In this chilling horror story set in 1962 Beaver County, Pennsylvania, a young tourist’s wrong turn on a desolate road spirals into a creepy story of survival and terror. When a sinister stranger attacks, a mysterious, disfigured figure—whispered about in scary ghost stories as Charlie No-Face—emerges from the shadows to intervene, plunging her into a nightmarish web of violence and secrets.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Shadows on Route 351
Beaver County, Pennsylvania, 1962
The night was a living thing, heavy and suffocating, as Alice Carter’s ’59 Ford Falcon rattled along the desolate stretch of Route 351 in Beaver County, Pennsylvania.
She was a stranger here, a 24-year-old tourist from Ohio, lured by glossy brochures promising quaint towns and pastoral charm. But the map crumpled on her passenger seat had lied.
What should have been a quick detour to Beaver Falls had spiraled into a maze of unmarked backroads, each twist swallowing her deeper into the unknown.
The dashboard clock glowed 11:47 p.m., its green numerals a mocking reminder of how late she was. The gas needle trembled just above empty, and her hands, clammy with sweat, gripped the steering wheel so tightly her nails carved crescents into the cracked leather.
Outside, the woods loomed like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting into shapes that seemed to writhe in the moonlight. The air filtering through the cracked window carried the damp, earthy scent of moss and decay, mingling with the faint tang of motor oil from the struggling engine.
Alice’s hazel eyes flicked to the rearview mirror—a nervous habit from years of city driving—and her breath caught. A shadow darted between the trees, a fleeting smudge of darkness that vanished when she blinked. Her heart thudded.
“Just a deer,” she muttered, but her voice trembled in the empty car.
The shadow appeared again, closer, moving with a deliberate rhythm that matched her car’s pace. It wasn’t a deer. It was human-shaped, tall and lean, slipping through the underbrush with unnatural grace. Her pulse roared in her ears, and she pressed the gas pedal harder, the Ford lurching forward with a groan.
Gravel pinged against the undercarriage, the tires skidding on the uneven road. The shadow kept up, a relentless specter weaving through the trees, its presence a weight pressing against her chest.
“Come on, you piece of junk,” she hissed, slamming her palm against the dashboard as the engine coughed—a sickly, choking sound. The car shuddered, slowed, and died, rolling to a stop on the shoulder. She twisted the key, but the starter only whined, a pathetic wail that echoed her rising panic. Out of gas. Stranded. Alone.
The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant chirp of crickets and the rustle of leaves in the wind. She locked the doors, her fingers fumbling, and scanned the darkness. Nothing.
Just the moon’s pale glow filtering through the canopy, casting jagged shadows across the road. Then—a sharp snap, like a branch breaking underfoot. Her head whipped toward the driver’s side window, her breath hitching. The glass stared back, empty, but the air felt charged, electric with menace.
A hand slammed against the window, filthy and calloused, the palm smeared with dirt and sweat. Alice screamed, her voice shrill in the confined space, as a face pressed into view—wild, bloodshot eyes glinting with malice, matted brown hair hanging in greasy clumps, a grin stretched across yellowed, uneven teeth like a predator’s bared fangs.
“Get out, sweetheart,” the man rasped, his voice a guttural snarl that sent ice down her spine.
He yanked the door handle, the lock holding for a moment before giving way with a metallic groan. Alice lunged for the passenger side, her fingers clawing at the seat, but he seized her ankle, his grip bruising as he dragged her out.
She hit the gravel hard, the stones biting into her palms and knees, drawing pinpricks of blood. Her coat tore as she thrashed, kicking wildly, her heel connecting with his shin. He grunted, a low animal sound, but his hands clamped onto her wrists, twisting until she yelped in pain.
“You’re gonna regret this,” he growled, his breath hot and sour with cheap whiskey and decay.
He hauled her toward the woods, away from the road, her sneakers slipping on the damp earth. The trees closed in, their branches snagging her chestnut hair, tearing strands free.
She screamed again, a raw, desperate plea that echoed uselessly into the night. Her nails raked his arm, drawing blood, but he only laughed—a sick, guttural chuckle—and tightened his grip, dragging her deeper into the forest’s maw.
