Appalachian Mystery: Tourist Vanishes – Backpack Found Slashed, Surrounded by Animal Bones

Some stories never make the headlines. They linger in local rumor, whispered among rescuers and hunters, haunting the woods long after the official search ends. The disappearance of Jeremy Wells in the Appalachian Mountains in the fall of 1997 is one such story—a mystery that still chills even the most hardened trackers.

The Man Who Vanished

Jeremy Wells was a 29-year-old systems analyst from Charlotte, North Carolina. He wasn’t reckless, nor a novice hiker. He was methodical, cautious, and used hiking as an escape from city life. His routine: plan every detail, register with rangers, pack carefully, and always call his parents before and after a trip.

In September 1997, Jeremy took a week off to hike alone on a remote, beautiful stretch of the Appalachian Trail in Pisgah National Forest. Locals called the area Turtle Ridge, for its rounded rock formations.

His plan was simple: five days on the trail. He parked his car at the trailhead on Monday, September 15th, leaving a note on the windshield with his expected return date—Friday the 19th. He called his parents, described his route, and promised to check in Wednesday, when he’d reach a spot with cell reception.

Wednesday came and went. No call. His mother worried, but his father reassured her—mountain reception is unreliable. Thursday passed, still nothing. By Friday evening, when Jeremy didn’t return to his car, panic set in.

On Saturday morning, the Wells family reported him missing.

The Search

The Avery County Sheriff’s Office launched a search immediately. Local rescuers, rangers, and volunteers combed the area. The weather worsened—cold nights, overcast days. They found Jeremy’s car in the parking lot, exactly as he’d left it, with a map and empty water bottle inside. No sign he’d changed his plans.

For three days, the searchers found nothing. The ridge was wild and unforgiving—a place where a person could slip, fall, or meet a bear. But there was no blood, no gear, no sign of a struggle. Jeremy had simply vanished.

On the sixth day, a breakthrough came. An experienced hunter, searching a ravine overgrown with thick bushes about half a mile off the trail, found Jeremy’s backpack.

The Backpack and the Bones

The backpack wasn’t simply dropped. It was wedged between two boulders, as if deliberately placed. And it had been cut open—not torn or gnawed, but sliced. Three deep, parallel cuts ran down the back. The edges were smooth, as if made by something incredibly sharp—like three blades fixed to a single handle.

No predator in the Appalachians could have made such marks. Bears shred and tear. Cougars scratch, but their claws can’t slice through Cordura like that.

The contents were partly scattered: tent, sleeping bag, and clothes were nearby, wet from rain. All the food and the first aid kit were missing. But Jeremy’s wallet, map, compass, and even his book were untouched. It didn’t look like robbery or madness. It looked like something had opened the pack for food and medicine.

The ground around the backpack was littered with small bones—squirrels, chipmunks, birds. The bones were gnawed clean, some with thin, deep scratches. They lay in small piles, as if something had sat there, feeding and discarding remains in one spot. It looked like a lair.

There were no traces of Jeremy—no blood, no clothing. But under the leaves, rescuers found strange indentations. Not clear footprints or paw prints, but wide, smudged impressions, as if something heavy and soft had been dragged across the ground. The marks led away into the forest, vanishing on a rocky patch.

Dog handlers tried to follow the trail. The German Shepherds whined, tucked their tails, and refused to go near the indentations, growling at nothing. Their behavior was so unusual that one handler said he’d never seen anything like it in 15 years.

After ten days, the search was called off. Jeremy Wells became another statistic—missing, presumed dead, possibly an animal attack.

But those who saw the backpack and the bones weren’t convinced.

Unanswered Questions

Jeremy’s father, Martin Wells, couldn’t accept the official version. He hired a private investigator, Frank Collier, a former Raleigh police officer. Collier was a skeptic, expecting to find a simple explanation—poachers, moonshiners, or a staged animal attack.

But the evidence confounded him. He studied the backpack photos: the three parallel cuts didn’t match knife or claw marks. He sent them to a zoologist friend, who replied that no known animal in North America could make such marks. Bears tear, teeth puncture, lynx claws are too small. The friend joked that it looked like a farm tool—a three-pronged cultivator.

The bones collected for analysis were mostly small rodents and birds, gnawed clean, with thin, sharp scratches. The biologist noted it was strange for a large predator to methodically hunt small animals and pile their bones.

And the missing first aid kit—an animal wouldn’t take it, but a person would have taken the money. Collier wondered, wild as it seemed, if the creature that attacked Jeremy had some primitive intelligence, maybe even wounded itself and realized the kit contained medicine.

Collier went to Avery County, interviewing locals. Most shrugged off the story, but an old gamekeeper named Hank told him about sheep disappearing in the 1970s near Turtle Ridge. The sheep carcasses were cut open with surgical precision, organs missing, no blood. Strange noises at night—a guttural, gurgling sound—and trees with bark stripped off in horizontal scratches.

