Smoke

An American folk horror tale

(Image: Scott Drzyzga/Flickr (CC By 2.0))

Smoke

Frank drives his beat-up Honda Civic down Route 61, the road winding through the countryside, flanked by trees shedding their foliage in the early fall. Heather sits next to him in the passenger’s seat, her curly blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun.

Their destination is Centralia, Pennsylvania.

“I don’t understand what we’re doing out here, Frank,” she says as she looks out the window.

Frank shrugs. “Everybody does the orchards. I wanted something real. There’s an underground fire that’s been burning since the sixties.”

“Ooh. A fire,” Heather says, rolling her eyes. “Not like I’ve never seen one of those.”

Frank smirks, tapping the steering wheel. “This isn’t some bonfire, Heather. The state bought most of the town. Streets collapsed, smoke coming out of the ground. Like Silent Hill, but real.”

Heather turns from the window, eyebrows raised. “So we’re driving three hours to look at… empty lots and smoke?”

“Not just lots,” Frank says. “There’s a road people call Graffiti Highway. Like, the pavement cracked open and everyone just started painting on it. It’s supposed to be really cool.”

Heather leans her forehead against the glass. The outskirts of the town shows itself in fragments: a rusted sign, a mailbox hanging open, driveways ending in grass. She watches the trees break, revealing telephone poles that march into nowhere.

They round a bend that looks like the highway was re-routed. A sharp curve with a spur hanging off the side. Frank slows the car. What’s left of the old highway sprawls down the spur; a riot of color for about 30 yards, but then a stretch of dirt mounds heaped over the buckled asphalt. Weeds already claw up the piles, their roots tangled in spray-painted fragments still visible beneath: the swoop of a neon letter, half a red skull, a heart split down the middle.

Frank slows down. “That’s it. They shut it down a couple years back… 2020, I think? Just dumped dirt all over it.”

Heather is unimpressed.

They roll past the first street. Just two houses remain on the street, but the remains of others are barely visible in the overgrown brush. Driveways covered in weeds and grass leading to a stark concrete foundation. On the houses that remain, white siding, stained with rust streaks, empty plastic lawn chairs face out towards the street. An old man rakes at leaves that will never stop falling. He doesn’t look up as the Civic passes.

Heather watches as they pass a house, the porch light burning against the afternoon sun. Frank doesn’t seem to notice.

Frank mutters, “Thought it’d be more… I don’t know. Deserted.”

Heather’s eyes stay on the yards, the neatness strained against the backdrop of weed-choked foundations just a block over. “Feels worse this way. Like the town’s pretending to be a town.”

They drive on and find more of the same. Empty lots open between the houses; stone steps rising to grass, a chimney standing alone like a marker. Telephone poles lean over cracked asphalt, wires dangling loose.

Frank slows, craning his neck. “I think this was the main street. Used to be shops here.” He sounds like he’s quoting a brochure. Then quieter: “Doesn’t look badass, though. Just sad.”

Heather doesn’t answer. She watches an abandoned tire swing shift in the breeze as they pass by.

The streets, when they find them, go nowhere. Overgrown arteries that once led to neighbors and shops, now curling into thickets of oak and scrub pine. Street signs stand where no streets remain, green paint faded, letters nearly gone. One pole leans at an angle, its shadow cutting long across a patch of grass where children once played.

Even in daylight, the place feels nocturnal. The sky is clear, the sun bright, but the smoke veils it, bending the light. Colors dim, edges blur. It is the kind of light you find in dream corridors, the kind where the eye adjusts and still cannot find depth.

They keep moving. The houses thin, then vanish altogether. The road narrows, flanked by woods pressing close. Frank grips the wheel tighter.

Heather says, “This is it?”

He nods, forcing a grin. “Big Mine Run Road. The vents are down here.”

Frank pulls the car over next to a narrow asphalt street that’s half-reclaimed by the forest.

They walk it in silence. Frank kicks at a beer can, rusted to orange. Every few steps, a vent in the ground exhales, thin threads of smoke curling into the air, white against the golden hour light. The smell is sharp, metallic, acrid enough to sting the throat.

They keep moving. The road rises and falls, cracked wide in places, revealing black gaps into nothing. When they stop to peer in, smoke drifts up, damp and warm. Heather leans close. It smells like the end of something: a library burning, the ghost of a funeral pyre, a mine collapsing. She pulls back, eyes watering.

The road drops into a pocket of stone, a shallow hollow cut into the hill. Smoke seeps from cracks at the base, thin and constant, curling around empty beer cans and a half-melted lighter left on the ground. Spray paint marks the rocks — crude initials, looping profanity.

Frank kicks at a can, smirking. “Guess this is it. The famous smoke.” He raises his phone, snaps a photo with the vent steaming behind him. “Tourist trap.”

Heather lingers at the edge. The smoke stings her throat, bitter and metallic. She pulls her jacket tighter and shakes her head. “This can’t be all of it.”