The ground was uneven, roots snaring her feet as she stumbled. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst, her lungs burning with each ragged breath. The man’s hands roamed, tearing at her blouse, buttons popping free to scatter in the dirt.
She drove an elbow into his ribs, earning a grunt, but he retaliated with a backhand across her face. Pain exploded in her cheek, stars bursting behind her eyes as she tasted blood.
Then, from the shadows, a second figure erupted—a tall, hooded man, his movements jerky, almost mechanical, as if his body were strung together by fraying threads. A guttural growl rumbled from his throat, low and primal, vibrating in Alice’s chest.
He launched himself at her attacker, tackling him with a bone-jarring thud. They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, the attacker roaring as he swung a fist, catching the hooded man’s shoulder.
Alice scrambled back, her hands sinking into the cold, wet soil, her breath coming in sobs. The hooded man straddled her assailant, pinning him with surprising strength. He snatched a jagged rock from the dirt, its edges glinting like a blade in the moonlight, and brought it down with a sickening crunch.
The attacker’s scream cut off as the rock smashed into his forehead, blood spraying in a hot, crimson arc. The skull split, bone splintering with a wet crack, exposing the pulpy gray matter beneath. Blood gushed, pooling in the dirt, thick and black, as the rock descended again—and again.
The man’s face caved, his nose crumpling into a bloody crater, one eye popping free to dangle by a sinewy thread, the other mashed into a jelly-like mess.
The hooded man growled, a feral sound, and kept striking, the rock pulping flesh and bone into a grotesque stew. Brain matter splattered, clinging to the attacker’s matted hair, dripping onto the hooded man’s sleeves in viscous clumps. Teeth scattered like broken pebbles, and the scalp tore away in strips, revealing the shattered dome of the skull. The air reeked of copper and rot, the ground a slick, churning mire of gore.
Alice gagged, bile rising in her throat as she crawled backward, her hands slipping in the blood-soaked mud. The hooded man paused, panting, the rock falling from his trembling hand. He turned, his face shadowed beneath the hood, but his eyes—wild, piercing, unmistakably human—locked onto hers.
For a moment, something like sorrow flickered there, raw and fleeting. Then he staggered to his feet, blood dripping from his hands, and vanished into the trees, leaving her alone with the mutilated corpse.
She ran, legs burning, lungs screaming, branches clawing at her torn clothes. Her vision blurred with tears, but she didn’t stop until a faint light broke through the trees—a gas station, its neon sign buzzing “OPEN” like a beacon.
She burst through the door, collapsing against the counter, her voice a broken sob. “Help me… please… he’s dead…”
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Chapter 2: Charlie No-Face
Earl Ramsey, a grizzled man in his late sixties with a face like weathered leather, jolted upright behind the gas station counter, his tattered copy of Field & Stream tumbling to the floor.
The station was a squat, peeling relic, its walls lined with faded cigarette ads and a cracked clock ticking unevenly. The air smelled of gasoline, stale coffee, and the faint mildew of a place left to rot. A single fluorescent bulb flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows across Earl’s lined face.
“Lord almighty, girl, what’s happened?” he asked, his voice rough but steady as he took in her disheveled state—torn blouse, bloodied palms, a bruise blooming on her cheek.
Alice clutched the counter, her knees buckling. “A man… he attacked me… dragged me into the woods off Route 351. I thought I was done for, but then… another man came. Hooded. He… he killed him. Smashed his head in with a rock. There was so much blood… brains everywhere…”
Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her dirt-streaked face.
Earl’s eyes widened, then narrowed with recognition. “Easy now, you’re safe here.”
He shuffled to a rotary phone on the wall, its cord tangled like a noose. “This is Earl at the station. Got a girl here, says she was attacked. Send someone quick—Route 351, near the old mill.”
He hung up and turned back, sliding a chipped mug of coffee across the counter. “Drink this. It’ll steady you. What’d this second fella look like?”
Alice’s hands shook as she gripped the mug, the warmth grounding her slightly.
“I couldn’t see his face—a hood covered it. He was tall, moved strange, like his body didn’t fit right. And he made these noises… growls, almost animal-like. But his eyes… they were human, scared even.”
Earl leaned back in his creaking chair, scratching his stubbled chin. “That’s Charlie No-Face, no doubt.”
