, travelers and night watchmen report seeing a pale woman wandering near the old wagon road, clutching a lantern that never goes out, her dress faded, hair loose and wild, walking the ridge-line with a light that doesn’t flicker. Locals say she still searches for her husband’s spirit, calling softly through the fog. Others whisper she’s not looking for him anymore—she’s looking for company.

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Down along Blackwater Creek, where the mist never lifts and the frogs fall silent before dawn, folks still whisper about the woman in white who walks the water’s edge. They say she lost her baby to a flood more than a hundred years ago, and every night since, her spirit searches the banks, callin’ soft through the fog.

Those who’ve heard her lullaby say it ain’t no song meant for the livin’.
If you answer, she’ll lead you into the current, gentle as sleep, certain as death.

So if you hear singin’ near the creek before sunrise…
don’t look.
Don’t listen.
And whatever you do, don’t follow.

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Out past Jonesville, Virginia, where Route 666 winds through the holler, an old swinging bridge still hangs over the Powell River, creakin’, swayin’, and whisperin’ to the night. They say a preacher fell there one stormy evening in 1939, and ever since, his lantern’s been seen driftin’ through the mist, hummin’ hymns for the dead.

Generations have heard the hooves, seen the light, and felt the boards tremble beneath their feet, but some say the bridge don’t just haunt, it hungers. Every few years, it takes another soul to keep the river quiet.

So if you ever find yourself drivin’ Route 666 after midnight and see a light swingin’ over the water…don’t stop, because that bridge always remembers who’s crossed her, and she always makes room for one more.

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Deep in the hollers of Lee County, Virginia, folks still whisper about a creature that ain’t quite dead, and ain’t rightly alive neither. They call her Calla, the Skin That Walks, a vengeful boo hag who sheds her skin at night and prowls the ridgelines, huntin’ for the warmth she lost long ago.

In this Appalachian ghost tale, told in the voice of an older mountain woman who’s seen too much and speaks just soft enough to chill your bones, we learn that Calla weren’t always a monster. Once she was flesh and heart and sorrow, till betrayal and witchcraft bound her to the dark.

Now, when the moon rises full and red, the wind carries her breath across the valley, and any poor soul foolish enough to cross her path might just wake to find their skin missin’.

Sit close to the fire, child, and don’t you dare fall asleep ‘fore this story’s done.

‘Cause The Skin That Walks ain’t just a tale.

It’s a warnin’.

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