Halloween night, 2001. A blue moon hangs over Virginia, a celestial event so rare it only occurs a handful of times per century. Seth, a young man wrestling with his faith and freshly removed from Liberty University, decides on a whim to drive out to the Blue Ridge Parkway alone. No plan, no destination, just a quiet stretch of road under a perfect, cloudless sky. He pulls into an empty turnout, not a single car in sight, and figures, why not take a night hike? The trail is short, the visibility through the trees is crystal clear, and he settles onto a bench to take in the stillness. That's when the silence becomes unnatural. No insects. No wind. Nothing, until the snapping of twigs begins circling him from the darkness.
Back at his car, things escalate. Pinging sounds strike the steel frame of his 1970 Chevy Bel Air like pine cones being hurled from the void. The tree line ahead begins shifting, figures standing where there were none before. And on the grass median to his left, flat shapes appear like blankets tossed on the ground, cloaked and hooded but with no depth, no hands, no faces. Each time Seth looks away and back, they've moved closer. Then comes the flickering, a light sparking where a face should be, like a Bic lighter that can't hold a flame. Seth has never been able to find another account like this, and we try to unpack it through the lens of his testimony, childhood trauma, spiritual access, and the strange convergence of a once-in-a-generation night.
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