There's ghost towns all over this country left
to rot cuz of hard times money dried up Disasters
hit folks moved on but Portlock, Alaska That
one's different Portlock weren't abandoned cuz
of no bank failing or the earth shaking loose
beneath it Weren't cuz folks just got bored and
packed up. No, they ran left behind their homes,
they're living their whole damn town, because
something out there in them mist -soaked woods
sent them running. For years, folks whispered
about Nantinac, a massive shadowed thing lurking
just beyond sight. A beast, they say, too big
to be a man, too smart to be an animal. But what
if it weren't just Nantinac stalking portlock?
What if the land itself was rotten? cursed from
the start, a place where the air carries voices
that ain't there, where lights dance in the trees,
leading folks somewhere they ain't meant to go.
Where the dead don't rest easy, their bodies
found mangled, twisted, like something out there
was playing with them before it was done. The
people of Portlock didn't just leave, they fled,
and they never looked back. What really happened
out there? Step careful now, we're heading straight
into the dark. Welcome to Kentucky Melodies America's
Scariest Stories, where we bring you ghostly
legends, spooky haints, and bone chilling tales
from all over this great land. These stories
will have you looking over your shoulder all
night. So pull up a chair, dim them lights, and
let's dive into the eerie and unexplained. Well,
now let me spin y 'all a yarn about the Al -Utik
folks and their reckoning with a fearsome critter
they called Nantanak. Long before them, Westerners
set foot in these parts around the early 1900s.
The Al -Utik people had been roaming these lands
for over 7 ,500 years. They made their homes
in the coastal stretches of South Central Alaska.
including the Kodiak Archipelago and the Canai
Peninsula. Now, despite the land's bounty and
beauty, there was a particular spot they steered
clear of, a place that would later be known as
Portlock. To the Aluteek, that patch of earth
was forbidden. They spoke in hushed tones, about
Nantinok, a towering, hairy creature that walked
upright like a man but was far from human. This
wasn't no campfire tale meant to spook the youngins.
Nantanak was seen as a predator, lurking in the
dense forest, ready to pounce on those who wandered
too deep. Hunters who dared venture into its
domain often never returned. The few who did
come back were forever changed, their eyes haunted
by what they'd seen. They'd whisper, but feeling
eyes watching them from the shadows, hearing
footsteps that weren't their own, and catching
glimpses of glowing red eyes piercing through
the dark canopy. Such accounts weren't taken
lightly. They served as warnings to others. For
the Al -Atiq, the area that had become portlock
was no place to settle. It was a realm best left
untouched, shrouded in mystery and danger. But
when the western settlers arrived, eager to tap
into the land's riches, they dismissed these
ancient warnings. And as the stories go, they
paid a steep price for their disregard. This
hears the story about a place far from these
Appalachian hills, a remote corner of Alaska
known as Portlock. Back in the early 1900s, this
here settlement sprang up. taking its name from
a British sea captain, Nathaniel Portlock, who'd
sailed those icy waters in the late 18th century.
The town flourished on the back of a salmon cannery,
attracting loggers, fishermen, and their kinfolk,
all looking to carve out a life in the rugged
wilderness. They built themselves a post office,
a schoolhouse, and the cannery's smokestacks
puffed steady as a train on a mountain grade.
But from the get -go there was an unease settling
over Portlock, like a low fog creeping through
the hollers. Fishermen, while mending their nets
along the shore, would pause, cock their heads,
and swear they heard voices carried on the wind,
whispers and tongues unfamiliar, as if the very
land was murmuring secrets. Hunters, seasoned
as any Appalachian woodsman, ventured into the
dense forests, their rifles at the ready, only
to vanish without a trace, swallowed whole by
the timbered maw. Those few who did return spoke
of feeling watched, of twigs crackling just beyond
the lantern's glow, but could never catch sight
of what shadowed them. Then there were the footprints.
Great human -like tracks pressed deep into the
mud, far larger than any man's boot, and heavier
than a grizzly's paw. These signs set the townsfolk
on edge, but they chalked it up to the wilds
being wild, and carried on, though with eyes
a mite wider and ears pricked sharp. As the years
ambled on, these unsettling events grew more
frequent. like a storm brewing on the horizon.
Disappearances became common talk over supper
tables, and the rare bodies found bore marks
that no one could rightly explain, mangled and
torn as if some beast had taken to hunting man.
