07 Dec The Hairy Hands of Briar’s Bend

When I moved back to my hometown, I thought I’d put the worst of my bad luck behind me. Losing my job, my marriage, and most of my savings had been enough for one year. The slow pace of the Midwest, with its endless fields and quiet roads, seemed like the cure. What I didn’t know was that some things are better left undisturbed, and that Briar’s Bend was one of them.

The road itself didn’t look like much—a narrow, winding strip of asphalt cutting through the dense woods on the outskirts of town. The kind of place you’d take to save ten minutes on a long drive if you weren’t paying attention. It didn’t even have streetlights, just the occasional reflective sign that blinked at you from the dark.

I first heard about the road from Hank Sullivan, my neighbor. Hank was the kind of guy who could talk for hours about nothing, always ready with a story or two about the town. One evening, after I’d unpacked most of my boxes, Hank leaned over the fence with a beer in his hand and a conspiratorial grin on his face.

“You ever hear about Briar’s Bend, Caleb?” he asked, clearly eager to share.

I hadn’t, but I humored him. “Should I have?”

“It’s got a reputation,” he said, his grin fading. “People say it’s cursed. Drivers lose control for no reason, even on clear nights. Some folks say it’s bad luck. Others—” he paused, glancing around as if the trees might be listening, “—they say it’s the Hairy Hands.”

I laughed, but Hank didn’t join in.

“The Hairy Hands?”

“Disembodied hands,” he said, lowering his voice. “Come out of nowhere and grab the wheel, or the handlebars, if you’re on a bike. They force you off the road. Legend has it they even made horse-drawn carriages crash, back in the day.”

“And people believe this?” I asked incredulously.

“They do. Enough that most won’t take that road after dark. You shouldn’t, either.”

I rolled my eyes but thanked him for the warning. Hank had grown up here, and I figured he was just repeating one of those small-town campfire stories. I didn’t believe in curses or ghost stories, especially ones about phantom hands.

That changed a few weeks later.

It was a Wednesday night, and I’d gone to visit a friend in the next town over. The drive back was supposed to be easy, but I’d left later than planned, and the interstate was closed for construction. My GPS, smug and indifferent, rerouted me down Briar’s Bend.

The name didn’t register until I was already on it.

The road was darker than I expected. My headlights lit the asphalt ahead, but the trees on either side crowded in so tightly they looked like walls. The night was quiet, too quiet, with no other cars in sight.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter as I approached a curve, the kind that begged for caution. That’s when it happened.

The wheel wrenched hard to the right, as if someone had yanked it from my hands. I shouted, instinctively pulling back, but the force was overwhelming. My knuckles went white as I fought to keep the car on the road, the tires skidding against loose gravel.

The sensation was impossible to describe. There was nothing visible—no hands, no figure—but I felt it. A forceful, bone-deep pressure on my own hands, like someone’s fingers were wrapped around mine, forcing me to turn.

I managed to wrestle the wheel back under control just in time to avoid slamming into the guardrail. The car screeched to a stop, and I sat there, breathing hard, doing my best not to hyperventilate.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. The rational part of my brain scrambled for an explanation. Maybe the steering column had locked up, or the road was slicker than I’d thought. But none of that explained the feeling—the undeniable sensation of something stronger than me trying to take over.

I stepped out of the car, my legs shaky, and looked around. The woods were still, the road empty. There was no sign of another driver, no indication of what had just happened. My hands trembled as I ran them over the steering wheel, searching for something, anything, to make sense of what I’d just experienced.

But there was nothing. Just the faint impression of pressure lingering on my skin.

I got back in the car and drove home, keeping my speed well below the limit. The whole time, I couldn’t stop glancing at the wheel, half-expecting it to jerk again.

When I pulled into my driveway, Hank was out on his porch, nursing another beer. He waved, his grin as lazy as ever. I thought about telling him what had happened but stopped myself. What was I supposed to say? That the Hairy Hands had almost killed me?

Instead, I gave him a nod and went inside, locking the door behind me.

* * * * * *

For the next few days, I couldn’t stop thinking about that night. The jerking wheel, the invisible grip—it didn’t feel like something I could just brush off. At first, I told myself it was nothing more than a mechanical fluke, but every time I replayed it in my head, the memory felt sharper and more vivid. And then there was that pressure. My hands had tingled for hours afterward, like phantom fingers were still wrapped around them.

Hank noticed something was off. He stopped me one morning while I was heading out to grab groceries.

“You sure are looking jumpy,” he said, leaning against the fence with his usual beer in hand. “You all right?”

I hesitated, debating whether to tell him. The last thing I wanted was for Hank to think I was buying into his ghost stories.

“I took Briar’s Bend the other night,” I admitted finally.

Hank froze mid-sip, his expression sharpening. “At night?”

I nodded, trying to play it cool. “It wasn’t a big deal, but—”

“But something happened, didn’t it?” He set the beer down, crossing his arms like a parent ready to scold a reckless kid.

I shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “I guess the wheel jerked or something. Probably hit a bad patch of road.”

