3 Chilling True Stories of People Who Vanished Without a Trace

 Some people vanish without a trace. These are the stories that keep investigators—and listeners—awake at night. 

In this haunting episode of Blighty Nightmares, we explore three true disappearance stories where the mystery goes beyond logic… and into the supernatural. From cursed forests and strange radio transmissions to a lighthouse that seemed to swallow its keepers whole, these real missing person cases are both unsolved and deeply chilling. 

🕯️ In this episode:
• The Bennington Triangle Took Her – Paula Welden vanishes while hiking in 1946… and is never found
• His Last Words Were ‘It’s Not a Plane…’ – Frederick Valentich’s final call to air traffic control reveals something unexplainable in the sky
• The Lighthouse That Swallowed Its Keepers – The Flannan Isles mystery still haunts the sea to this day 

Told in immersive, first-person style, these aren’t just unsolved disappearances—they’re the kinds of cases where reality bends, and something else might be involved. 

🎧 Follow Blighty Nightmares for more true horror, Missing 411 cases, real disappearances, and supernatural mysteries that defy explanation. 

Transcript

I used to never believe in places that could take people. Not just kill them, take them. No screams, no signs, no bodies, just gone. That changed the day I hiked into the long trail with Paula. The last thing she said to me, "It's so quiet here, almost like the forest is listening." And then she vanished. It was December the 1st, 1946. We were both students at Bennington College. I was working part-time maintenance. She was, well, Paula was the girl. bright, blonde, smart, always wore this red parker that looked like fire against the Vermont snow. We weren't close friends, but I've seen her that morning. She asked if I knew the long trail. Said she wanted to walk it alone for a while, clear her head. I offered to go with her, not because I thought she needed help, just because I didn't want her to be alone out there. She laughed and said, "Fine, but don't slow me down." The long trail isn't what it sounds like. It's worse. It stretches over 270 mi through thick ancient forest. And the part we were on near Gastenbury Mountain was notorious. Even back then, locals wouldn't camp near it. Hunters refused to go alone. Something about the mountain gave people bad feelings, but we didn't know that. Not really. We just followed the path through frostcovered trees, boots crunching over old leaves. Paula kept looking up. "Don't you hear that?" she asked. "I didn't." "Well, not at first. But then I realized what she meant. It wasn't what she heard. It was what we didn't. No birds, no wind, just nothing. The silence pressed in like snow. We hiked for an hour, maybe more, and then without a sound, Paula just stopped. She turned like she heard something. I asked if she was okay. She just stared off the trail into the trees. I thought someone was behind us. I looked. Nothing. We were alone. Or so I thought. 10 minutes later, she picked up speed, didn't say a word, just started walking faster, her parker flashing between the trees. I called her name. She didn't answer. I joged to catch up. But when I turned the next bend, she was gone. I stopped cold. There was no split in the trail, no fork, no sound of branches snapping or footsteps in the snow, just empty forest. I shouted her name once, twice, no answer. I ran forward, checked behind trees, yelled until my voice cracked. Nothing. It was like she stepped into the woods and dissolved. I flagged down a couple hikers later that day. They helped me call the sheriff. Search teams went out that night. Dogs, helicopters, volunteers combing every square inch of the trail. Nothing. No footprints, no torn fabric, no blood. They even brought in psychics. One said, "She's not in this world anymore." And that's when people started talking about the Bennington Triangle. Turns out Paula wasn't the first. Between 1945 and 1950, five people vanished in the same area, all in the same radius, all without a trace. One of them, Midi Rivers, was a seasoned hunting guide. The others, hikers, a child, a war vetinum, gone. The only thing they had in common, red. Every single one was wearing red like Paula. I went back alone 2 weeks later. I shouldn't have, but I had to see it for myself. I followed the same path, same bend in the trail, same silence, and then I saw it. Half buried under snow, a scrap of red fabric caught on the root, still warm. And underneath it, a footprint, just one bare, human facing into the woods, but no others. As if someone had stepped out of nowhere and then disappeared again. I still dream about her sometimes. She's standing in the trees, pale, watching me, not blinking. She doesn't move, doesn't speak. But behind her, I see them. Others faces in the trees. Open mouths, no sound. Where the forest swallowed them whole. They never found Paula Welen. Never found the others. No bodies, no clues, just silence. If you hike that trail, if you hike that trail, don't wear red. And if the forest ever goes quiet, truly quiet, don't run. Because whatever lives in the Bellington Triangle waits. I still hear the recording sometimes, even though they confiscated the tapes. Even though they said it was nothing more than engine failure, I know what I heard. I was the one who spoke to him. I was the last voice to ever hear Frederick Fentitch. And his final words weren't panicked or distorted. They were clear. It's not a plane. October the 21st, 1978. I was working the night shift at Melbourne Flight Service. I pulled overtime. Nothing new. We mostly handled hobbyist pilots, cargo flights, nothing high stress until 7:06 p.m. That's when Federick's Cessna 182L radioed in. He was flying a routine 125 mile hop from Melbourne to King Island. Light load, calm weather. He was young, 20 years old, but certified, logged over 150 hours. His voice came in steady at first. This is Delta Sierra Juliet. Is there any known traffic below 5,000? I double checked the radar. Nothing. Told him the skies were clear. That's when he said it. I've got a large aircraft under 5,000. It's just passed over me. I leaned in. There was no