He laughs. “What’d you expect? Lava?”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes track higher, to where the rock wall curves back and a narrow cut angles deeper into the trees. Not a trail, not really — just the ghost of one. The brush crowds it, but the ground dips in a way that feels deliberate. A road the woods tried to erase.

“Frank,” she says. “There’s more.”

He follows her gaze, then grins. “Hell yeah there is.”

They push through. The ground underfoot shifts from gravel to packed earth, dark with moisture. The air grows hotter, rank with the tang of sulfur. The trees pull in tight, shutting out the light.

At the end of the path, the forest opens into a clearing, a pile of stone in the center. A vent yawns wide, framed like an altar, black seams bleeding white smoke. Paint clings to the rock in bright circles — red, blue, green, yellow — their shapes warped by soot and time. Not stars, not tulips, but animals: skulls, wings, coils. Some sharp, some blurred by layers of repainting.

Frank squints. “Creepy farm art.”

Heather takes a step closer. The colors are wrong; too bright for the shapes they contain. Her eyes catch on something else, half-buried in the mud and dead vegetation near the rock: a phone, cracked glass glinting faintly through the dirt.

Frank sees it too and rushes forward, digging it out. Mud streaks across the case as he wipes it clean on his jeans.

“Frank, leave it alone.”

He shrugs. “It’s junk. Or maybe it’s not dead. Could be something on it.”

Heather wraps her arms tight around herself, eyes flicking from the phone to the painted animals glaring from the stone. “Frank… let’s just get out of here. I want to go home.”

“Alright, alright. Couple pictures, then we’ll bail.”

Heather doesn’t answer. She stands stiff, arms crossed, eyes on the painted animals glaring through smoke.

Frank takes his photos, and meets Heather on the edge of the clearing. Before long, they’re back at the car. Frank thumbs the side button. The screen stays black. He clicks his tongue. “No juice.”

Before Heather can even close her door, he’s digging out his charger. He pulls a crumpled straw from the console, jabs it into the port to scrape mud loose.

Heather stares at him. “You’re seriously going to plug that thing into our car?”

“Relax.” He slots the cable home. “If it’s dead, it’s dead.”

The phone screen flickers, fractured light bleeding through the cracks in the glass. For a moment it shows nothing but static gray, then a lock screen glows. March 18th. Six months ago. The battery icon creeps into the red.

Frank swipes past the lock, into the gallery. Rows of pictures scroll by — blurry selfies, shots of friends, campus parties. He slows at the last set: videos. Three of them, all stamped the same night.

“Bloomsburg kids,” he mutters. “Shit, I remember this. They went missing.”

Heather hugs her arms close. “Missing?”

“Yeah. Spring semester. It was on the news for like a week.” Frank grins as he taps the first video. “Guess we found their phone.”

The screen jumps, grainy and jerky. Two kids stand in the frame, laughing over each other. Hoodies half-zipped, backpacks loose. Behind them, bare trees ripple in a warm breeze.

A girl’s voice holds the camera steady, her tone practiced: “Okay, so we’re here. Centralia, baby.”

One of the guys in frame throws up a peace sign. “The town that’s literally on fire. Great idea, Jenna.”

Heather shifts in her seat. The Civic smells faintly of smoke, though the vents are shut.

“Okay, okay,” the girl says. “Three, two, one… What’s up, subscribers! Today we’ve got a special video for you — Centralia, Pennsylvania, the real-life ghost town!”

The camera swings wide for a moment. Between the trees, a thin column of smoke drifts up behind them. None of the kids notice.

The video continues, showing the group walking along the path to the vent.

The camera wobbles as they pick their way down the path. She keeps her voice steady, practiced: “You know, Centralia has an interesting history. Before the Europeans came, this land belonged to the Lenape. They sold it to Robert Morris — Revolutionary War hero, signer of the Declaration. But he went bankrupt in… 1793?”

“Oh, the history major speaks,” one of the guys laughs. “Or are you making this up, Jenna.”

Jenna huffs. “Shut up, Kyle. Point is, the land was sold to Stephen Girard, who tapped into the coal seams. Anthracite. Industrial Revolution fuel. They say the veins that still exist are worth three trillion dollars.”

They reach the cliff vent. The camera tilts as Kyle and the other kid scramble onto the rocks, arms wide for balance. White smoke threads up past their sneakers.

Jenna keeps talking. “The weird part is Morris didn’t make bad investments. Some accounts say he went broke fighting to keep something underground. Like… he wasn’t losing money, he was bleeding it.”

“Ooh,” Kyle says, jumping down from the rocks. “Oh sure, haunted by some ancient Lenape ghost fire — spooky.”

“No,” Jenna says. “They say that the mining company found something. Something older than the Lenape. Spooky, right?”

Heather shifts in the Civic, arms tight across her chest. The cracked phone screen flickers once, then goes black.

