A few years back I was hiking the Appalachian Trail with some
friends and we stopped at a campsite equipped with comfort
stations. One night around 2, AMI woke up
needing to use the bathroom. The site was a corner one, so
there was a short trail at the back that led through the woods
to the washroom. Although I could have taken the
longer route around the front, I decided to cut through the back
to save time as I was tired and really needed to go.
As I was halfway along the trail, I heard a very faint
noise to my right, something that sounded almost like
laughter. I didn't freak out, I knew that
raccoons and porcupines can make a similar sound at night.
Since it was dark, I couldn't see anything, but I kept moving
toward the comfort station without a second thought.
A few seconds later, I heard a woman's voice deep in the woods
asking hello. To say I jumped was an
understatement, but I was just startled, not scared.
I wasn't sure if she was talking to me or someone else.
I responded with a friendly hey, thinking that if a girl was out
there freaked out by hearing footsteps in the middle of the
night, I didn't want her to think I was creepy.
However, after I spoke, there was no response.
By the time I reached the comfort station, I had managed
to talk myself out of being seriously creeped out.
I don't believe in ghosts, and I still don't.
Despite the creepy timing and sudden silence, I rationalized
that it was probably just another person as spooked as I
was. So I headed back the same way,
thinking that if I heard anything this time, I would just
Sprint. The trail was eerily quiet.
When I was about 3/4 of the way back, still hoping I hadn't
scared the girl too much, I heard her voice again, but this
time it wasn't quite her voice. It sounded like her, but
different in a way that made my skin crawl.
When it said come back, I ran faster than I ever had in my
life. I dashed back to my tent so
frantically that I woke everyone up.
They kept asking what was wrong, but all I could say was that I
had freaked myself out. There was no way they would
believe me if I told them about the voice change.
They'd think I was drunk, high, or just a scared little man.
Or maybe a bit of all three. We moved campgrounds the next
day and I didn't hear anything like it for the rest of the
trip. I'm very glad that was the case,
but I still wish I knew what I heard that night because I'd be
lying if I said that question doesn't still keep me up at
night. My grandpa grew up in a little
town called Great Field, Virginia.
These days Grape Field consists of just 4 streets with a Creek
running through it, but it used to be much more.
Walk about a mile out of town past a pair of old logging
patches, and you'll find the Appalachian Trail right there on
your figurative doorstep. I used to think growing up in
that kind of place would make for an idyllic childhood, with
its small town values, strong sense of community, and the
great green forest for a backyard.
However, there was a reason Grandpa left there the first
chance he got. They used to say they moved
because of the Great Depression, and there might have been at
least some truth to that. But if some of the stories
Grandpa later told me are anything to go by, it wasn't
just financial problems that made them want to move.
Although it seems like a quiet and uneventful place, Grape
Field, Virginia has a real dark past, and some of the folks
living there still say it's cursed now.
Back before the Civil War, Grape Field was said to be a
prosperous and promising little town where the vast majority of
people were employed by one of two plantation families who
lived at opposite ends of the Hollow.
One family were slave owners and employed white townsfolk as
drivers, overseers, tradesmen, and clerks, while the other
family were staunch abolitionists and employed all
the same except their farm hands and technicians were white
townsfolk. For the most part, this
arrangement worked out just fine for both parties, but as the
violence over in Kansas got more and more out of hand, still
waters came to a simmer. Before long, the subject of
slavery was no longer something that could be discussed
politely, and by the time the first shots were fired at Fort
Sumter, folks in Grape Field weren't using words to settle
arguments anymore, they were using bullets.
Obviously the abolitionists had what you might call the moral
high ground. The only trouble was, Virginia
was a slave state, and the profit margins of the slave
owning side of Grape Field were much higher than those on the
abolitionist side who paid all their people well and fairly.
But this meant the slave owners had mountains of cash lying
around, cash they could use to hire all kinds of unsavory types
to protect them from the abolitionists, and that
protection usually involved violence, intimidation, and
occasionally murder. Some of the abolitionists tried
to fight back, but seeing as they were outnumbered and
outgunned, most ended up hanging from their barns and anyone with
any sense fled for northern states before they could be
targeted. This would have all worked out
just fine for the slave owners if it wasn't for the fact that
the Confederates would go on to snatch defeat from the jaws of
victory. Once the Federals arrived in
town, the slave owners had to parlay their way back into
ownership of their own plantations.
Somehow, they managed to do just that, only this time they
couldn't rely on free labor, and there were no more abolitionist
farmers in town to help maintain the plantations.
They had all the expertise they needed, just none of the
manpower. Although they shipped in folks
from out of town to try and fill the gaps, things were never
quite the same as they were before the war.
