Marietta, Georgia. October 6 1997

I was about 17 years old at the time, still feeling invincible in the way only teenagers can. It was a crisp, late afternoon in the fall, maybe a week or two before Halloween. My friend, Tina, and I were out on a typical adventure: driving around with no real destination. Our journey took us to a place we'd heard about from older kids at school—a spooky spot called the "Witch's Graveyard" in Marietta, near the train tracks and an old covered bridge.

The cemetery itself was small and overgrown, a place of crooked headstones and gnarled trees. We spent a good hour there, laughing and taking photographs of the graves in the fading light. As the sun began to set, casting long, eerie shadows, the atmosphere shifted from thrilling to genuinely unsettling. The air grew colder, and a shiver ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

"Let's go," I said to Tina, my voice barely a whisper. She nodded, her eyes wide. We walked back to her car, a beat-up silver sedan, and I got in the driver's seat. Tina, ever the backseat driver, was already fumbling with her seatbelt. The engine coughed to life, and I began to drive home. My plan was to go around the corner, through the covered bridge, and take a right towards the train tracks.

The covered bridge was narrow and smelled of damp wood and old memories. As we drove through it, the sound of the tires on the wooden planks was deafening. The other side of the bridge opened to a narrow, winding road with a small river on the right side. The trees were a thick canopy overhead, making the light fade even faster. As I got closer to the train tracks, a sudden, jarring sight brought me to a halt.

Up ahead, on the left side of the road, was a red pickup truck. It was a big, old Ford, and it looked like it hadn't been washed in years. The driver's door was open, and I saw five men getting out. Four of them were white, and one was Black. My eyes immediately went to the Black man. He was beaten and bruised, his face swollen. A rope was tied around his neck, and a cruel-looking noose hung from a tree branch above him.

The four white men were all carrying shotguns. They were big, intimidating guys in work boots and denim jackets. They looked angry. I slowed down, my foot hovering over the brake, trying to process what was happening. Tina gasped beside me, her hand over her mouth.

Two of the men began gesturing wildly to the driver of the red truck. He was a skinny guy with a baseball cap on backward. He looked over at our car, then pointed directly at us. That’s when the terror became real. This wasn't some strange, isolated incident; we were now a part of it. I slammed my foot on the gas and took off as fast as I could. I went under the train tracks and swerved the car onto the main road. I drove with my heart in my throat, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, trying to get out of there.

I thought we were safe until I got to the traffic light on Thornton Road. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a black pickup truck behind us. The light turned green, and I turned left. The truck followed. My stomach dropped. As it got closer, I saw that two of the guys in the truck were two of the men from the bridge. The sight of their angry faces was enough to confirm my worst fears.

“They’re following us!” Tina shrieked, her voice shaking.

“I know!” I yelled, my eyes darting from the road to the rearview mirror. I decided to try and lose them. I drove through residential neighborhoods, turning left and right down familiar streets. We passed by houses with Halloween decorations, the plastic ghosts and witches a cruel mockery of our situation. But the truck still followed, its headlights a relentless glare in my rearview mirror.

I had been driving for an hour, my mind a frantic mess of fear and confusion. I couldn't lose them. Every turn, every change of speed, they matched. My gas tank was getting low, and I knew I couldn't keep this up forever. A desperate thought came to me. I decided to go to the police department. It was a long shot, but it was the only option I had left. The truck stayed on my tail the whole time, a shadow in the night.

I got right into the police parking lot, a well-lit space in front of the station. The truck slowed down but didn't follow me in. It just sped off into the night. I felt a wave of relief so intense it made my legs weak.

I parked the car in front of the police station. I was still shaking, my body filled with a cold, creeping dread. I don't know why I didn't go inside and make a report at that moment. The fear and adrenaline had left me exhausted and confused. I just sat there for a bit, my mind a blank slate. After what felt like an eternity, I drove home, the quiet of the car a welcome change from the terror of the past hour. The next morning, I told my parents, and they called the police. But it was too late. There was no truck, no men, and no body. The police said they'd keep an eye out, but they told me it was likely a prank. They didn't believe my story, and I had no proof. But I know what I saw. I know what happened. And I'll never go back to that graveyard again.

Sincerely,

Kelly Smith