They say if you stare into the abyss long enough
Well after a while that abyss starts staring
back But what if that abyss weren't some far
-off idea? What if it was sitting right there
in your own backyard? Way out yonder in the cold
misty hills near Ellensburg, Washington There's
a spot folks whisper about a hole so deep they
say it'd swallow the sea so dark it had snuffed
out starlight, and stranger in anything you'd
ever hear told around a campfire. A fellow by
the name of Mel Waters claimed he found it, and
the moment he spoke up, he disappeared. Was it
the government snatching him up, aliens dragging
him off, or something older and meaner? Tonight,
we're taking a slow walk to the edge of that
hole, into the dark belly of the unknown. This
here's the story of Mel's Hole. 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. Now, if you ain't never heard
the name Art Bell, let me sit you down and tell
you about the fella who turned the dead and not
into a doorway for the dead, the lost, and the
downright unexplainable. See, back in the late
80s, there was this old desert rat out in Pahrum,
Nevada, a loner with a voice like midnight thunder,
by the name of Art Bell. He weren't no suit and
tie radio man broadcasting from some fancy city
station. Nah, sir. He was coming at folks from
a double wide trailer sitting smack in the middle
of the Mojave, surrounded by nothing but sand,
sky, and maybe a UFO or two. Art, he didn't talk
about the news or the weather like them daytime
talkers. He opened his lines to them that seen
things. felt things, stuff most folks would be
too scared to whisper at the dinner table. He
had guests rambling on about aliens poking around
their barns, black -eyed kids knocking at bedroom
windows, Bigfoot sightings and foggy hollers,
time travelers, shadow people, and the government
sticking its fingers in places it didn't belong.
And Buddy, by the time the early 90s rolled around,
Art Bell had a whole nation listening. farmers,
truckers, late shift nurses, insomniacs, and
folks with too many ghosts in their attic. They
all tuned in while the rest of the world slept.
Coast to Coast AM became a lifeline for the strange
and the scared. It was like a digital campfire
in the dark, drawing in folks who felt like something
ain't right in this world, and they needed someone
who'd believe them. But out of all the tales
ever told on them airwaves, and Lord knows there
was thousands, there was one that cracked through
the static like a voice from the void. A story
that made even the most skeptical folks lean
in, hold their breath and start to wonder if
maybe the devil does have a back door somewhere
out in them, Washington Hills. That story came
from a man called Mel Waters, and what he said,
Well, it chilled the bones of every man, woman
and beast who heard it. Now, it was on a cold
February night, back in 1997, when a man named
Mel Waters first rang up Art Bell's radio show.
His voice weren't rushed or excited, nah, it
was slow, matter of fact, like he was just sharing
something he'd lived with a long while and figured
folks ought to know. He said he had himself a
patch of land out yonder near Ellensburg, Washington.
Kittitas County, to be exact. Real quiet place.
Pine trees, thick as thieves, them long mountain
shadows stretching like fingers, and the kind
of silence that presses on a man's ears like
cotton. And on that land, tucked back past where
the fence posts rot and the deer trail disappears,
was a hole. Now ain't no well ain't no mine shaft
Just a dang hole Round as a silver dollar near
nine feet across Rimmed with a ring on old stones
and rusted metal like it was once marked for
something Maybe something sacred or something
cursed Mel didn't dig it said it was there long
before he ever laid claim to that ground Old
-timers in them parts had known about it for
decades maybe longer, but they didn't talk much
on it. Just called it The Hole, like even giving
it a real name might wake something that's best
left sleeping. He said animals wouldn't go near
it. Dogs would whimper if they got too close.
Deer gave it a wide berth. And birds, well, they
just flat out refused to fly over it, like there
was something wrong with the air above it. Heavy.
Mean, but here's where it gets real spooky. Mel
claimed that hole ain't got no bottom. Said he'd
tried measuring it himself, dropping down reel
after reel of fish in line with a one pound weight
tied on the end. He let out 80 ,000 feet of line,
15 miles, give or take, and still, that weight
never touched nothing. No clink, no splash. No
nothing. Just a heavy stillness, like the earth
had been hollowed out and left to whisper secrets
into the void. That hole weren't just deep. It
was impossible. And Mel, well, he was only just
getting started. Mel, he wasn't no fool. He weren't
looking to stir up trouble or spin yarns. He
just couldn't make sense of what he had sitting
out behind his barn. So, one day, he got to testing
that hole. Took himself a sturdy old fishing
pole and tied on a one pound weight, just like
he was trying to catch something swimming down
in the belly of the earth. He started lowering
that line down slow, reel after reel, like he
was dropping it into the throat of the world
itself. Ten thousand feet, twenty, forty, eighty
thousand feet. That's 15 miles, 15, and the line
just kept going. Never once tugged, never went
slack, never so much as tickled the bottom. He
said it was like lowering a line into nothing.