The head of the slaveholding plantation family had been cruel
and conniving, but he was at least competent.
But then his replacement, his eldest surviving son, was a
fool, a tyrant, and a drunk. He might not have owned slaves
anymore, but he sure did treat his people like they were.
He didn't just treat them like his property, he treated their
homes and their families like they were his property too.
The new plantation owner was always a little too fresh with
grape fields, women folk. But then one night, after a
man's wife returned home claiming the plantation owner
had violated her, the townsfolk decided that enough was enough.
A whole mob of them marched over to the plantation house.
But instead of dragging the owner outside and hanging him
from his own porch, the mob started going around, nailing
doors and windows closed. Anyone who tried to escape was
shot. And there were lots of folks in
there, too, not just the plantation owner and his family.
They had maids, cooks, nannies for the children, all of whom
learned to stay away from the doors or windows lest they face
a hail of bullets. Once they had the plantation
house locked down, the mob doused the place and set it on
fire. The mob was liquored up and they
clapped and cheered as the plantation house burned.
But that all stopped when they started to hear the screams of
the women and children upstairs. It was then, and only then, that
they realized what a terrible thing they'd done.
One man tried to pry the nails out of one of the window frames
in hopes that he might be able to rescue some of the women and
children, but it was too late. There was no way back for them.
They couldn't have any witnesses to attest what they'd done.
The whole thing needed to look as much like an accident as
possible, not so much for their consciences, but for
appearances. No one could ever know the truth
of what happened that night. Well, you can see how well that
went. The mob must have done a decent
job of covering things up when it came to the authorities,
because no one was hanged for burning down the plantation
house. But I guess at some point
someone talked either to their wife or to a minister, maybe
even on their deathbed, because once word got out that the fire
was no accident, it was like a darkness seeped into grape
field, one that never went away. The town's economy was
completely torn apart. Fear and suspicion became the
norm. It took 40 years for the place
to even start to heal. But even after things started to
pick up again, folks talked of a curse hanging over the town.
All that guilt meant a lot of drinking, and all that drinking
meant a lot of broken homes, a lot of anguish, and a lot of
misery too. And that, ladies and gentlemen,
is the kind of town my grandpa grew up in, far from the kind of
Hallmark card upbringing that I imagined he had.
As you can probably tell, Grandpa talked an awful lot
about growing up in Grape Field, probably in an attempt to
instill gratitude in myself and his other grandchildren.
I can promise you it worked. Because as much as my grandpa
had stories from his childhood that had you laughing your butt
off, he had one or two extremely creepy ones too.
He wouldn't tell them often, and he didn't tell us any scary
stories when we were kids. But once I was old enough and I
happened to be picking his brain one dark October evening, he
told me one story I'll remember for as long as I live.
It all started when a hunter named Hiram Carter walked back
into town one day after spending all morning sitting in his blind
out in the woods. This was back in 1934, just
after Prohibition ended and someone had set up a little
Speakeasy kind of joint over on Apple Lane.
Hiram walked straight into the Speakeasy, drank a whole bottle
of beer in four or five gulps, and chased it down with a double
shot of whiskey. Then, when both bottle and glass
were empty, Hiram asked for another round.
Obviously, a man doesn't drink like that unless something very
good has happened, or something very, very bad has happened, so
naturally Hiram's fellow patrons were pretty keen to know what
the occasion was. But Hiram didn't have any good
news to share. In fact, he was more frightened
than he'd ever been in his whole life.
He'd been sitting in his blind, which for those that don't know,
is basically like a camouflage shelter that hunters hide in,
and Hiram was there for hours before anything came along.
But sure enough, he starts seeing this big old buck walking
through the trees towards him. It's still some distance away,
so Hiram's got to wait as it gets closer and closer so he can
get the perfect shot. He's got that buck trained in
his sights. He's steadying his breathing.
Then something Spooks the deer and it goes bolting off through
the woods. Hiram lowers his rifle, trying
to spot whatever it was that spooked his deer.
Then suddenly he sees it. Something darts through the
trees in front of him. Too skinny to be a bear, too big
to be a dog, and it's moving so fast that it just about scared
Hiram half to death. He stays put in his hide for a
few minutes, clutching his rifle with sweaty palms, and then he
rushes out of his hide, back to his truck, and drives all the
way back into town as fast as the engine could handle.
He said that whatever it was, it was stalking him all the way
back to his vehicle. It stayed just out of sight, but
it was there following him, and Hiram said it just about
frightened the life out of him. The boys down at the Speakeasy
told him it was probably just some coyote or a mangy bear that
didn't get enough food before hibernating, but Hiram said he
was certain about what he saw and he hadn't seen nothing like
it before in his life. It was big, it was fast, and
most importantly, it seemed smart.