Collier found three more cases of hikers vanishing near Turtle Ridge, all lone men, all unsolved.

Then he tracked down a couple who’d been hiking nearby the same week Jeremy disappeared. On Wednesday night, they heard a sound from the gorge—a giant’s wet cough, or like something huge trying to clear its throat. It was so disturbing they broke camp and left in the dark.

For Collier, this was the turning point. He realized he wasn’t looking for a man.

Into the Woods

By spring, Collier had gathered enough odd facts to know standard methods wouldn’t work. He decided to go to Turtle Ridge himself, not as a tourist but as an investigator.

He recruited the hunter who’d found the backpack, a quiet man in his 60s. The guide warned, “It’s a bad place. Animals avoid it. I wouldn’t go without a gun.” They agreed to meet at dawn.

It took hours to reach the ravine. The silence was oppressive—no birds, no insects, just still air. The ground where the backpack had lain was still visible. Collier searched in widening circles. After an hour, he found strange grooves on a thick oak tree, 10–12 feet up. The grooves were horizontal, wrapping around the trunk. No animal could have made them at that height and angle.

The guide then found a narrow cave hidden in rhododendron bushes. A heavy, musky smell with a sweet rot drifted from the entrance. Collier shone his flashlight inside. The floor was covered with dry leaves and moss—and bones. Deer, raccoons, even a black bear skull with a large, smooth-edged hole.

At the far end, something red glinted—the missing first aid kit. Its contents were scattered, bandages unwound, pill packets torn open. On the rock was a dark, tarry stain—dark green, not blood. Collier scraped a sample into a plastic bag.

Suddenly, a branch outside swayed. The guide pointed silently—a large branch was moving, as if something had jumped off it. There was no wind, no sound of a fall. Silence thickened, then a low, gurgling sound echoed from the slope—the same sound described by the couple. The guide raised his rifle. “Let’s go. Back to back. Don’t turn around.”

They retreated, backs together, until they felt safe to walk normally. They reached the car at dusk, shaken and silent.

The Truth in the Shadows

Collier sent the green sample to a private lab. The results were bizarre: a complex protein composition similar to animal blood, but with elements of chlorophyll and a powerful coagulant unknown to science. Its DNA matched no known species.

Collier was convinced—an unknown creature lived in Turtle Ridge, and Jeremy had wounded it before dying. The first aid kit and strange blood proved it had tried to heal itself.

He told Jeremy’s parents the truth: their son would not be found alive, and the forest was too dangerous to search again.

But Collier couldn’t let the case go. He needed proof.

The Final Hunt

In April, Collier returned alone with night vision gear and infrared camera traps. He set up rabbit carcasses as bait near the cave, positioned cameras, and waited on a rocky ledge above.

The forest came alive at night—deer, raccoons, but nothing touched the bait. Well after midnight, he smelled the musky stench, then heard a soft, sliding rustle from the trees above.

He raised his night vision monocular and saw it: moving through branches with impossibly long, thin limbs, pale and hairless, skin smooth and moist. No head, just a thickened end of the torso with three dark spots in a triangle. It moved silently, descended the trunk like a worm, then straightened up—over seven feet tall.

As it sniffed the bait, the first camera trap flashed. The creature froze. Collier saw three long, black claws at the end of one limb—like the marks on the backpack.

It let out a low gurgle and leapt to its lair, triggering another flash. Collier realized he’d made a mistake—he’d disturbed it.

He began to pack up, but heard a loud crack—the creature emerged, moving toward his ledge. He ran, dropping his pack, crashing through the brush. It chased him, fast and silent. He stumbled, felt a sharp pain in his leg—three deep bleeding cuts above his knee.

He limped on, the chase continuing for minutes that felt like hours. Then the sounds faded. He reached his car at dawn, bleeding and in shock.

Developing the film, he found two blurred frames, but one clear shot: a pale, hairless limb with three claws at the cave entrance.

Collier never returned to Turtle Ridge.

Aftermath

A week later, two men in government suits came to Collier’s office. They thanked him for his work, but said further investigation would disrupt the “ecological balance” of the area. They asked for all his materials—photos, reports, the sample—and told him to forget the story.

Collier complied. He knew the authorities were aware, perhaps not of the details, but of the existence of something they preferred to keep secret.

Jeremy Wells’ case remains unsolved. His parents received an anonymous package with the photo of the creature’s limb and a note: “He didn’t suffer. Don’t look for him anymore.”

Collier closed his agency and moved away, scarred for life both physically and mentally.

Turtle Ridge is still one of the most remote and rarely visited sections of the Appalachian Trail. Locals quietly warn tourists to stay away.

Some places are better left alone.