“Charlie No-Face?” Alice’s voice trembled, the name sending a chill through her. “Who is he?”
Earl’s gaze drifted to the window, where the night pressed against the glass. “A local legend, though he’s real enough. Been hauntin’ these roads since I was a boy. Name’s Raymond Robinson, but folks ‘round here call him Charlie No-Face ‘cause of what the world did to him.”
“What happened to him?” she asked, her coffee forgotten, her eyes locked on Earl’s weathered face.
He sighed, his fingers tracing the edge of the counter. “Back in 1918, Raymond was just a kid—eight, maybe nine. Lived in one of them big Victorian houses up the hill, the kind with rooms tucked away for secrets. He was a daredevil, climbin’ poles, chasin’ thrills.
One day, he got too close to a power line near the train tracks. Some say lightning hit him; others say it was just the wire’s juice. Don’t matter. It burned him bad—melted his face like wax, left him a wreck. Doctors didn’t think he’d live, but Raymond’s tougher than most.”
Alice swallowed hard, her stomach twisting. “His face… how bad is it?”
Earl’s voice dropped, almost reverent. “Ain’t a face no more, not really. Just scars and holes where a boy used to be.
No nose, barely a mouth, eyes like they’re drownin’ in skin. That’s why they call him Charlie No-Face—it’s a name that sticks, cruel as it is. He hides it under a hood, walks at night so folks don’t scream or stare. Daylight’s no place for him.”
“Why only at night?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“People ain’t kind,” Earl said, his eyes hard. “Back then, families locked away folks like Raymond—kept ‘em in attic rooms with their own plumbing, their own world.
Not ‘cause they hated ‘em, but ‘cause the town would. Kids threw rocks, adults whispered ‘freak.’ Night’s his sanctuary. Charlie No-Face walks Route 351 when the world’s asleep, just him and the dark.”
Alice’s hands tightened around the mug. “He saved me, Earl. But the way he killed that man… it was brutal. He didn’t stop. The rock… it crushed his skull, tore his face apart. There was blood, brains, teeth… everywhere.”
Earl frowned, his brow furrowing like cracked earth. “That don’t sound like Charlie No-Face. He’s gentle, in his way. Locals see him shufflin’ along, a shadow on the road. Kids dare each other to spot him, call him a ghost, a monster—Charlie No-Face, the boogeyman. But he’s never hurt no one. Not till tonight, anyways.”
“Why would he do it?” she asked, her voice shaking. “Why so… savage?”
Earl leaned forward, his elbows on the counter, the fluorescent light flickering in his eyes.
“Pain changes a man. Raymond’s carried more than most—burns, loneliness, a lifetime of bein’ shunned. Maybe seein’ you in trouble flipped somethin’ in him. Or maybe he didn’t mean to go that far. Charlie No-Face ain’t a killer by nature, but he’s human. Humans break.”
Alice stared at the floor, the linoleum stained and curling at the edges. “He looked at me, after. Like he was sorry. Then he just… ran.”
Earl nodded slowly. “Sounds like him. Charlie No-Face don’t stick around for thanks. He’s used to folks runnin’ from him, not to him. You’re lucky he was there, girl. Most nights, that road’s empty as a grave.”
The radio on the counter crackled, spitting out a distorted Hank Williams tune, its warbling notes filling the silence. Alice sipped the coffee, bitter and lukewarm, and glanced at the window.
The darkness outside seemed to pulse, as if Charlie No-Face’s shadow lingered just beyond the glass.
“What happens now?” she asked, her voice small.
Earl’s face darkened. “Police’ll come. But the Robinsons—they’re old money, got this town in their pocket. If Charlie No-Face is tangled up in this, they’ll want it quiet. They always do.”
The door creaked open, and two police officers stepped inside, followed by a third man in a tailored suit, his presence like a cold wind.
The first cop, Sergeant Wilkins, was fat and grizzled, his uniform straining over his gut, a cigar smoldering between his lips. The second, Officer Reed, was skinny and younger, his smirk sharp as a blade. The suited man, Charles Robinson, carried an air of quiet menace, his slicked-back hair gleaming under the flickering light.
Earl stood, his tone guarded. “Officers. Mr. Robinson.”
