AOTP Campfire Tales Ep.5

Accounts of the Paranormal's Campfire Tales 

The Last Crossing

A new hire at a rural diner encounters a restless spirit trapped in a loop of its own tragic death.

Paranormal and mystery short stories told around the campfire, straight from our Accounts of the Paranormal YouTube channel! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9zKn4LcW3VJROe1-l9EAcQ

If you have an account to share and would like to be a guest on the show, email me at show@accountsoftheparanormal.com and tell me what you saw!

Accounts of the Paranormal -

Creator/Producer/Host: Gino Barreto

WEBSITE: https://accountsoftheparanormal.com/ 

YOUTUBE: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9zKn4LcW3VJROe1-l9EAcQ 

INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/accountsoftheparanormal/ 

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TIKTOK: https://www.tiktok.com/@accountsoftheparanormal

X: https://www.x.com/aotparapodcast

Accounts of the Paranormal (theme song) 

Written by: Gino Barreto / Produced by: Kobe Ofei

All music produced by: 

Kobe Ofei https://www.fiverr.com/kobeofei 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Welcome to Accounts of the Paranormal's Campfire Tales. I'm Julia, your host and guide into chilling tales of the paranormal. Join us around the campfire for tonight's story. The restaurant sat just off a quiet stretch of road in rural Vermont, its neon sign flickering against the dark like a tired heartbeat. Built in the 1940s, it had the kind of charm tourists loved, weathered wood siding, checkered floors, and a bell above the door that chimed with every guest. By day, it smelled of coffee and pancakes. By night it felt different. Locals didn't talk about it much, but the staff all knew, especially the night crew. It started with a man named Caleb, a new hire just passing through town. He took the closing shift, easy money, he figured, wipe down tables, mop the floors, lock up, simple. The manager, a gray faced woman named Ruth, gave him one piece of advice before his first night. If you hear the bell ring after midnight, don't check the door. Caleb laughed it off. That first night was quiet, too quiet. By twelve thirty AM, the highway outside was empty, and the restaurant felt sealed off from the world. Caleb wiped down the last table when he heard it. Chime, the bell above the front door. He turned instinctively. The door was closed, locked, no wind, no one there. He walked over anyway, peered through the glass into the dark road beyond, but nothing but the faint glow of a distant street lamp. Old building, he muttered. He went back to work, and then came the footsteps, wet, slow, crossing the tile from the entrance toward the dining area. Caleb froze. The floor he'd just mopped gleamed under the lights, and there, appearing one by one, were footprints, not forming ahead of him, but pressing into the water as if someone invisible was walking through it. They stopped just short of him. Caleb backed away, heart hammering. Hello? No answer. Only the faint smell of asphalt, and something metallic. That was when he noticed the reflection in the window. Behind him, standing in the middle of the restaurant, was a man, his clothes torn, soaked and dark, and one side of his face seemed crushed inward, like it had been folded, his eyes wide and glassy, locked onto Caleb's. Caleb spun around, but nothing. The footprints were gone. The room was empty. He was shaken and got little sleep that night, but showed up for his shift the next day. Ruth didn't ask questions when she saw his face. She just nodded slowly. He saw you, didn't he? Caleb swallowed. Who is he? Ruth leaned against the counter, voice low. Name was Thomas Harlan. It was nineteen fifty six. Worked here as a dishwasher. Got off late one night, crossed the road right out front. She gestured toward the dark highway. Car came out of nowhere, never even slowed down. Caleb glanced at the door, she continued. They say he didn't even know he died, and others she hesitated. They think he's still trying to get back inside. That night, Caleb stayed alert. Midnight passed, then one o'clock, and nothing. He started to relax, convincing himself it had been stress, imagination, then chime. The bell rang again, but this time the door creaked open. Cold air poured in, carrying the scent of rain and oil. The lights above flickered violently, and then Caleb saw him, not in reflection, not as a shadow, but standing fully in the doorway was Thomas. His body bent with one leg dragging slightly as he stepped forward. His eyes scanned the room, not confused, but searching for something or someone. Caleb couldn't move. Thomas's head turned slowly toward him, and then, in a voice that sounded like gravel scraping across glass, he spoke. You didn't see me, did you? Caleb couldn't speak. Thomas took another step closer, leaving no footprints this time. Every night I cross, he rasped. Every night they don't stop. The lights burst out, plunging the restaurant into darkness. Caleb heard it then, the roar of an engine, tires screaming, a sickening thud, and Thomas, standing inches from him, jerked violently as if struck again, over and over and over. Each impact snapping his body back, replaying the moment of his death in a loop of endless agony. Caleb screamed, stumbling back, knocking over chairs as the sounds filled the room. Then silence. The lights flickered back on. The door was closed. The restaurant empty. But the floor it was no longer clean. A trail of dark, wet footprints led from the door all the way to where Caleb stood and stopped. The next morning, Caleb didn't come back, and no one questioned it. They just hired someone new. And every once in a while, just after midnight, the bell above the door still rings, even when no one's there. And if you're working the late shift, you might hear footsteps crossing the floor, coming in from the road, still trying to make it back inside.com, where you can access full episodes and links to all our socials. And while you're there, be sure to sign up for our blog so you never miss show info or other announcements. I'll see you next time.