Imagine this: you’re standing by a quiet creek, the kind where the water whispers secrets as it slips over smooth stones. The air is crisp, the forest alive with the hum of nature. You cast your fishing line, hoping for a bite, but instead, you hear a voice-low, unfamiliar, creeping through the trees. Your heart skips. Is it a friendly hiker? Or something else entirely? That’s exactly where Ricky Williams found himself one fateful afternoon in May 2008, on the banks of Dismal Creek. And let me tell you, this story? It’s one that’ll make your skin crawl.
There’s something about the Appalachian Trail that pulls you in. It’s this 2,200-mile ribbon of wilderness stretching along the East Coast, a place where hikers chase solitude, adventure, and maybe a little bit of themselves. But it’s not all breathtaking vistas and camaraderie. Sometimes, the trail hides shadows-dark ones. I’ve always been fascinated by how a place so beautiful can hold such unsettling stories. Haven’t you ever wondered what’s really out there, beyond the next bend?
Ricky, a 54-year-old fisherman, was no stranger to the trail. He’d been camping in the woods for weeks, his food supply dwindling, his dog his only companion. Picture him: a wiry guy, a little frail from hunger, casting his line into Dismal Creek, hoping for trout. The name “Dismal” might sound grim, but the spot was gorgeous-secluded, nestled high on a mountain. Ricky loved it out there, you know? The quiet, the peace, the way the forest felt like home. But that day, something felt… off.
His dog started whining, shifting nervously, like it sensed a predator. Then, Ricky heard it-a voice, moving closer through the woods. His stomach knotted. Was this a friendly hiker, bound by the trail’s unwritten code to help a stranger? Or was it someone-or something-else? You see, the Appalachian Trail has a dark side. Over the decades, there’ve been murders. One, a brutal double homicide, happened just two miles from where Ricky stood, back in 1981. The killer? A man named Randall Lee Smith. That name lingered in the minds of locals, a ghost that haunted the trail.
So, there’s Ricky, heart pounding, when a man steps out from the trees. Early 30s, friendly grin, introducing himself as Scott Johnston. Relief washes over Ricky like a cool breeze. Scott’s a camper, just like him, fishing with a buddy nearby. And here’s the best part: Scott’s generous. He tosses Ricky energy bars, a bag of chips, even some fresh bait. They fish together for hours, the trout finally biting, the day turning into something almost perfect. Scott even invites Ricky back to his campsite for dinner. For a guy who’s been living on scraps, that’s a lifeline. Who wouldn’t say yes?
But as they head into the forest, the sun dipping low, things start to feel… weird. Scott’s fishing pole snags on a branch, and he tells Ricky to go on ahead. “It’s just up the hill,” he says. Ricky hesitates but trudges forward, his dog at his side. When he steps into the clearing, he freezes. There’s a man by the campfire-huge, hulking, twice Scott’s size. This must be Scott’s friend, Shawn. But Shawn doesn’t look happy to see Ricky. He grabs a club, glaring like Ricky’s an intruder. The air feels thick, tense. You ever get that gut feeling that something’s just not right? That’s where Ricky was.
Scott arrives, smoothing things over, introducing Shawn. But the vibe? It’s off. Shawn’s cold, almost hostile, while Scott’s overly friendly, pushing Ricky to sit by the fire. Country music blares from Scott’s truck, shattering the forest’s peace. Ricky winces. To him, the trail’s sacred, a place for quiet reflection, not this. He tries to shake it off, sitting awkwardly next to Shawn, who’s now cleaning fish with a knife that glints in the firelight. Ricky offers to help, but they brush him off. “We got this,” they say. So he sits, watching those blades flash, his unease growing.
Here’s where it gets personal for me. I’ve camped in places like that, where the night feels alive, like it’s watching you. You tell yourself it’s just the wind, the rustle of leaves. But sometimes, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re not alone. Ricky was there, trying to make small talk to calm his nerves. He told them how the trail was his sanctuary, how he’d meditate, even chant, to connect with nature. It was his way of honouring the wild. But as he spoke, he noticed their looks-half-listening, half-judging. Like they thought he was some weird old hermit. Ever shared something personal and felt it land all wrong? That’s what Ricky felt, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.
The fish cooked, and they ate in silence. By 8 p.m., it was pitch dark, and Ricky was done. He thanked them, grabbed his dog, and started walking back to his own camp. But just a few steps into the woods, he stopped. Something made him turn back. And then-BANG. A sound like an explosion ripped through the forest. Ricky spun around, heart in his throat, and saw Shawn and Scott staring at each other, faces frozen in shock. Shawn touched his face, his hand coming away red. Blood. He’d been shot.
What happened next is pure chaos. Ricky, the frail fisherman, wasn’t who he seemed. He was Randall Lee Smith-the same Randall Lee Smith who’d killed those hikers in 1981. And he wasn’t done. He charged back into the campsite, firing his gun. Shawn, shot in the face, staggered and fell. Scott bolted, but Randall shot him too, hitting his neck and back. Somehow, Scott kept running, vanishing into the woods. Randall turned back to Shawn, still on the ground, and shot him in the chest. But Shawn? He wasn’t done fighting. Adrenaline surging, he leapt up, sprinted to his Jeep, and peeled out. As he rounded a corner, he saw Scott stumble onto the road. Scott climbed in, and they sped toward help.
Four miles away, two women eating dinner heard frantic knocking. One peered out, then opened the door to find Scott, drenched in blood, a pulsing wound in his neck. “Please help me,” he gasped, mentioning Dismal Creek before collapsing. Shawn was still in the Jeep, too weak to move. The women called 911, and soon ambulances and police swarmed the scene. Meanwhile, police racing toward Dismal Creek spotted a truck careening down the mountain. It swerved, then crashed into an embankment, flipping wildly. The driver? Randall Lee Smith.
When police searched Dismal Creek, they found Randall’s campsite-not the one he’d shared with Shawn and Scott, but another, hidden in the woods. Inside his tent, they found a chilling collection: 30 knives, a police scanner, piles of clothes, eyeglasses, women’s underwear, and a map of the Appalachian Trail with circled locations, including Dismal Creek. A cassette tape played a haunting chant, like some twisted ritual. And there, on a single piece of paper, was Randall’s birth certificate, tying it all together.
Randall, it turns out, had been paroled in 1996 after serving 15 years for the 1981 murders. He’d lived quietly with his mother until 2008, when he returned to the trail-his sacred place. Why he targeted Shawn and Scott, no one knows. Maybe he saw them as intruders, disrespecting his wilderness. Maybe his fractured mind saw threats where there were none. Shawn and Scott, bless them, survived. They even go back to Dismal Creek, reclaiming the place that nearly took their lives.
I can’t stop thinking about this story. It’s not just the horror of it, though that’s enough to keep you up at night. It’s the way kindness-Shawn and Scott’s generosity-collided with something so dark. The Appalachian Trail is supposed to be a place of community, where hikers look out for each other. But what happens when the person you help isn’t who they seem? It makes you wonder: how well can we ever know the strangers we meet? Next time you’re out in the wild, will you listen a little closer to the whispers in the trees?