STILL

by James Argo

Gracie wasn’t one to spook easy.

Born and bred in Calico Rock, she knew the Ozarks like the back of her weathered hand—the whisper of creek water over stone, the musky breath of cedar, the way fog settled low in the hollers come dawn. The woods were her church, her refuge, her measure of peace.

But this time was different. She went into the woods the week after they buried her father.

The funeral had been plain, the way he’d wanted—no choir, no flowers, no fuss. Just the preacher from Pineville saying a few words about work, faith, and a man who knew the worth of silence. Afterward, neighbors filled her kitchen with casseroles and talk. They meant well, but their kindness pressed on her like a damp blanket.

When the weather turned and the hills flared red and gold beneath a pale October sky, she packed her gear and went where she’d always gone when words ran out—into the woods.

By afternoon, the air had thickened, heavy with the taste of rain. A storm brewed over the western ridge, bruising the sky to a deep, unsettled purple. The first drops hit her hood like thrown gravel before giving way to a downpour that swallowed sound. The trail slicked fast, mud sucking at her boots. The blazes vanished in the gray wash of mist. Her phone’s GPS was dead weight in her pocket.

“Well,” she said aloud, forcing steadiness into her voice, “ain’t the first time the woods’ve tested me.”
But her words were small—swallowed by the rain.

When the storm eased, dusk had already come down. Fog curled off the ground, silver and heavy. Her headlamp carved a tunnel through the dark: black trees, wet stone, the glint of runoff threading through the mud. The forest felt alive—close, listening.

Then came the sound.

Low at first, a rumble deep enough to stir her ribs. Then it rose—long, guttural, and sorrowful, as if the land itself remembered pain. Not coyote. Not wolf. Something older. Something dangerous.

The echo crawled through the timber and died slow, leaving only her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She turned, the beam trembling in her hand, slicing the fog into ribbons that writhed like living things. Every shadow seemed to breathe. Every branch leaned closer.

The cry came again—closer this time, ragged as grief. “Dad?” she whispered before she could stop herself. The name was absurd in the air, but it came from somewhere deeper than thought.

Then she saw it.

The creature stood at the edge of her light—half-shadow, half-nightmare. Massive, bear-sized, its fur matted by rain, horns curling back like blackened roots. Its eyes burned red, twin embers alive in the mist.

The breath left her lungs.

For a heartbeat, they simply looked at each other—the living and whatever this was. The rain slowed to a whisper through the trees. Steam rose from its back, mingling with the fog. Her heart hammered so loud she thought it might draw the thing closer.

Every fireside story came rushing back—the tales her father used to tell of the Ozark Howler, the dark guardian of the wild, the beast that watched from the edge when people wandered too far. He’d always laughed when she asked if it was real. But he’d never said it wasn’t.

The Howler stepped once, slow and deliberate, and the ground gave a faint shudder. Steam drifted from its sides. The air smelled of iron and rain. Gracie felt fear—but beneath it, recognition. The same hollow ache she’d carried since the funeral.

She dimmed her headlamp, letting the forest reclaim the dark. Her voice came out soft as breath.
“I ain’t here to harm nothin’,” she said. “Just lost my way, is all.”

The creature tilted its head. A low sound rolled from its chest—not quite a growl, not quite speech, but something that felt like both. Its eyes softened, glowing like coals cooling to ash.

Then, without breaking her gaze, it turned. Slow. Deliberate. The mist folded around it, and the forest swallowed it whole. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was sacred.

Gracie stood rooted until her knees trembled. Then she noticed a narrow path through the brush—clean and clear, as though carved just for her. She followed it, step by step, until dawn bled through the clouds.

When the fog lifted, she stepped out onto the main trail, her boots caked in mud but her heart curiously light. She reached her truck as the sun broke the horizon. Something black caught her eye—lodged in the mud beside the tire. She crouched and lifted it: a single coarse hair, thick as wire, glistening in the morning light.

She held it for a moment, then let it fall. “Thank you,” she whispered.

That winter, folks in Pineville started saying they’d heard strange cries echoing through the hollers—low, mournful sounds that carried for miles on cold nights. Some said it was a cougar. Some said it was the wind.

Gracie never argued either way. She just smiled, sipped her coffee, and looked toward the woods. Because she knew.

The Howler hadn’t followed her home. It had simply made sure she wasn’t alone. Some things in these hills aren’t meant to be feared.

They’re meant to be remembered.
And some things, though silent, are still—
still watching, still breathing,
still alive in the places that remember us back.

Author note: Set in the Sylamore forest, “Still” follows a woman’s haunting encounter with the legendary Ozark Howler after the death of her father. It’s a story about grief, reverence, and what the land remembers long after we’re gone.

James Argo is a creative writer based in Calico Rock, Arkansas. His work explores the intersection of myth, nature, and the human spirit—where fear, reverence, and belonging blur into the same quiet truth. Through his studio, Industrial Art & Design, he brings Ozark folklore to life through public art, architecture, and story.