Gold Camp Road: Just outside Colorado Springs, this winding mountain route was once a railway carved into the rock during the gold rush. Today, it’s known for something else.

Transcript

Host:

Some roads just feel different at night, don’t they?
Not because anything changes, but because of why people go there.

Gold Camp Road sits just outside of Colorado Springs.

By day, it’s scenic, quiet, almost peaceful.

But after dark, people drive up there for a completely different reason.

To stop inside the tunnels, turn off their headlights, put the car in neutral, and wait.

Some say nothing happens.

Others say they feel something pushing the car.

Or they hear something just beyond the edge of the light.

There’s one story that people tell more than the others.

No one can prove it ever happened, but once you hear it, it’s very hard to forget.

Tonight, on the Midnight Drive, we’re taking that road.

Midnight Drive
Yes, some roads are built to get you somewhere.

Gold Camp Road isn’t really one of them.

Not anymore, at least.

If you drive it during the day, it feels almost like a detour.

A scenic route that winds its way up through the mountains, just outside of Colorado Springs.

Tall rock walls, sharp turns, long stretches where it feels like you’re the only car on the road.

It’s quiet, but it’s not empty.

Hikers pass through, bikers, the occasional car moving slowly, taking in the view.

If you didn’t know anything about it, you’d probably think of it as just another mountain road.

But it didn’t start that way.

Before it was a road, it was a railway.

Built in the early 1900s to support the movement of people and materials between Colorado Springs and the mining towns further up the mountain.

They called it the short line.

A route carved directly into the landscape.

Nine tunnels cut through solid rock just wide enough for a train to pass through.

It wasn’t easy work.

Tunnels like this never are.

Manual labor, explosives, long days in tight spaces.

And like a lot of projects from that time, not every worker made it out alive.

There’s not clear records for every accident.

There rarely are, after all.

But enough is known to say that people did die during construction.

That part’s not a story.

That part is just history.

The railway ran for a few decades.

Freight, passengers, a steady line of movement through a place that had once been harder to reach.

Then, over time, things changed.

Cars replaced the trains, the tracks were removed, and the route was converted into a road.

The tunnels stayed.

Same shape, same size.

Now, just wide enough for a single vehicle to pass through.

One direction at a time.

By the mid-20th century, it had become what it is now.

A mountain road.

Part paved, part dirt.

Used by people looking for a different way through the area.

Or no particular destination at all.

And for a while, that’s all it was.

Until something happened in 1988.

Tunnel number three collapsed.

Part of the structure gave way.

Rock falling inward.

Blocking the passage completely.

The official explanation is simple.

Age.

Deterioration.

Timber supports inside the tunnel had weakened over time.

And eventually, they failed.

And the tunnel came down.

No reported injuries, no deaths.

Just a structural failure.

A section of the road that was no longer usable.

And in practical terms, that’s where the story should end.

A piece of aging infrastructure giving out.

It happens.

Roads close.

Routes change.

People move on.

But that’s not what happened here.

Because almost immediately, another version of the story begins to circulate.

Not documented.

Not verified.

But repeated often enough that it becomes attached to the place itself.

The story says that when the tunnel collapsed, there was a school bus inside.

Filled with children.

The driver lost control.

Hit part of the tunnel wall.

And the impact is what caused the collapse.

Or maybe the collapse came first.

Depending on who tells it.

Either way, the result is the same.

The bus trapped inside.

Buried.

No survivors.

There are no records of this.

No reports.

No names.

Nothing in the archives that confirms it.

And yet, it’s the version most people hear first.

The version that sticks.

Because once you picture it, it’s hard not to.

A confined space.

A sudden collapse.

Darkness where there shouldn’t be any.

The kind of story that doesn’t need details to feel real.

It almost hits you on a primal level.

And once a story like that is attached to a place, everything else starts to shift around it.

People begin to visit the road for a different reason.

No longer for the scenery, not for the drive, but for the possibility that something might still be there.

Especially at night.

That’s when the road changes.