After finishing his drinks, Hiram walked out of the
Speakeasy and made his way home, but not before warning every man
in there to stay the hell out of the woods.
Something was out there, and it was dangerous.
When word got around about Hiram's encounter out in the
woods, some folks took it with a pinch of salt while the rest
took it with a whole shaker. See, Hiram was in the habit of
telling tall tales after a few whiskeys.
In fact, the only reason he was hunting in the 1st place was so
he could spend half his grocery money on booze.
Having the reputation that he did, no one took Hiram's claims
all that seriously and went about their business as usual.
But just seven days later, Hiram's story was the talk of
the town, and unlike the week prior, they took his claims much
more seriously. By the time my grandpa was a
boy, the site of the old plantation house, the one that
had been burned down by the townsfolk, had been abandoned
and overgrown for almost 50 years.
With no heirs to inherit the property.
The land had fallen under the temporary ownership of Bland
County's controller, whose only task was to find the property a
buyer. But then, in the 40 plus years
it had been up for sale, the county hadn't been able to find
one. Even the carpetbaggers from up
in New York and Chicago wanted nothing to do with it.
They'd roll through in their fancy stagecoaches and top hats,
take one look at the land and the folks living on it, and say
thanks but no thanks. As a result, the land was all
waste, high grass, wildflowers and Cypress trees surrounding
the brick foundations of the old plantation house.
Local kids were warned to stay away from the place, but I guess
kids back then were no different than kids today because they
ignored their parents warnings completely, I guess on account
of how mysterious and spooky it was.
But kids around my grandpa's age, so about 10 or 11, would
often sneak up to the old plantation to explore the
grounds. My grandpa said that he went up
there once or twice himself, but that he always got a bad feeling
whenever he was near that place. He'd heard the stories everyone
had about the plantation being haunted, about the town being
cursed. It just wasn't enough to keep
the kids away. And for one little girl,
ignoring those warnings almost cost her her life.
One day a little girl came running back into town with her
even younger sister in tow, and they were both out of their poor
little minds with fright. They'd been taking their Beagle
pup out for some exercise and decided to take it on to the old
plantation grounds to run him around a little.
They were there for no more than a few minutes before their dog
suddenly tucked its tail between its legs and started to growl.
The older girl gave the dogs leash a tug and it was only too
happy to get the hell away from that creepy old place.
But then as they're walking, the older of the two girls sees
something moving in the trees surrounding the old plantation.
Something that scared the living hell out of her.
Something she later described as a monster.
Later, when she was safe and a little calmer, the older girl
was asked for more details on what she'd seen.
She said that the monster had been creeping through the trees
on all fours at first, but when it saw her, it raised itself up
on its hind legs to watch her from across the clearing.
Then, when she and her sister started to run back towards
Grape Field, the thing in the tree line dropped back on all
four legs again, then started running in their direction like
it was trying to cut them off. The two girls ran as fast as
their legs could carry them, with their dog doubling back
every so often to bark up a storm in the hopes of protecting
his owners. Thankfully the girls managed to
make it into town before whatever it was caught up with
them, but when they arrived they were sobbing something fierce.
The older of the two girls said the creature was huge, with
shaggy hair all over its body, but none at all around its
muzzle, which appeared horribly misshapen and deformed.
This time people took the claims much more seriously, but they
still thought that it must have been some kind of mangy bear
that had attacked the girls after their hibernation period.
If a bear can't find itself a snack quick enough, they can get
really hungry. And you better believe that a
hungry bear is a very dangerous bear.
And having something raid a few chicken coops or butcher a few
hogs, that was one thing. But having the thing hunting the
town's children? That could not be tolerated.
The most accomplished hunter in great field, a man named Rufus
Robinson, volunteered to head out into the woods with his
Australian shepherd. He said he'd come back with the
beast's head or he wouldn't come back at all.
Well, a few days later, Rufus's Aussie shepherd came hobbling
back into town all on its lonesome.
It walked right over to Rufus's cabin, but then instead of
sitting on his porch, the dog went and laid down on his
neighbors, almost like it knew that Rufus wasn't coming home.
Folks said Rufus's dog might have run ahead, gotten itself
lost, then simply walked back home to wait for his master.
They'll be back in a few days, they said.
Ain't no Mangy Bear got the better of old Rufus.
But Rufus never came back with no Mangy Bear's head.
In fact, Rufus Robinson never came back at all, and there was
no sending a search party in after him unless its first and
foremost task was hunting down the bear that took him.
And that's when the town's folk formed a hunting party.
