GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: POLLY MILLER ROAD

POLLY MILLER ROAD

If you grew up in upstate New York, you’ve probably heard some version of the Polly Miller story. Witch. Murdered lover. Cursed swamp. The older kids always dared each other to go out there, to Polly Miller Road, after dark. I used to think it was all bullshit. Just local legend. But in the summer of 1999, I found out it wasn’t. Polly’s real—and she’s been waiting.

All we wanted was to run—me and Jess, two girls who’d gotten too deep in Carter’s bullshit. Swayed by the money, the free drugs, and that so-called safe compound tucked deep off Vickerman Hill. We had it made, but the cost was our souls, and that was too steep for me.

This was our chance. Me and Jess had just pulled off the dumbest, boldest move of our lives—sold off a stash of heroin and a shitload of coke to a Hollywood production filming in Utica. We’d skimmed it from Carter’s drop and planned to skip town with a quarter mil in cash. Just enough to start over somewhere warm. But we didn’t even make it past Main Street in Herkimer. They found us in a shitty gas station bathroom—and then shoved us in the trunk.

I’d known Jess since second grade. We were done with this life. But there’s no “out” with Carter. Not unless someone else goes under.

The trunk was hot, cramped, and loud. You could taste the old oil and cigarette smoke. Jess whimpered while I counted heartbeats. I couldn’t tell if I was hoping for the car to stop—or praying it wouldn’t.

Up front, I could hear them talking. Carter wasn’t even driving—he had one of the others doing it while he monologued like a wannabe gangster, high on his own supply and the sound of his own voice.

“You ever hear of Polly Miller Road?” he asked, lazy and low, like a bedtime story you didn’t want to hear.

“Man, don’t start that swamp witch shit again,” one of them groaned.

Reggie, Carter’s attack dog, asked, “That some Mohawk voodoo, right?”

“Nah, nah,” Carter said, clearly thrilled to have an audience. “She was real. Early 1900s. A real fuckin’ witch, bruh. Lowkey druid shit, they say. Tried to raise her dead lover after her brother lynched him. Instead, she pulled something else outta the dirt. Monster ate her alive right in that swamp. Now she haunts it. Cries for her Isaiah. And anyone who hears it? They don’t come out. Ever.”

The car hit gravel. We were here.

They dragged us out with duct tape over our mouths, stumbling into the wet green stink of the Mohawk Valley woods. The sky was bruising into night, and everything smelled like moss, rust, and the slow breath of something ancient.

“You know what this is,” Carter said, lighting a cigarette and motioning toward the swamp like it owed him something. “We do this, we’re clean. They don’t ask questions if there’s no bodies. Clean and quiet. Nobody knows what these bitches did and we go on like it’s nothin.”

Jess cried through the tape. I couldn’t. I was dumbfounded at my own stupidity for ever getting involved with Carter—and dragging Jess into it with me.

Then, a voice from the trees. Thin and sharp like a blade under silk.

“You boys are trespassing.”

She stepped into view slowly, like the forest had just grown her there. Middle-aged maybe, with long grayish red hair pulled back into a loose braid. Her clothes were oddly plain and old-fashioned, but her eyes—sharp, glinting like ice over still water.

“Get back in your shack, grandma,” Reggie said.

“I said,” she repeated, “you’re on my land.”

Carter didn’t even hesitate. Raised his gun and fired. She jerked, stumbled back into the reeds, then splashed into the water. Jess screamed through the tape and stood up. Carter sniffled nervously, then shot her next—two flashes, two thuds, one splash.

He looked at me and smiled. They thought that was it. It was going to be easy. They thought wrong.

Carter sighed loudly and Reggie told him to hurry up. He stuck his key in his pocket, snagged a bump, and snorted it up, then glared at me like a raging bull.

“You stupid bitch. This is all your fault. Why’d you do this? Why’d you fuckin’ do this, huh?”

He held his gun up to my head—and then the water started bubbling.

Then came a low hum, like something singing beneath the surface. The reeds rustled. Then bones rose from the muck—gnarled hands, a twisted torso, and that woman. The bullet hole in her chest wept black, and her face had started to stretch into something wrong—long, animalistic, half-submerged in moss and shadow.

She screamed “Isaiah,” and the forest seemed to scream with her.

Marmet, Carter’s other lackey, tried to run. She grabbed his face and peeled it like a fruit, licking the blood from her mossy tongue. Reggie sank into the bog, pulled down by hands that weren’t hers—hands that had too many fingers and no skin.

Carter fired until the hammer clicked empty. Marmet twitched in a puddle of skin and blood. Reggie was just... gone.