The forest, once a source of livelihood, had
turned into a place of dread, where even the
bravest hesitated to tread. The air in Portlock
grew thick with fear, palpable as the morning
mist. Families began to pack up, leaving their
homes and the canneries constant hum behind,
seeking safer grounds. By the end of the 1940s
the town stood silent, abandoned to the elements
and whatever lurked in the shadows, a ghost town
birthed not by economic bust or natural disaster,
but by an overwhelming, unspoken terror that
drove folks away, leaving only whispers on the
wind to tell their tale. By the time the 1920s
rolled in, Portlock weren't just a town no one
wanted to move to. It was a place folks was starting
to run from. The forest that once promised good
hunting had turned into a thing of nightmares.
And the waters that once fed the town began giving
back things that didn't belong there. At first,
it was a hunter here, a trapper there. Men who
knew them woods like the backs of their own hands,
going off to check their lines or bring back
fresh meat, only to never return. The first body
showed up in the shallows of the lagoon, all
twisted up and broken. their flesh torn clean
off the bone in places. Some had been gutted
like a deer, their innards spilt out into the
tide. Others looked whole on the outside, not
a mark on them, yet their faces was frozen in
some kind of silent, unholy scream, like they'd
seen something so awful that their spirits just
up and left, for their bodies even knew they
was dead. And it didn't stop. Year after year,
more men went missing. Then, one autumn, a group
of loggers disappeared like a puff of breath
on a cold morning. It was near a week, for anyone
found them, and when they did, they wished they
hadn't. Their bodies was scattered along the
riverbanks, not piled up like victims of a flood,
but spread out, deliberate like as if they'd
been hunted down, one by one and left where they
fell for some unseen thing to admire its work.
Word spread quick, but fear kept folks from talking
too much. Ain't no one wanted to admit that something
unnatural had its grip on portlock, but fear
can turn to foolishness just as quick, and one
feller, a hunter by trade, had more bravado than
sense. He laughed in the face of the stories,
said all them disappearances was just bad luck
or bears. He took off into the woods one evening,
rifle slung across his back, claiming he'd prove
once and for all that the only monsters out there
was in folks' heads. Days later he was found
hanging from a tree deep in the timber, his head
twisted all the way around like something had
grabbed him and wrung his neck like a chicken.
After that, even the bravest of them started
locking their doors before the sun dipped too
low. They kept their shotguns propped by the
front door and their windows shuttered tight,
listening to the knot like it might whisper their
names next. Then came the stories about her,
the woman in black. Some claimed she was a ghost.
Some said she was a warning. She'd appear near
the cliffs when the fog rolled in. standing still
as a gravestone, her long dress whipping in the
wind, though no wind was blowing. Those who saw
her said she never moved, never looked their
way, but the moment you took your eyes off her,
she was gone. It wasn't just Nantanak stalking
them woods, Portlock was cursed. If Nantanac
was the only horror lurking in them woods, folks
might have found a way to fight back. But Portlock?
Well, Portlock had more than just one devil in
its shadows. The nights in that town was never
quiet. The wind carried sounds it shouldn't.
Footsteps in the dirt, slow and deliberate, pacing
round cabins like a wolf circling a wounded deer.
But when a man got up the nerve to fling open
his door, shotgun in hand, there weren't nothing
there. The air would be dead still, but the moment
he shut the door, them steps would start right
up again. Some nights, folks swore they saw lights
floating through the trees, a sickly blue -green
glow dancing just out of reach. They looked like
lanterns carried by unseen hands, beckoning the
foolhardy into the timber. But the second anyone
got close, them lights was gone, like a match
snuffed out in the wind. And then there was the
voices. Low whispers slithering out from the
bones of abandoned cabins, voices speaking words
that ain't from no tongue folks recognized. Some
sounded soft, almost inviting, like they was
coaxing you closer. Others was sharp, urgent,
like a warning, though what they was warning
about, no one could say. But the worst was him,
the shadow man. Fishermen out on the bay seen
him standing on the shore, tall and still, staring
out at the water like he was waiting for something.
No matter the time of day, his shape was pitch
black. like he was cut out of the world itself.
Some tried to row closer, but the moment their
boat neared the land, he was gone. Not like a
man slipping into the woods, just gone. By the
1940s, Portlock weren't just scared, it was on
the edge of madness. One last time, a group of
men decided they'd had enough. They grabbed their
rifles, strapped on their knives and swore they'd
track down whatever was killing their people.
Maybe it was a beast. Maybe it was something
worse. But they never got the chance to tell.
Days later, the river gave them back what was
left of them. Their bodies was ripped apart,
torn to shreds like something had taken its time
playing with its food. Bones was found scattered
up and down the shore, stripped clean, like they'd
been picked over by scavengers. That was it.