Ain't natural, ain't even possible, far as any
man knows. Now Mel wasn't the only one using
that hole. The locals, well, they'd been tossing
things down there for years. Old refrigerators,
busted lawn mowers, barrels of God knows what.
One fella even dumped a whole Chrysler in there,
or so the story goes. Folks used it like a dump,
but what got him uneasy was how nothing ever
made a sound. No thud, no echo, not even the
faintest clatter bouncing back up. It was like
the earth just swallowed it all, like it was
hungry. But the strangest thing, and I mean bone
-crawling strange, was what happened with the
neighbor's dog. Now, this old fella had a hound,
faithful as the day is long, but it had gone
and died. Natural, far as he could tell. Instead
of burying it, he figured he'd send it off down
the hole. Maybe it was convenience. Maybe he
didn't want the coyotes digging it up. Who knows?
So he tosses a dog in. Couple days later, he's
out walking the ridge at dusk when he sees something
moving in the tree line. At first, he don't think
nothing of it. Just a shadow, maybe a fox. But
then, it steps into the light. It's his dog.
Same coloring, same limp in the back leg, same
little nick on the ear where it had tangled with
a raccoon the summer before. But that dog, it
looked at him different, like it knew him, but
didn't want to know him, like it had come back
wrong. It turned and patted off into the woods,
tail low, ears back, and it never came near the
house again. That was the moment Mel said he
knew. This weren't no ordinary hole, weren't
just deep or weird. There was something down
there, something alive. something ancient, and
maybe something evil. Now, right after Mel went
on air with Art Bell, spilling them secrets about
the hole and all them unnatural goings on, things
started shifting, and not in a good way. He said
it began subtle, vehicles he didn't recognize
parked up along the tree line, black trucks with
no plates. Folks snooping around his fence line,
taking pictures, leaving boot tracks where no
boots ought to be. And the wildlife? It went
dead silent, like the whole forest was holding
its breath. Then, just a few days after that
broadcast, the men in black showed up. Not the
funny kind from the movies, neither. These fellas
were sharp as razors, dressed head to toe in
black suits, dark glasses, earpieces, like they
walked right out of some alphabet agency's nightmare
playbook. Cold, no emotion, no names. They told
Mel, right to his face, that he was trespassing
on federal property. Said the land he'd called
home for years was now classified, a secured
site. No room for debate, no chance to argue.
Next thing he knows, he's handed a document offering
him a lease buyout. Real official looking. Typed
in all them fancy legal words that make your
head hurt. And here's the kicker. Not long after,
Mel gets shipped off to Australia. Just like
that. No trial, no press, no nothing. One day,
he's poking around in a mysterious hole. Next,
he's half a world away with no answers and no
land to call his own. And then, just like the
hole, Mel went silent. Folks that remembered
his call wondered what had happened. Some thought
he got paid off. Others figured he was buried
in the desert somewhere. For a long spell, the
line went dead. No more Mel. No more talk of
the hole. But just when folks started thinking
the story was over, that's when Mel came back.
He resurfaced in 2000 and again in 2002, calling
in to Art Bell's show like a voice coming back
from the grave. But this time, Mel didn't sound
right. His voice was scratchier, slower. You
could tell he'd seen some things. And the tale
he told, well... it was about to get a whole
lot stranger and a whole lot darker. Now, by
the time Mel popped back up again, he weren't
in Washington no more. Nope, he'd wound up in
Nevada near a tight -knit Basque community out
in the desert flats, dry land, strange land,
land where the wind don't carry right and even
the stars seem to look the other way. Mel said
he got wind of something familiar, too familiar.
The locals whispered about a spot they didn't
go near, a place even the wild dogs avoided.
Sounded like the same kind of thing he'd found
back on his own property. Sure enough, nestled
out there past the scrub and sun -cracked earth
was another hole. But this one, this one was
different. It didn't just sit there like a mouth
waiting to be fed. No, sir. This one was active.
Mel said sometimes late at night when the desert
was dead still, you'd see it emit something unnatural,
a black beam of light. Now I know that don't
make sense. Light's supposed to shine, right?
Make things visible. But this weren't like no
flashlight or car head beam. This light was dark.
It didn't brighten. It ate. A thick, syrupy blackness
that reached skyward and seemed to pull the stars
into it. The locals said they'd tossed injured
animals into that hole. Things hurt bad, dying,
beyond help. And not long after, those same critters
had come crawling back out the brush, looking
fine as frog hair. Healed. Stronger even. But
they weren't right. They'd stare too long. They
didn't bark or bleat no more. Just watched. Like
they remembered being somewhere else. And maybe
wishing they'd stayed. And then came the worst
of it. Mel said he saw something coming up out
of that pit. Not a shadow. Not a vapor. Something
with form. He never described it fully. Couldn't,
maybe. Just said it looked like it shouldn't
be. like it was built wrong. It rose up slow,
real quiet, and the second it did, everything
went dead quiet. Not a single cricket, not a
breeze, just silence, thick and heavy like water
in your ears. Then came the blackouts, whole
towns nearby, lights snuffed out like candles
in a storm. Radios went to static, power grids
fried, And when the lights did come back, folks
felt different, nervous, cold, like something
had been watching them from inside their own
heads. Mel didn't stay long after that. He said
that hole weren't just deep, it was hungry, and
whatever it had spit out into the desert, it
weren't done yet. Now, by the time Mel popped
back up again, he weren't in Washington no more.
