Inside the Beast: The Real Story of Kanab's Belly of the Dragon

Dan Wagner
Oct 3
3 min read

Every town has its ghost story. In Kanab, Utah, it isn’t about a haunted house or a shadow in the woods—it’s about a tunnel. The place looks harmless to outsiders. But the locals know better. They call it the Belly of the Dragon.

Trailhead elevation 5,160'

Water none

Don't miss making it out alive

The Real Story of Kanab's Belly of the Dragon

If you ever pass through Kanab, there’s a tunnel carved into the sandstone cliffs. Tourists think it’s nothing but a drainage tunnel—an easy photo-op, a shortcut under the road. They walk in, laugh about the “dragon’s belly” nickname, and post their pictures online.

But ask anyone who’s lived in Kanab long enough. They’ll tell you not to go inside. They’ll tell you it swallows people.

And the bones prove it.

The first thing you notice when you step inside isn’t the darkness—it’s the walls. They don’t look like stone. They curve and ripple like ribs. The ceiling arches above you in jagged waves, like a throat frozen mid-swallow. Shine a light long enough, and you’ll swear it moves, flexing slightly with every breath you take.

And the air… it isn’t still. It flows, warm and stale, like breath drifting from lungs too deep to measure.

Deeper in, the walls change. They’re carved with names. Not spray paint, not graffiti. Scratches. Hundreds of them. Some shallow, some deep. Some crumbling with age, some so fresh the dust still clings to the grooves.

Every kid in town knows what the names are. They belong to the ones who didn’t make it back. People trapped in the dragon’s belly. People who were eaten alive.

Two of the dragon's most recent victims were Bridget and Liam. One summer evening, just a few years ago, they went in laughing, their flashlights flickering against the sandstone walls. A hiker passing by saw them disappear into the tunnel, their voices echoing for a while before fading into silence. Hours later, their bikes were still leaning against the juniper tree by the trailhead, untouched. Search teams combed the area for days, but there was no trace—no footprints leading out, no signal from their phones. Weeks later, someone swore they saw two fresh names scratched deep into the sandstone, right where the tunnel grows darkest: Brig D and Liam.

If the names don’t convince you, the bones will.

Scattered in the sand, half-buried and broken. Long femurs, cracked spines, grinning skulls. Always just enough to make you second-guess what kind of animal they belonged to. Always human-shaped enough to keep you awake at night.

Some say the bones shift around when no one’s looking. That they move deeper into the belly as the dragon digests its prey.

People who’ve stayed too long tell the same story.

First, the sound: bones clinking together, echoing from the dark like teeth chattering. Then the ground trembles, the ribs of the tunnel squeeze in, and hot air rushes over your skin like the dragon just exhaled.

That’s when you hear it. A low, guttural hiss, stretching into something that almost sounds like a word. “Hungry.”

Run if you can. Most do. But not all.

Every year, someone doesn’t make it back. Tourists, hikers, thrill-seekers. They’re never reported missing at the tunnel. Families don’t blame the dragon. They just… disappear.

But the locals know. The names grow in number. The bones pile higher.

Sometimes at night, if you stand near the cliffs, you’ll hear it moving. The bones rattling, the hiss echoing through the sandstone.

The dragon doesn’t need to hunt. It waits. Patient. Silent.

And if you step inside, if you pause for even a second too long, you’ll feel the walls close in, and you’ll know exactly what it’s like to be swallowed alive.