How the Signal Mountain Murders Changed How I Walk in the Woods

July 1988, Signal Mountain, Tennessee

In July of 1988, three men went into the woods near Signal Mountain, Tennessee. They didn’t come back. At first, it looked like the kind of story people try to explain away. Maybe they got lost. Maybe something went wrong out there. The terrain was rough—mountains, thick forest, the kind of place that can swallow sound and direction if you’re not careful. Then the search started.

The vehicles—UTVs—were found in one place. The bodies were found somewhere else. And the actual crime scene was discovered in a third. By that point, it wasn’t a question of getting lost anymore.

Something had happened out there.

What Stuck

I was young that summer. Barely twenty. I remember it vividly.

The slow trickle of information on the nightly news. The way the story didn’t resolve cleanly, didn’t resolve into something people could understand and move past and mourn. That settled into my brain and would not let go.

We lived not far from there. My aunt lived even closer—less than thirty minutes away. The kind of place people call beautiful—mountains, state parks, long stretches of woods that felt like they went on forever. Being outside was really all we had, so that’s what we did. Hiking. Riding. Sitting on the edge of cliffs. Looking out over valleys. Just being outside. Not tearing anything up. Not doing anything wrong. Just being there. Walking. Talking. Listening to the birds sing. Maybe fishing.

My dad was a hunter (and a cop). He had access to land most people never set foot on—big private farms, miles of woods, places that didn’t see much traffic. Those places felt familiar. Safe, even. Until that case hit the news, then it changed everything. It made it clear that the woods weren’t empty. That just because you knew the land didn’t mean you knew who—or what—might be out there with you.

That’s what scared me. Not getting lost. Not the dark. The idea that you might not be alone—and wouldn’t know if you weren’t.

But what stayed with me wasn’t just the case itself. It was the idea that people could disappear in familiar woods. The kind of terrain I grew up around. Mountains. Ponds. Dense forest that looked beautiful in the daylight—and felt different the minute the light started to fade.

I wrote the bones of this novella long before there were arrests or trials. Back when it was still a question mark. Back when it could’ve been anything.

The What If

The questions that wouldn’t let go:

What if someone heard the gunshots?

What if someone knew there shouldn’t be anyone that far back in the woods?

What if the woods weren’t empty at all?

What if there was something out there besides natural beauty?

And what if it wasn’t just one moment—one crime—but something bigger?

That’s where the story started to take shape.

Because once you accept that something happened out there, you have to ask who was there to make it happen.

And just as crucial—how long they’d been there before anyone noticed.

Snake Pond

That’s where Snake Pond came from.

I didn’t lift the case and lay it down on the page. I couldn’t. And I didn’t want to. But certain things stayed with me.

Fruitless searches. A woman stopping traffic. A relationship that didn’t belong out in the open. Letters that should’ve stayed private—but didn’t. The way the evidence didn’t sit in one place. Pieces of it scattered. Separated. Like someone had tried to break the story apart so it couldn’t be read clean.

In Snake Pond, those details shift. The time moves back to 1936. The machines become horses. The idea stays the same—movement, separation, disappearance. The trail stretches outward. Bodies are found elsewhere. Two horses sold off in Alabama. A quiet sign that what happened in one place didn’t stay there.

The novella isn’t a retelling of that case, and it isn’t an attempt to explain it. It’s an exploration of that unease I felt as a young person—the idea that the woods you think you know might be hiding something you don’t. It’s about what can happen in the space between where someone was last seen and where they’re eventually found. And it’s about the possibility that whatever happened started long before someone went into the woods.

Because sometimes what you can't see isn't hiding. It’s just waiting for the light to change.

Snake Pond is set in 1936 Franklin County, Tennessee. It’s where this unease found its first home on the page.

Check out other Behind the Story posts:

The Villisca Axe Murders and the Question that Became Burningtree

The Baumeister Case and the Question That Became Hell to the Bone

The Dozier School and the Question That Became Lakestone School for Boys