“Sure,” Hank said, though his tone was anything but convinced. “A bad patch of road. That’s what everyone says. Until it happens again.”

I laughed, a weak, humorless sound. “Come on, Hank. You’re not seriously blaming the Hairy Hands for this, are you?”

“All I’m saying is, people don’t wreck on that road because they’re bad drivers. Something out there doesn’t want folks passing through. You’d do well to leave it alone.”

* * * * * *

Hank’s warning stuck with me, no matter how much I wanted to dismiss it. I started digging into the town’s history, hoping to find some explanation that didn’t involve disembodied hands.

The library was my first stop: a small, single room in the back of the community center. But Mrs. Lowry, the librarian, was thrilled that someone was interested in local lore.

“I’ve got some newspaper clippings somewhere,” she said, shuffling through a file cabinet. “Briar’s Bend has always had a… reputation.”

She handed me a stack of yellowed articles, and I started sifting through them. Most were decades old, filled with grim accounts of accidents along the road. The language was eerily consistent: “lost control,” “swerved for no apparent reason,” “crashed into the ravine.”

One article from the 1950s caught my attention. It described a local farmer who claimed an “unseen force” had ripped the reins from his hands, sending his horse-drawn cart tumbling into the ditch. The man survived, but his account was dismissed as hysteria.

Then there was a more recent piece, from the 1980s. A truck driver swore something grabbed his steering wheel, forcing his rig into the trees. He barely escaped with his life. The reporter had labeled it “driver fatigue,” but the man insisted he wasn’t tired.

The more I read, the more unsettled I became. This wasn’t just one or two stories. It was a pattern, stretching back nearly a century.

I started asking around, talking to anyone who’d listen. Most people dismissed the accidents as a mix of bad luck and poor road maintenance. But a few, mostly older folks, leaned in close and whispered their own theories.

One woman claimed the road was cursed by a settler who’d been lynched for practicing witchcraft. Another said it was built on the land of a violent farmer who’d killed his family before being run down by vigilantes.

“The Hands are him,” one old man insisted, his voice a low rasp. “He’s still out there, grabbing at folks who get too close to his land.”

It was all a little too dramatic for my taste, but it planted a seed of doubt. What if there was something to these stories? Something more than just superstition?

By the time I left the library, I had the distinct impression that I’d stepped into something far older and darker than I’d realized.

The more I thought about the Hairy Hands, the more restless I became. I didn’t believe in curses or ghosts, but there was something about the stories—so many of them, stretching back decades—that I couldn’t ignore. I told myself I was just curious, that I needed to see the road again in the daylight, maybe find some logical explanation.

But deep down, I knew better.

It was a clear night when I made the decision. I hadn’t planned it; I just found myself grabbing my keys and heading out. Maybe it was stubbornness, or maybe I wanted to prove something to myself. Either way, I knew exactly where I was going.

Briar’s Bend.

* * * * * *

The road looked different this time. In the dark, with no other cars around, it felt alive. My headlights cut through the blackness, bouncing off the narrow asphalt and the dense wall of trees on either side. My hands tightened on the wheel as I approached the first curve.

Nothing happened at first. I kept my speed steady, focusing on the road ahead. But then the radio suddenly cut out.

At first, I thought it was just a signal issue. Static crackled faintly before fading into silence, and I reached for the dial to adjust it. That’s when the steering wheel jerked.

It wasn’t subtle this time. The wheel wrenched violently to the left, creating enough friction to burn my palms. My heart leaped into my throat as I fought to steady the car, the tires skidding across the gravel-strewn shoulder.

The sensation was unmistakable. The same overwhelming pressure, the same invisible grip, stronger and more deliberate than before. My arms strained against the force, muscles burning as I struggled to regain control.

“Not again,” I said through clenched teeth, my voice shaking.

The car veered toward the edge of the road, the guardrail looming in the headlights. I slammed on the brakes, but the Hands didn’t let up. It was like they were driving, not me.

At the last second, the wheel twisted sharply, and the car spun out. The tires screeched, sending gravel flying in every direction, and I crashed nose-first into a tree.

The impact knocked the wind out of me, and my head hit the steering wheel hard enough to leave me dazed. That’s when I realized my airbags hadn’t deployed. For a moment, I wondered if the Hands had anything to do with it.

I fumbled with the door handle and stumbled out of the car, coughing from the acrid smell of burnt rubber. The night air was cold against my skin, and my head throbbed where it had struck the wheel.

And it wasn’t over.

One moment, I was standing there, trying to calm my nerves; the next, they were on me. I didn’t even hear them coming.

The pressure wrapped around my throat like a vise, cutting off my air. My hands clawed at my neck instinctively, but there was nothing to grab, nothing to fight. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel them—cold, crushing, and unrelenting.

My vision blurred, and my knees buckled as I sank to the ground. Panic surged through me, but it was useless. Whatever this was, it wasn’t human.

Deprived of oxygen, the world around me began to fade, darkness closing in. I thought, for one horrifying moment, that this was it. I was about to be added to Mrs. Lowry’s pile of newspaper clippings.