For a moment, only the low rumble of the engine and the faint hiss of air through the vents. Heather exhales, slow.

Frank taps the screen. “Next one.” He doesn’t wait for her answer. His finger taps, and the second video opens.

The footage jumps back in, shakier this time. The kids are in a clearing, framed by a ring of crude wooden poles, each topped with a painted circle. Bright red, green, yellow, blue. The colors clash against the smoke seeping from the ground. The symbols aren’t barn stars; they’re animals, jaws bared, wings spread.

Heather squints and leans in. “Those… Are those the same symbols we saw on the rocks?”

Frank doesn’t answer.

In the video, Jenna’s voice drops the vlog tone. “Okay, so fun fact, right? Hex signs started showing up in, like, 1830. Same year Girard bought the coal rights. Tell me that’s just a coincidence.”

Kyle laughs, swagger in his voice. “Hexes?” He nudges the other guy. “Go on, Steve. Touch it. I double-dog dare you.”

“I wouldn’t touch those, guys. They… they look important,” Jenna says, the camera shaking slightly.

Steve grins nervously, reaches out. “It’s just paint on wood.”

Jenna’s voice sharpens. “Don’t. I mean it. They look like hex symbols. They’re meant for protection.”

Steve yanks one of the poles half out of the dirt, the painted wooden symbol falling to the ground.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then the painted circle on the ground flares, colors blistering into flame.

The others gasp, backpedaling as heat ripples across the frame. One by one, the other poles catch, each bursting into fire, the clearing lit in a sudden corona of red and gold.

The smoke thickens, rushing against the wind. The camera jostles, someone coughing. Then static, and the end of the video.

Heather looks at Frank, concern painted on her face. Outside the car, the smoke gathers further, creating a thick fog around them.

Frank says, nothing, but presses play on the third video.

The screen snaps alive mid-chaos. The image lurches as someone runs — ground, sky, branches, all blurred. Voices scream over each other: “Go! Go!” “What the fuck was that?” “Keep moving!”

Heavy panting drowns them out.

The camera jolts sideways, hits the ground. The lens stares up at the canopy. Smoke threads across the sky, thicker, darker, shapes forming just at the edge of coherence.

Off-screen, footsteps crash through brush. A cough, wet and ragged. Then a scream that cuts short.

The phone keeps recording. The view doesn’t change. Silence.

Frank lets it play, but Heather finally speaks. “What the fuck what that?”

Frank shakes his head. “I… I don’t know. I guess—”

His speech is cut short by a voice outside the frame, deep and resonant, carrying through the smoke.

“Zerick! Zerick in dei Loch!”

The sound is followed by a rush of air, a howl like wind ripping through dead branches. The camera shakes.

Again, the voice, louder this time, almost swallowed by the roar:

“Zerick! Zerick in dei Loch!”

The smoke convulses, a dark shape folding back into itself. The recording fractures in static, then steadies. A pair of boots stand planted in the frame; black leather scuffed white with ash.

Soft words follow, spoken low in a dialect neither Frank nor Heather understands. Not frantic, but steady, like a prayer. Other voices join, three or four, blending into a low drone.

A lantern lowers into the mud, its glow spilling across the screen. The smoke pulls back just enough to reveal movement: another pair of boots dragging something heavy, like a sack of corn. For a moment it’s just mass, charred and collapsed in on itself. Then the camera catches the faint smear of green — a hoodie, unburnt at the shoulder.

The voices continue, unbroken. The boots near the lantern shift, and a hand reaches down, broad, calloused, nails rimmed dark with soil. Fingers curl around the phone, lifting it from the dirt. The lens tilts upward, catching a face lit by the lantern glow: a bearded man, hair tucked beneath a wide black brim, eyes weary. His clothes are plain: suspenders over a sweat-stained shirt, trousers faded from work. His eyes flick toward the screen, pale and unreadable.

He studies it for a moment, then exhales through his nose.

The video shakes as the man turns the phone over in his palm. With deliberate weight, he presses it face-down into the mud. A boot follows, grinding until the crackle of glass swallows the image.

The screen goes black.

Frank exhales as he speaks. “Guess that’s the end of it.”

Heather doesn’t answer. Her eyes are locked on the treeline. A lantern glow blooms there. The same figure steps through the smoke. Broad hat. Suspenders. Face lined by work and ash.

He doesn’t look at them. He walks past the car, down the path they forced through. The glow lingers among the trees. A murmur carries back, too low to parse. Smoke pulls with it, like breath. Then silence.

The light returns. He steps to the Civic, opens Frank’s door without hurry, and takes the phone from his lap. He studies the phone a long moment, breath fogging the lantern glow, then sinks it into the mud. Glass gives way with a brittle hiss. Smoke threads up once, thin and final.

He leaves the ruined phone on the hood, closes the door, and disappears the way he came.

Frank stares at it, jaw slack. Neither of them speak.