Nope. He'd wound up in Nevada near a tight -knit
bass community out in the desert flats. Dry land,
strange land, land where the wind don't carry
right, and even the stars seem to look the other
way. Mel said he got wind of something familiar,
too familiar. The locals whispered about a spot
they didn't go near, a place even the wild dogs
avoided. sounded like the same kind of thing
he'd found back on his own property. Sure enough,
nestled out there past the scrub and sun -cracked
earth was another hole. But this one, folks,
this one was different. It didn't just sit there
like a mouth waiting to be fed. No, sir, this
one was active. Mel said sometimes late at night
when the desert was dead still, You'd see it
emit something unnatural. A black beam of light.
Now, I know that don't make sense. Light's supposed
to shine, right? Make things visible. But this
weren't like no flashlight or car head beam.
This light was dark. It didn't brighten. It ate.
A thick, syrupy blackness that reached skyward
and seemed to pull the stars into it. The locals
said they'd tossed injured animals into that
hole. Things hurt bad, dying beyond help, and
not long after those same critters had come crawling
back out the brush, looking fine as frog hair.
Healed. Stronger even. But they weren't right.
They'd stare too long. They didn't bark or bleat
no more. Just watched. Like they remembered being
somewhere else. and maybe wishing they'd stayed.
After that mess in Nevada, Mel went dark again,
didn't call, didn't write, like he'd been swallowed
up by the very thing he was trying to warn us
about. Then, out of nowhere, in the dead winter
of 2002, Mel's voice crackled back across the
coast to coast airwaves. But this time, something
was different. He sounded tired. Real tired.
Weren't just his voice neither. It was like his
soul had been run through a wringer. He talked
slow. Like every word was a weight dragging behind
his tongue. He said he'd been gone for a while.
Taken. Wouldn't say by who. Claimed there were
gaps in his memory. Big ones. Weeks. Maybe months.
Missing. His teeth were falling out. Hair thinning.
said he was feeling cold even in the heat, like
whatever he'd been near had stayed inside him.
He remembered being hooked up to machines, cold
metal touching bare skin, voices speaking in
languages he didn't recognize, waking up places
he didn't fall asleep in, blood drawn, fluids
tested, dreams, dreams of lights blinking from
beneath the earth and faces without eyes. Mel
tried to warn folks, said them holes weren't
natural, weren't even man -made, said they went
through the world, tunnels maybe or veins in
the bone of something older than time, and whatever
was down there, it was watching, waiting, rising.
That was the last time anyone ever heard from
Mel Waters. No more calls, no more sightings,
no trace. Some folks say he's buried out in that
desert. Others claim he's still alive, hiding,
watched by men in black suits with dead eyes
and colder hands. And a few, just a few, say
he never existed at all, just a ghost on the
airwaves. But the hole, the hole is still out
there, out in Washington, out in Nevada. Maybe
more of them spread across the land like rot
beneath the skin of the world. No signs, no fences,
just waiting for the next poor soul to stumble
too close. Or maybe listen too hard late at night
when the radio hums just right. Now, maybe, just
maybe, Mel's Hole never existed. Maybe it was
all just smoke and stories, a tale cooked up
by a man who spent too much time listening to
the wind out west. But I'll tell you something
true, folks. Whether that hole was carved in
the dirt or in the mind, it done tapped into
something ancient. Something deep. A fear that
lives down in all of us. Same place we hide the
dreams that make us wake up sweating. It's the
fear of the unknown. The kind that makes you
stop in your tracks when you find a cave you
ain't never seen before. Makes the hair on your
neck prickle when you peer into a well and can't
see nothing but pitch. Makes you whisper instead
a speak, like maybe something's listening from
down below. Mel's hole don't gotta be on a map
to be real, cause stories like that, they plant
seeds, and once they take root in your head,
you start seeing holes everywhere. You ever stood
at the edge of something dark and felt it staring
back? Yeah. Maybe the story's real because we
believe it. Or maybe, just maybe. It was never
a hole at all. Maybe it was a doorway. So come
back to watch the next one with us here at Kentucky
Melody if you dare. And just remember, that hole's
still out there, waiting, watching. so don't
go poking too deep where the dark runs thick.
I'll see y 'all in the next one, if something
don't drag me down first.