Then I heard the hum of an engine.

Headlights swept over the road, growing brighter as a semi-truck rumbled around the bend. The pressure vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving me gasping for air. I collapsed onto the asphalt, coughing and clutching my neck, my lungs burning.

The truck screeched to a stop, and a woman’s voice called out. “Hey! Are you okay?”

I tried to answer, but my throat was raw, the words caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp. The trucker—a tall, sturdily-built woman with an austere expression—jumped down from the cab and hurried over.

“What the hell happened here?” she demanded, looking from me to the wrecked car.

I shook my head, unable to speak. What could I even say? That a pair of invisible hands had tried to murder me?

“Can you stand?” she asked, pulling me to my feet.

I nodded weakly, leaning heavily on her arm as she guided me toward the truck. She helped me into the passenger seat and handed me a bottle of water.

As we drove away, she glanced at me, her eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re lucky I came by when I did. People don’t usually make it off this road in one piece.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. All I could do was sit there, clutching the bottle with shaking hands, and stare out at the dark woods as they disappeared into the distance.

* * * * * *

The rest of the drive back to town was a blur. I stared out the truck’s passenger-side window, clutching my water like a lifeline, my mind replaying the assault over and over. The merciless grip on my throat, the way the air had been stolen from my lungs—if that trucker hadn’t come when she did, I wouldn’t have made it.

Marie “Big Red” Cartwright, as she introduced herself, had the air of someone who’d seen her share of trouble and didn’t have time for nonsense. Her broad shoulders filled the cab, her thick hands gripping the steering wheel with an ease that made me envious. She didn’t say much at first; she just kept glancing over at me with an expression that hovered between concern and mild irritation.

“You sure you don’t want me to take you to a hospital?” she asked eventually.

I shook my head, my throat too inflamed to speak. The last thing I needed was a bunch of questions I couldn’t answer, followed by looks of pity—or worse, disbelief.

Marie sighed. “All right. But you oughta know, this ain’t the first time I’ve pulled someone off Briar’s Bend. That road’s trouble, plain and simple.”

I turned to look at her, wincing as the motion pulled at the bruises forming on my neck. “You’ve seen it?” I croaked.

She shook her head. “Never seen it, but I’ve heard the stories. Truckers talk, you know. Weird crashes, drivers running off the road for no reason. Some say it’s bad engineering. Others say it’s… something else.”

Her hesitation told me she knew exactly what I was talking about, even if she didn’t want to admit it out loud.

“What do you think?” I rasped.

She glanced at me, her expression guarded. “I think I’ve been on the road long enough to know there’s things out there we’re better off leaving alone. And Briar’s Bend? That’s one of those things.”

Marie dropped me off at my house just after midnight. I thanked her as best I could and watched her truck disappear into the darkness, her taillights winking out like a dying ember.

The house felt too quiet when I stepped inside. Every shadow seemed deeper, each creak of the floorboards sharper. I locked the door behind me and slid the chain into place with trembling hands.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Instead, I sat at the kitchen table with a bottle of whiskey and tried to piece together what had happened. My mind kept circling back to the same question: Why me? What had I done to deserve this? I hadn’t provoked whatever was out there. I hadn’t even believed in it.

But the Hands didn’t care about belief. They didn’t care about me at all. They were just… there. Malevolent, ruthless, and utterly indifferent to human logic.

By morning, I’d made up my mind. I wasn’t going back to Briar’s Bend—not ever. I didn’t care if it was the shortest route to the next town or if someone dared me to take it again. Some things were worth avoiding.

* * * * * *

Over the next few months, I heard whispers about more accidents on the road. A motorcycle skidding off into the trees. A pickup flipping over on a sharp curve. The details were always the same: no apparent cause, no logical explanation.

I kept my distance, but the town didn’t let me forget. Hank would stop by now and then, always full of stories about the Hands.

“Did you hear about the Jenkins boy?” he said one afternoon, leaning over the fence with a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Wrecked his dad’s Camaro on Briar’s Bend. Said his hands were jerked clean off the wheel.”

I nodded but didn’t respond. I didn’t want to encourage him.

Hank squinted at me, his grin lopsided. “You got lucky, Caleb. Most folks don’t walk away from that road.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

As the months went on, I tried to move on. I returned to work, started fixing up the house, and even joined a bowling league to pass the time. But the memory of that night never faded.

Sometimes, I’d wake up in the middle of the night, clutching at my throat. Other times, I’d find myself avoiding dark roads altogether, even when I knew they were safe.

I told myself it was just my imagination, that the Hairy Hands weren’t real. But deep down, I knew the truth.

They were out there, waiting.

If you ever find yourself driving through a small, quiet town in the middle of nowhere, and someone warns you about a road like Briar’s Bend—listen to them. Turn around. Take the long way home.

Because the Hands don’t care who you are or what you believe. All they care about is pulling you off the road. And next time, there might not be a trucker coming around the bend to save you.