Charles extended a hand to Alice, his smile thin as a razor. “Charles Robinson. My cousin Raymond—known to some as Charlie No-Face—is involved, I understand. Let’s get this sorted.”
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Chapter 3: A Deal in the Dark
Sergeant Wilkins puffed his cigar, the smoke curling like a ghost in the dim station. He pulled out a notepad, its pages yellowed and curled, and leaned against the counter, his bulk making the wood creak.
“Alright, Miss Carter, let’s have it. What happened out there? And don’t waste my time with hysterics.”
Alice’s hands trembled as she recounted the attack, her voice unsteady but clear.
“I was driving on Route 351 when my car died. A man came out of nowhere—grabbed me, dragged me into the woods. He hit me, tore my clothes… I thought he’d kill me. Then another man—a hooded figure—came. He tackled the guy, grabbed a rock, and… and smashed his head in. The skull broke open, blood sprayed everywhere, his brains were… spilling out, his face was gone…”
Her voice cracked, the memory of the gore—the dangling eye, the shattered teeth, the pulpy mess—churning her stomach.
Wilkins chuckled, a low, grating sound that made her skin crawl. “So Charlie No-Face turned butcher, huh? Quite a story, lady. You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
“It’s true,” Alice snapped, her bruised cheek throbbing. “He saved my life. The attacker’s dead—I saw it.”
Charles Robinson stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking on the linoleum.
“Miss Carter, no one doubts you were attacked. But Raymond—Charlie No-Face—isn’t well. That accident in ’18… it broke more than his face. His mind’s fragile. This kind of violence, while regrettable, isn’t surprising. It’s a family matter, you see.”
Alice’s eyes narrowed. “A family matter? He killed someone. To protect me.”
Wilkins flicked ash onto the floor, his grin oily. “Here’s the thing, sweetheart. You say there’s a body, but we ain’t found one yet. Maybe your ‘hero’ dragged it off. Maybe there’s nothin’ to find. Either way, draggin’ Charlie No-Face into this just makes a mess—for him, for you.”
Reed snorted, leaning against a shelf of motor oil cans, his fingers drumming lazily. “You’re an outsider, Miss Carter. You don’t get how it works here. Charlie No-Face is a local problem—been scarin’ kids for years, but he’s the Robinsons’ problem. Old money like them don’t take kindly to folks pokin’ in their business.”
Charles’s smile was a blade, sharp and cold. “Miss Carter, if this story spreads, it’ll cause a panic. Locals already whisper about Charlie No-Face—call him a monster, a curse. If they hear he’s a killer, they’ll hunt him down. Vigilantes don’t ask questions. You’d be caught in the fallout—reporters, accusations, maybe worse. We’re trying to protect you.”
Alice’s fists clenched, her nails digging into her palms. “Protect me? Or cover it up?”
Wilkins laughed, his cigar smoke stinging her eyes. “Smart girl, but not smart enough. Say the guy ran off. No body, no hooded freak, no Charlie No-Face. We’ll handle the rest—make it clean.”
“There was a body,” she insisted, her voice rising. “I saw it—his skull split open, brains leaking, blood soaking the ground. You can’t just erase that.”
Reed stepped closer, his smirk gone, his eyes hard. “You sure about that? ‘Cause if we go look and find nothin’, you’re the one in trouble—lyin’ to the law, wastin’ our time. Could lock you up for that, maybe let you cool off in a cell till you remember things right.”
Charles’s voice was smooth, almost soothing. “Miss Carter, we’re offering you a way out. A little cash for your troubles—say, two hundred dollars.
Enough to fix your car, get you home, maybe a bit extra for your silence. No one needs to know about Charlie No-Face’s… moment of weakness.”
Alice’s stomach churned. “You’re bribing me to lie?”
Wilkins shrugged, his gut jiggling. “Call it a deal. You keep quiet, we keep this tidy. Charlie No-Face stays a ghost story, not a murderer. You don’t know this town—cross the Robinsons, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
Earl shifted behind the counter, his voice low but firm. “She’s tellin’ the truth, Wilkins. If there’s a body out there, you gotta check. Ain’t right to bully her.”
Reed whirled on him, his finger jabbing. “Shut it, old man. Want this dump cited for every code violation in the book? No? Then stay out of it.”