aircraft, nothing within a 100 miles on scope. I asked for description. Federric hesitated. It's long metallic with a green light moving fast. Another pause. Now it's orbiting me. His voice cracked just slightly. the way someone sounds when they're trying to stay calm, but but their gut says run. I asked if it was a military jet, a flare, a weather balloon. He didn't answer, just breathing. Then my engine's rough idling. I'm going to 4,500. I looked at the radar again. Nothing, not even his blip. I tried to raise him. repeated call outs. Finally, he came back, but he wasn't calm anymore. It's not hovering. It's not an aircraft. His voice dropped to a whisper. Then metallic scraping, a loud grinding hum like steel dragging across steel and the water. Then silence. The last thing we heard was, "It's approaching from the southwest." Then a click. Dead air. This plane never arrived. The Australian government launched an immediate search. Nothing. No wreckage. No oil slick, no signal, no body. They logged it as disappearance due to unknown causes. But I know what I heard. And I wasn't alone. Several eyewitnesses along the brass straight coast reported seeing a green light moving erratically across the sky that night. One couple said it hovered in place, then shot upwards straight into the stars. A farmer said he found scorched grass in a perfect circle outside his property the next morning. No footprints, just ash. Then came the tapes. Somehow, don't ask me how, they got leaked. You can find them if you know where to look. Audio from the final minutes. Federick's breathing, the buzzing, and something else. A second voice, low, garbled, like it was speaking backwards. I played the recording once, slowed it down, reversed it. One phrase repeated. You see us now. I turned it off and never listened again. They say it was pilot error that he got disorientated, crashed into the ocean. But I talked to experienced aviators. They say Frederick knew that airspace, knew how to handle a stall. They also say Cessna wreckage floats, fiberglass, light engine blocks, but they never found a piece, not even a life jacket. Sometimes I still get calls, blocked numbers, no message, just silence and faint static. But once I swear, right before the line cut off, I heard someone whisper. Delta, Sierra, Juliet. I remembered the smell first. Salt, soot, and something else, like burned iron. We were still a mile off when I saw it. The Flann Isles Lighthouse. A tall white pillar of silence. No smoke from the chimney. No light in the lantern room. It should have been glowing. Three men were supposed to be inside. I was the fourth. The relief. But when I stepped onto that rock, the island felt empty. Not unmanned, just abandoned. It was December the 26th, 1900. I worked lighouses for 6 years, but this was my first trip to the outer heis. They called it Alen Moore, the big island. But it wasn't big, just jagged, wind blasted, nothing but black rock, gouls, and sea spray. Three men had been stationed there. Thomas Marshall, the second assistant. James Dukot, the principal keeper, and Donald MacArthur, the occasional, a tough man with a temper. They'd been alone for over 3 weeks. We were their relief. We arrived late afternoon. The sky was gray, water like glass. Still, too, still. The flag wasn't raised. The supply boxes sat untouched. and no one came to greet us. That's when I knew something was wrong. We hiked up the slippery stone path to the main building. The door was closed but unlocked. Inside was silence. No voices, no boots stomping, no oil lamp burning. I remember the kitchen table first. A chair pushed back like someone stood up suddenly. plates still on the table, bread halfeaten. The clock on the wall had stopped at 9:07. Their coats were missing, but their oil skins, their heavy weather gear still hung on the hooks. That made no sense. You'll never leave the building without it. Not on this island, unless Unless you weren't coming back. We searched the whole tower, top to bottom. No signs of a struggle, no blood, no broken glass, and no notes, just beds neatly made and an untouched log book. The last entry was December the 15th, 10 days ago. It read, "Storm ended. See calm. God is overall." And that was it. We signaled the mainland, told them the keepers were missing. Over the next week, investigators scoured the island. At the west landing, they found something odd. A rope locker 30 ft above sea level had been torn open. Steel chains ripped from the bolts. Iron railings built like soft tin. But no storm had been recorded that day. No waves big enough to reach that high and no bodies washed ashore. There are theories. One says a freak wave hit the west landing, dragged them out. Another says Macarthur saw something. Maybe Ducat fell and he rushed out without grabbing his coat. But that doesn't explain the log book, the stopped clock, the uneaten meal, or the voice. because I stayed overnight just one night. We had to keep the light running until a new crew could arrive. The wind howled. A lantern glass cracked. I sat in the main room staring at the door. And sometime after midnight, I heard footsteps. Not outside, upstairs. Deliberate, heavy boots on the metal spiral staircase. I stood up. listened. They stopped. I called out, "Hello." Silence, then faintly a whisper. Overall, I grabbed the lantern and climbed one step at a time, heart fudding louder than the wind. Nothing on the landing, nothing at the light. I stood there surrounded by glass, watching the ocean churn below. Then I turned and I saw the wet footprints behind me. Bootprints, breeze sets circling me. I didn't sleep that night. And when the new crew arrived the next morning, I didn't speak. I just walked past them down the path onto the boat. I've never returned. They never found Thomas, James, or Donald. Never found their gear, their bodies, their journals. Nothing. Just a towel with a cold flame and warm plates. And every so often, someone hears the light turning on when no one's there. Hey guys, thanks for listening to these stories. If you enjoyed, show some love and press that subscribe button and hit that like. cuz I post four creepy stories weekly. So, make sure you stick around.