There’s a shack in Tennessee, somewhere around the Gap Creek area. Decades ago, when traveling salesmen were frequent visitors, one such salesman had a difficult day in the area. He worked hard, but his success had been only minor. He was walking towards the next town when a storm came. The only shelter within sight was a broken down shack. Lights were on inside. The salesman hoped they would let him sleep somewhere and maybe provide him with some food.
They let him in to the small room, but a gang of men surrounded the tiny table in a game of cards. It was stuffy and filled with cigar smoke. There was no food, so he asked about sleeping. They told him he had to share a bed with the woman who traveled with them, but he couldn’t touch her because she was ill.
He slept fitfully and eventually just gave up. The bed was uncomfortable, small and he could only use the edge. He sat up and peeked over at the woman laying with him.
Her corpse had been shot in the forehead, her was body decomposed. He fled back into the area where the men had been, but they were gone. He fled into the nearest town to summon the sheriff, but by the time they returned, the cabin was empty. There was not only no sign of the people who had been there, there was no sign anyone had been there in years.