The March Through the Night
My father, James, worked as a corrections officer at a rural prison tucked away in the rolling hills of Montana. His job was monotonous but straightforward—patrolling the perimeter, checking abandoned buildings, and watching for any sign of escaped inmates. For most of his career, it was a dull routine, with nothing but the hum of his truck engine and the occasional coyote howl to break the silence. That was until one unforgettable night.
It was late October, and the chill of autumn had settled over the barren fields surrounding the prison. Around 2 a.m., my dad parked his truck on a hill overlooking the facility, the faint glow of the prison lights flickering in the distance. With nothing else to do, he cracked open a magazine to pass the time. The night was calm, the only sounds the whisper of wind and the rustling of leaves.
That’s when he felt it.
A deep, rhythmic thumping reverberated through his body, like the bass from an invisible speaker. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but the sensation grew stronger, shaking the truck ever so slightly. He put the magazine down, scanning his surroundings for the source of the disturbance. Then, in his rearview mirror, he saw it—a figure standing motionless just outside the truck.
His heart raced. Adrenaline surged as he grabbed his pistol and jumped out of the vehicle, weapon drawn. “Show yourself!” he shouted into the darkness. But what he saw next made the blood drain from his face.
It wasn’t a person. It was a procession.
A long line of Native American figures stretched out before him, their features illuminated by an otherworldly glow. They moved silently, their footsteps making no sound on the dry earth. Some appeared wounded—arrows protruding from their chests, blood staining their traditional garments. Others carried the weight of sorrow on their faces, their eyes hollow and distant. And then he realized—they weren’t walking around his truck. They were walking through it.
He stood frozen as one by one, they passed directly through the driver’s seat where he had been sitting moments before. The air grew colder with each figure, and the thumping in his chest intensified, as if their pain and despair had become a palpable force. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. All he could do was watch as the procession vanished into the darkness, leaving only silence in their wake.
Shaking, he grabbed his walkie and called the other perimeter officer, a guy named Tom. “Tom, you’re not going to believe this. I think I just saw—” He paused, struggling to find the words. “Something… something out here.”
Tom cut him off, his voice tight and uneasy. “Stop. Don’t talk about it.”
“What do you mean? You’ve seen this too?”
After a long pause, Tom finally replied, his tone flat. “Yeah. I’ve seen it. I just don’t believe in ghosts, so I don’t talk about it. You shouldn’t either.”
The conversation ended abruptly, leaving my dad alone in the suffocating silence of the night. He sat in his truck, shaken, until dawn broke over the hills. The incident stayed with him, a story he rarely shared, but when he did, it always came with the same warning: Some things don’t want to be remembered.
Years later, he learned that the prison had been built on land once used as a battleground during the forced relocation of Native American tribes. The procession he had witnessed wasn’t just ghosts—they were echoes of a tragic past, replaying their final march through a land that had once been theirs.