Not physically.

It’s the same turns, the same rock walls, the same narrow tunnels.

But the way people move through it changes.

Headlights become the only source of light.

Everything outside that headlight beam disappears.

The tunnels in particular feel different.

During the day, they’re just short passages through rock.

At night, they stretch.

The darkness inside them feels deeper than it should.

Sound echoes in a way that’s hard to place.

And once you’re inside the tunnel, there’s no quick way out.

You go forward, or you go in reverse.

One direction at a time.

That’s part of what draws people here.

The feeling of being contained.

Of stepping into a space where you don’t have full control over what happens next.

Over time, certain spots along the road start to carry their own reputations.

Tunnel number two.

Tunnel number three.

The areas just before and after them.

Places where people say things feel different.

Stories start to build.

Not from one source, but from many.

People have never met each other, telling versions of the same experience.

Hearing something they couldn’t explain.

Seeing something briefly and then losing it.

Feeling like they weren’t alone, even when they should have been.

Some of the stories are simple.

Footsteps in the tunnel when no one else is there.

Voices that don’t carry clearly, enough to understand.

Laughter.

Faint.

Distant.

But close enough to register.

Others are more physical.

People describe feeling something.

Tug at their clothing.

A light pull.

Gone as quickly as it happens.

Scratches that appear, with no clear cause.

Small enough to question.

But noticeable enough to remember.

And then there are the details that get repeated the most.

Handprints.

Small ones appearing on the back of cars.

On windows.

In dust.

In condensation.

Not always seen in the moment.

Sometimes only noticed after leaving the area.

When the car is parked somewhere else in better light.

That’s the part people come back to.

Because it’s harder to explain.

Harder to dismiss as sound or a trick of the light.

It’s something physical.

Or at least something that looks that way.

Even the people who don’t believe any of it.

Still tend to approach the road differently at night.

Slower.

Quieter.

More aware of the space around them.

Because whether the stories are true or not.

They change how the place feels.

And that feeling is what keeps people coming back.

Not to prove anything.

Not to find something definitive.

Just to see if, for a moment, they notice something they can’t fully explain.

Because on a road like this, that’s usually enough.

You’re listening to The Midnight Drive.

Alright, so let’s lean in to this story that’s repeated the most in this area.

About the tunnels.

And the bus.

I’m captivated by it personally.

Because I don’t feel like this is the first time I’ve heard this story.

And it wasn’t connected to these tunnels in Colorado.

I feel like this is a story that a lot of local lore and a lot of urban legends kind of have at the core.

The little hands on the back of the car, for instance.

Have you heard a story like this in your area?
If you have, please let us know where that area is.

And what the version of the story is.

You can leave it in the comments below or you can reach out to us on our hotline.

At the Midnight Drive, 402-610-2836.

We’d love to hear from you.

So, real quick, again, there’s no records of this.

There’s no names.

Nothing that you can point to and say, this is where it all began.

But it’s the one that stays with people.

The one that changes how the tunnels feel once you’ve heard about it.

It always starts the same way.

A bus.

Driving up the road.

Daylight at first.

The kind of routine trip that nobody thinks twice about.

Voices fill in the space.

Seats shifting.

Someone laughing a little too loud.

Someone else telling them to stop.

The driver focused on the road ahead.

Because the road isn’t easy.

It’s narrow.

It’s winding.

Rock walls rising on either side.

No room for mistakes.

As the bus climbs higher, the light changes.

The trees thin out.

The shadows stretch longer across the road.

And eventually, the first tunnel comes into view.

From a distance, it doesn’t look like much.

Just an opening in the rock.

Dark, but manageable.

The kind of thing you pass through without thinking.

The bus slows as it approaches.

The engine sound shifts.

Echoing off the walls.

Filling the space in a way that feels louder than it should.

Inside, the air feels different.

Cooler.

Still.

The windows stop reflecting anything back.

It’s just darkness beyond the glass.

Someone near the back presses their hand against the window.

It leaves a print.

