somebody's watching me: haunted hiking in the bridgewater triangle
Freetown-Fall River State Forest, Massachusetts
Chased out of bed by my door latch rattling all night, I literally fled from ghost hunting at the Lizzie Borden House before sunrise, hours before checkout. Unfortunately it was also hours before check-in at my next location, but after consulting my bucket list, I found a hike I had mapped out only a few minutes away.
The problem with planning a trip a year in advance is staring at a spread of green flags on Google maps, but not always remembering the story behind why I flagged them. This was the case with Freetown-Fall River State Forest.
My sleepy brain couldn’t recall why it was an important destination, but hiking sounded like a revitalizing reprieve from a stressful night. I had forgotten it was on the very top of my list of paranormal woods to explore, having heard about it on a Morbid podcast episode over a year ago. Not only one of the most haunted forests in the country, it’s the most active location in the Bridgewater Triangle, known for burial grounds, cult rituals, murders, cryptids, UFOs, ghosts, high strangeness, and Pukwudgies.
Upon arrival I am greeted by a chorus of honking birds and chirping crickets. Scents of fresh rain and wet pine. After days of smelling musty wallpaper and antique wood, it’s refreshing to smell the rusty rotting pine needles on the forest floor.
I make my way hesitantly into the pines, aware that I am alone, the sun barely peeking out after a long night of rain and melancholy. For some reason, I can’t seem to shake these threatening vibes, like the trail is somehow frightening. But I continue on, lured by mossy logs and golden dripping leaves.
Hiking in the woods has always felt like home, so I just walk faster, assuming the bad feelings will eventually subside. Instead I rapidly approach an area that has darkened with lack of green. The birds go silent, the insect chirping fades. Squeaks and playful nails scurrying along the bark cuts off abruptly. My soggy footsteps become a tromping racket in the silence that is buzzing, the silence that is screaming. The trees get shadier. Sinister. The only leaves are behind me and further ahead. This spot is dead.
I pass an abandoned spider web, the only sign of life, a transparent hanging bowl collecting weary sticks and leaves.
I quickly move through this eerie threshold where nothing grows, exiting into lighter shades of evergreen and distant tweets and whistles beckoning me forward. Before my sigh of relief escapes, my foot ensnares on slick, black, menacing tree roots that pull me down into a trench of muddy knees and spiraling thoughts.
I tread deeper into the pines and pause at one whose branches twist ominously into chaos. There is a slight clearing with a wooden bench, tiny toadstools sprouting up through cracks in the wood. Looking more closely at the tree, I see it is graffitied with a motley of ineligible symbols and phrases. My camera clicks away, but something stops me from reading too closely.
Why this spot? Why this tree? Because it twists and turns and is giving nothing but creepy? Is it just teenagers, letting off steam? Or ancient sigils, carved during a ritualistic ceremony? Normally I would be more frightened by the former, but today I’m feeling nothing but disturbing mystical energy from this place.
And usually that would entice me more and not scare me away. But frankly, I’ve been feeling nothing but “get out” vibes since I’ve come to this town. It’s not the grudging tolerance of Salem, weary yet accepting of tourists, even encouraging and friendly at times. It’s a feeling of unwelcome. I can’t explain it. The people are nice, but both the house I just left and this forest seem ready for me to leave, intent on privacy. I am an outsider. Intruding on their peace. Please leave.
Perhaps it is the warning sign at the trailhead encouraging hikers to wear bright colors, lest we be murdered by hunters (but I only brought black of course). Or the trees marked with wooden numbers and paw print signs, the occasional wayward beer cans. A story I once heard plays on repeat about a hunter tracking cougar prints around and around in circles, never finding the cat, until he realizes the roles had reversed, the hunter now the hunted, never to be seen again.
Perhaps it is the blind corners in the distance, the darkness beyond murky and just out of sight, as though I’m heading towards a dark tunnel or a portal to a cryptic world.
Perhaps it is the spot where nothing grows, so dark and quiet compared to the rest. Or the vines that reach up and claw at my feet. Or the branches that curve and hover over the trail like shrouded ghouls.
Perhaps it is the cold I’m feeling for the first time since coming to Fall River. The weather has been swampy and humid since I arrived. I was sweating all night and all morning, but now I can’t stop shivering since I stepped onto the trail. A chill seems to have fallen over this place, where the sun doesn’t quite reach.
Or perhaps it’s the fact that I stayed at the Lizzie Borden house last night, and only slept three hours because my door kept trying to creak open.
I feel a sense of dread building with each step I take along the needle-padded path, the crunching leaves, the damp wooden planks, until finally I am too agitated to go any further. Time to head back, time to move on. Time to get the hell out of here and back to safety…
…On to more hiking in the Bridgewater Triangle - the Hockomock Swamp!
Listen to this podcast episode for more spooky history about Freetown-Fall River State Forest, as well as several other haunted forests on my bucket list:
If this post has stirred your spirit, let your presence be known by clicking the heart and restack icons, or by leaving a comment below. Your engagement can summon other wandering souls to this collection, and I am yearning to hear your haunted reflections. Thank you.
Great, spooky shots!
Oooo my. I wouldn’t sleep for a week! If only those trees could tell…….