Whatever lived in them woods wasn't just hunting
anymore. It wasn't just lurking. It had claimed
portlock. By 1949, there weren't a soul left
in town. Families packed up what they could,
left homes standing with tables still set, Beds
still made as if they meant to come back. But
they never did. Portlock was abandoned. Not because
the fish ran out. Not because the money dried
up. Because no one wanted to be the next one
the wood swallowed whole. Even after all them
years, Portlock ain't silent. The town might
be abandoned. It's cannery rusting away. It's
buildings sagging under the weight of time. But
something out there, it ain't gone. Back in the
1970s, a group of hunters come passing through,
figuring they'd set up camp near the old town
for the night. They was seasoned men, used to
the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and
the dark that makes most folks uneasy. But they
weren't ready for what the night had to say.
Just past midnight, The forest began to scream.
Not an owl. Not no wolf. This was something unnatural.
A sound that curled the blood in their veins.
A whale that stretched out too long, too deep,
vibrating in their chest like it was trying to
shake them apart from the inside. They didn't
waste time. They left their fire burning, left
their gear right where it sat, and they never
came back. Then, in the 1990s, a bush pilot flew
low over the bay, making a routine pass when
something caught his eye. There, on the shore,
stood a figure, tall, broad, and still as a statue.
A man, he thought at first, but there was something
off, something too big about the shoulders, something
wrong in the way it stood. He circled back, It
was gone. Not just disappeared, but erased. The
sand where it had stood was smooth, untouched.
No footprints, no sign it had ever been there.
Like the land itself refused to hold its shape.
And in 2018, a fisherman made landfall near the
ruins, taking a break from the sea. As he walked
along the shore, he came across footprints. Huge
footprints. He said each one was twice the size
of his own boot, sunk deep into the damp earth
like whatever left him was heavy, unnaturally
heavy. He followed him a ways, but the more he
walked, the more he felt something watching him,
a pressure in the air, like the whole forest
was holding its breath. And then the whispers
started. Nothing loud, just a soft murmur on
the wind. The kind that makes the hairs on the
back of your neck stand up. Couldn't tell what
it was saying, but he knew what it meant. Get
out. Folks who visit Portlock today talk about
that same unnatural silence. That same watchful
presence. That same cold dread that don't come
from the wind, but from something deeper. And
that leaves us wondering, what if Nantanak was
just one piece of the puzzle? What if the people
of Portlock weren't just running from a beast,
but from something much, much worse? To this
day, Portlock sits empty, its bones rotten beneath
the weight of time, its silence stretching out
like a warning whispered on the wind. Ain't no
families setting roots there, no loggers taking
their axes to the timber, no fishermen mending
their nets along the shore. It's just hollow
cabins, sagging docks, and the ghosts of all
them that never made it out. Some say it was
a rogue bear, some monstrous beast that took
a lichen to human flesh, tearing folks apart
till there weren't none left to feed on. Others
whisper about a killer hiding in them woods,
a madman lurking in the shadows, picking off
the unsuspecting till the town was naught but
fear and empty streets. But then there's the
ones that don't talk about bears or killers.
They talk about Nantanak. They say he's still
out there, stalking them trees, watching the
land that once belonged to him alone. They say
he's waiting, listening for the sound of men's
voices to return, for the smoke of cook fires
to rise again. And when they do, he'll come back.
And then there's another kind of fear. The kind
that don't got no shape, no face, no footprints
in the mud. The kind that says Portlock itself
don't want no people. A cursed place, a hollow
land that rejects the living, swallows them up,
spits them out in pieces or worse, takes them
whole, leaving nothing behind but silence. Whatever
the truth may be, one thing's for certain. Ain't
no one stays in Portlock, Not for long. So, what
do you think happened in Portlock? Was it a creature,
a spirit, or something else? Did the town fall
to a flesh and blood predator, hunting people
till none were left? Or was it something tied
to the land, a darkness that don't take kindly
to settlers? Maybe Nantanak wasn't just a beast,
but a guardian of something worse. Would you
visit Portlock? Would you step into that forgotten
town, feel the heavy silence, listen for the
footsteps that ain't yours? Or would you keep
your distance, knowing some places don't want
visitors? If given the chance, would you spend
a night there? Share your thoughts in the comments,
and if you crave more chilling tales of the unknown,
don't forget to subscribe, because sometimes
the scariest places ain't the ones we remember.
They're the ones we were meant to forget. If
you made it this far, reckon you got a taste
for the eerie. So don't stop now. Port Lock ain't
the only place where shadows move on their own
and folks disappear without a trace. There's
plenty more tales waiting for you, just beyond
the firelight. Go on, take a step deeper. Check
out our other spooky stories right here at Kentucky
Melody. where the haints still whisper, the legends
never die, and the dark's always got something
watching. So go on ahead and watch another, but
if the shadows in the corner seem to be lurking
closer, they probably are.