Pulls it away.

Watches it fade.

The tunnel doesn’t last long.

Light returns quickly.

The bus moves forward.

Out on the other side.

Back into the open air.

Nothing unusual.

Just another part of the drive.

But further up the road, there’s another tunnel.

This one looks a little different.

The opening is narrower.

The darkness is deeper.

Less light reaching the inside.

The driver slows down again.

A little more this time.

Something about the entrance doesn’t feel the same.

Inside the bus, the noise starts to settle.

Not all at once.

Just gradually.

Voices dropping.

People looking forward.

Watching the way the light disappears as the bus enters.

The engine echoes again.

But this time it sounds closer.

Like it’s coming from all directions.

The bus moves deeper inside.

The light behind them shrinking.

The darkness ahead not changing.

Someone laughs.

Short.

Nervous.

Someone else tells them to be quiet.

The driver says something.

Hard to make out over the sound of the engine.

Then something shifts.

Not a sound.

Not a movement.

Just a change.

The kind you feel before you understand what’s happening.

The bus slows a little more than it should.

The wheels adjust against the road.

A slight pull to one side.

Corrected quickly.

But enough to notice.

Someone stands up.

Looks towards the front.

Tries to see past the row of seats.

The tunnel walls feel closer now.

The space tighter.

Even though it hasn’t changed, the bus moves forward again.

But not smoothly.

There’s a hesitation.

A break in the rhythm.

Like something underneath isn’t aligning the way that it should.

And then?
A sound.

Sharp.

Brief.

Not loud enough to be clear, but enough to cut through everything else.

The bus jolts.

Not violently.

Just enough to shift everyone forward in their seats.

Someone grabs onto the back of the seat in front of them.

Another voice rises.

Asking, what just happened?
No answer.

The driver is still focused ahead.

Hands tight on the wheel.

Trying to keep the bus straight.

Trying to keep it moving.

But the movement changes.

The forward motion slows.

The engine works harder.

Echoing louder now.

The sound filling the entire tunnel.

Pressing in from all sides.

And then the light behind them disappears completely.

No reflection.

No outline.

Just darkness.

The kind of darkness that doesn’t show distance.

It doesn’t show shape.

It’s just space.

Something falls.

Not inside the bus, somewhere outside the bus.

A shift in the structure.

Rock against rock.

The sound doesn’t echo the same way.

It’s heavier.

It’s closer.

It’s final.

Someone screams.

Not loud.

Just sudden.

Cut off before it fully forms.

The bus stops.

Not gradually.

All at once.

The engine still running.

But in motion.

It’s too present.

Like it’s the only thing holding the space together.

Dust moves through the air.

Not visible.

But felt.

A dryness in the back of the throat.

A weight of the air.

Someone calls out.

No response.

Another voice.

Closer this time.

Asking if everyone’s okay.

Still no answer.

The driver tries to move the bus again.

But nothing else does.

The wheels don’t turn.

The space doesn’t change.

Something blocks the way forward.

Something blocks the way back.

No clear direction.

Just stillness.

The kind that settles too quickly.

As if the space has already
decided what it is.

The sound starts to fade.

Not all at once.

Just gradually.

Voices become quieter.

Then fewer.

Then none.

The engine eventually stops.

No one remembers when.

Or how.

Just that at some point
it isn’t there anymore.

And after that
there’s nothing.

No movement.

No sound.

No light.

No survivors.

Just space.

Unmoving.

Holding everything
exactly where it is.

That’s the story.

Or at least
that’s how it’s told.

No one can say when it happened.

No one can say who was there.

No record
that confirms any of it.

And yet, if you go up that
road at night and you stop inside the tunnel
and you turn off your headlights
sometimes it doesn’t feel empty.

Not completely.

Like something passed through there once
and never fully left.

If you stay long enough
you might notice something small.

Something easy to miss.

A shape in the dust.

A mark on the glass.

Or small handprints resembling children’s
pressed lightly
against the back of your car.

That weren’t there
when you arrived.