Earl’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists, but he said nothing, his gaze dropping to the counter.
The radio crackled, a warped Patsy Cline song filling the silence, its mournful notes mocking the tension. Alice’s chest tightened, the air thick with gasoline fumes and the acrid bite of Wilkins’ cigar. The flickering light buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows that danced across the walls like specters.
“I just want to go home,” Alice whispered, her voice breaking.
Charles nodded, his smile predatory. “Then you know what to say. The attacker fled. No body, no Charlie No-Face. Simple.”
Alice’s shoulders slumped, defeat washing over her. The weight of their stares—Wilkins’ smugness, Reed’s menace, Charles’s cold calculation—crushed her resolve.
“Fine,” she muttered. “He ran off. That’s all.”
Wilkins snapped his notepad shut, grinning. “Good choice, kid.”
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Chapter 4: The Face in the Backseat
The officers led Alice outside, the night air biting her skin through her torn blouse. Her car waited, refueled by Earl, its chrome glinting dully under the gas station’s neon glow. The station’s sign buzzed, a faint hum that echoed in her skull.
She glanced at the police cruiser parked nearby, its windows fogged with condensation. A figure sat in the backseat, hunched and still, his silhouette a dark stain against the glass.
As Wilkins opened her car door, she caught a clearer glimpse of the figure—Charlie No-Face, his hood gone, his face exposed under the cruiser’s dim interior light. Her breath caught, a gasp she couldn’t stifle. His face was a nightmare of flesh, a grotesque tapestry of scars that seemed to writhe in the shadows.
His skin was melted, puckered into uneven ridges, as if fire had poured over his bones and hardened there. His nose was a gaping cavity, a black void where cartilage should have been. His mouth was a crooked slash, barely a seam, with no lips to soften it.
One eye was a milky, blind orb, unseeing and ghostly; the other was a sunken pit, glinting with a flicker of awareness. Sparse, patchy hair clung to his scalp, framing the horror like a mockery of normalcy.
But his expression—resigned, almost serene—cut deeper than the disfigurement. He looked at her, and for a moment, their eyes locked. There was gratitude there, faint but unmistakable, and something else—regret, perhaps, for the blood on his hands, for the life he’d taken to save hers. The cruiser door slammed shut, severing the connection, and Alice flinched as if struck.
Charles rested a hand on her shoulder, his touch cold and possessive. “Thank you, Miss Carter. You’ve done the right thing. We’ll handle Raymond—Charlie No-Face—from here. Get home safe.”
She nodded, numb, and slid into her car. The engine roared to life, a stark contrast to the silence of the night. As she pulled onto Route 351, the gas station’s light faded in her rearview mirror, replaced by the endless dark.
Charlie No-Face’s face lingered in her mind, a haunting image seared into her soul—the melted flesh, the hollow eyes, the weight of a life defined by pain.
She drove for hours, the road stretching into oblivion, the woods whispering secrets she’d never unravel. The bruise on her cheek throbbed, a reminder of the attack, but it was the memory of the rock—the wet crunch, the blood, the brains—that made her hands shake on the wheel.
Charlie No-Face had saved her, but at what cost? And what had she done, letting them bury the truth?
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Epilogue
Alice never spoke of that night again. She fled Pennsylvania, returning to Ohio, where she locked the memory away in a corner of her mind, sealed tight like a coffin.
But it clawed its way free in her dreams—the man’s shattered skull, the rock dripping red, Charlie No-Face’s eyes staring through her. She’d wake screaming, her sheets soaked with sweat, the scent of blood and earth clinging to her.
Years later, in 1985, a newspaper headline caught her eye: “Raymond Robinson, Known as Charlie No-Face, Dead at 74.” The article painted him as a recluse, a curiosity who walked Route 351 under the moon’s gaze. No mention of 1962, of the body in the woods, of her silence. The Robinsons’ money had erased it all, as if it had never happened.
In her nightmares, Charlie No-Face walked still, his scarred face glowing in the dark. But he wasn’t alone. Another figure trailed him—a man with no face, just a gaping, bloody hole where his head should be, his shattered brains dripping onto the asphalt, his empty sockets fixed on her.
And as she ran, the woods whispered his name: Charlie No-Face, Charlie No-Face, Charlie No-Face…