I ran. Somehow, I got loose and bolted. Carter shouted after me. I ran deeper into the woods.

I don’t know how long I ran before I found the shack. It looked like it had been built a hundred years ago and never once repaired. The door hung off one hinge. Moss grew up the sides like skin. Inside, the air was warm, sweet with herbs and mildew. Bottles lined the walls. Bones hung from cords. I was about to leave when I saw her.

A young woman, maybe my age, barefoot and dressed in something white and tattered. She stood near a small window, calm, not startled at all to see me. She bore a striking resemblance to the old woman. Had to be her daughter.

“Please,” I said. “He’s coming. Please. He killed your mother, I think.”

She nodded and her eyes cast a calming spell over me. She didn’t speak but motioned for me to duck beneath a wooden table. I crawled under just as the door burst open and Carter stomped in, soaked in sweat, reeking of swamp rot and adrenaline.

He looked at her and paused.

“You,” he said slowly, pointing the rusted tire iron he’d found outside. “You kinda look just like that old bitch we shot. I take it, that was your mom.”

She stood her ground.

“Get out of my house,” she told him.

He laughed and shook his head. “I already killed your mother. I’ll kill you too. Now get the fuck out of my way!”

He raised the iron and swung. It cracked against her skull. She fell hard.

He stepped over her and looked around. “Tara? I know you’re in here.”

I bolted out the door. Didn’t care that I couldn’t see. I made it five yards before he tackled me into the mud.

“You think you’re getting away from this?” he growled as he kicked me in the stomach. He grabbed my throat and squeezed. “You think anyone gives a fuck about you?”

But someone did.

From behind us, there was a groaning sound like trees bending under centuries of weight. Carter turned, still on top of me. The girl from the shack stood in the doorway—but she was changing.

Her face aged into the old woman, then into something older and earthen. Her spine cracked as it arched like a tree branch. Her limbs elongated, her fingers sharpening into claws wrapped in vines. Her eyes turned a hollow black. Her skin peeled and shimmered, part bark, part bone.

“You’re dead,” Carter said, stumbling back. “I shot you. I shot you in the chest.”

Her mouth stretched, split open in four directions, and out of it came a word not meant for our world.

“Isaiah.”

She descended on him like wrath itself. His screams turned to gurgles as his head came free from his neck. She held it in her hands and wept—not for him, but for what he reminded her of.

I was frozen, covered in Carter’s blood. When she turned to me, I thought she might finish the job, but she slowly transformed back into the young woman again. Still holding Carter’s head, she knelt beside me and whispered something I’ll never forget.

“Be careful who you follow into the darkness,” she said. “Some people were born with the swamp inside them.”

This was Polly. She pointed toward a trail of dry stones that hadn't been there a moment before. With a grin of sanity long surrendered, she smiled at me. I felt her pain, her sorrow, and her warning hit me like a sobering slap. I shuddered. She dropped Carter’s head and it rolled down an embankment, as she tenderly put her hand on top of mine.

At that moment I felt something akin to the static shocks I used to make with my socks on my grandma’s carpet when I was little.

“You’re not like them,” she said softly, brushing hair from my face. “But you would’ve been, if you stayed. Never forget that. Now go. Walk. Far from here. Never come back.”

I did. I walked until I saw stars, until the air no longer smelled like decay, until the forest was behind me. I grabbed the money from the car and kept walking.

They never found the bodies. Not Carter. Not Jess. Not even a trace of the shack. As far as anyone knew, we just disappeared. Another story buried under the weight of the Mohawk Valley.

What she said to me that night—those words—cut deeper than any blade ever could. Be careful who you follow into the darkness. Some people were born with the swamp inside them. I’ve carried that with me ever since, like a brand pressed into my soul.

And sometimes, when I dream, I still see her. Not the monster. Not the demon. The girl in white, barefoot and calm, watching over me from the edge of a marsh that doesn't exist on any map.

I left Mohawk behind, but not all of it. Because a part of her came with me—settled in me, like a seed that needed safer soil to grow. Now that it’s taken root, I feel its powerful energy, guiding me. And I’ve fed it with knowledge. No longer am I wandering through life, waiting to escape. I’m present. A seeker who trusts their instincts, intellect and intuition.

I have purpose now.

My daughter was born six months ago. I named her Polly. A premonition, a curse, or a blessing? I can’t be sure. Won’t be sure until later on in her life. It just felt right.

All I can do now is hope that she grows up brave enough to face the dark—but wise enough never to follow anyone into it.

Art and story by Hal Hefner.
Produced by Catmonkey Studio