Six of their best men would head out into the woods with shotguns
and rifles and bring home Rufus's body and end the threat
that that mangy bear posed once and for all.
Well, according to a member of the hunting party, they were out
there for less than 24 hours before they found the thing that
had been stalking the town's children.
And it wasn't no bear. One night they set up a real
simple trap. Just laid some fresh meat as
bait out in the open. Then all they had to do was
wait. Well, they waited and they
waited, but nothing showed. Then just when someone gets up
to collect the meat so they can move it someplace else, bingo,
the thing comes tearing through the trees and attacks the man
who approached the meat. It almost took a chunk of his
arm before he managed to stick a knife in the thing.
Then, once he was free of its grip, his hunting buddies
emptied almost every shell they had into it, and they didn't
stop firing until the beast stopped moving.
Once they were quite certain the thing was dead, the hunters
approached, shining their lanterns on the creature to get
a better look. Only then did they realize what
they were looking at. It wasn't any kind of bear, it
was a man. His hair and beard were long and
shaggy, his unclothed body so filthy in parts that the dirt
and mud appeared as a second kind of skin.
Wherever there was bare skin, such as his face, his chest and
his shoulders, there were hideous webs of burn scars, so
much so that the man beneath had been robbed of his human
appearance. His spine was arched and
contorted, his hands and feet bore heavy calluses, and at the
ends of long Bony fingers sprouted sharp filth encrusted
claws. Obviously none of the men had
ever seen anything quite like it.
So they dragged the man's body out of the woods, then woke up
the town's doctor to come inspect their quarry.
Now this doctor had been Grape Fields resident physician for
the better part of 50 years. He treated everyone in town and
had lived there since the 1870s, including the old plantation
owner and his family. It was him who realized who the
man was, why he was covered in burn scars.
And why he'd been living like a wild animal for what must have
been decades. It was one of the plantation
owners sons. Back on the night of the
plantation house being burned down, the mob encircled the
building to make sure no one could escape.
They took shots at anyone who came near the windows or doors.
At least all except one. The plantation house was huge,
so the dozen or so men that made-up the mob had to space
themselves out real wide to cover all the angles.
One man stationed just off the east wing sees someone
scrambling out of a small cellar grate.
He raised his rifle, got ready to fire, but then saw it was
just a boy, his skin all scorched and blistering, and he
didn't have it in him to execute a child.
Besides, he was so burned up that there was no way he'd
survive more than a day or two out there in the woods all
alone. So instead of filling him full
of lead like they did with the others who tried to escape, the
man let the boy go, having no idea that in decades to come,
his decision would come back to quite literally haunt them.
No one knows how the boy survived out in the woods for so
long, or why he'd chosen to live out in the trails of Appalachia
instead of trying to settle down someplace.
Most suspect that the grief of losing his whole family so
suddenly drove him insane, and that fear of mankind kept him
living in the woods like some type of animal, but there are
few who agree on how he came to look the way he did.
Obviously the scars were present all over his body, being from
the fire, but what wasn't so clear was how the boy had come
to be so comfortable running on all fours like some type of dog.
Some said that he must have been born that way, and his
appearance was probably why he couldn't settle down anywhere.
They figured that since he got treated like a monster, he
started acting like one too, but others said that he was
perfectly healthy and that in slowly losing his humanity, he
learned to run and hunt like an animal.
Honestly, I don't know what to make of any of this, and neither
did my grandpa. He always thought it was some
myth or legend until his own MA and Pennsylvania could confirm
that it was indeed the truth. They said that the boy's death
was just another in a long line of murders that never saw
justice, and since they couldn't stand another one, they decided
to move. Grandpa raised the point that it
couldn't have been murder if the hunters were just defending
themselves, and his paw responded with what I think are
some wise words. He said that the boy never
really survived the plantation fire that night.
He was probably wandering around the woods, living like an
animal, never truly being a person.
Whether he came back to Grape Field for revenge or just to
revisit the place he grew up, killing him meant finishing off
a murder that started 30 or 40 years earlier.
And that's why people say the town is cursed.
Not because there's some evil spirit lurking around the place,
but because those who came before condemned those who came
after to have all the same blood on their hands.
My boots felt light on the Appalachian Trail, an unspoken
promise of freedom with each step.
I'd managed to drag Sam, an old college buddy, into this plan.
A week in the wild, I'd said. What could go wrong?
The eastern Tennessee woods echoed with a kind of stillness
you'd pay top dollar for in therapy.
Sam and I weren't the hardcore hiker types.
No, our hikes were punctuated with detours to whatever local
haunts we could find. The plan was to walk the trail,
sure, but also to soak in as much of the local color as we
could. Our packs were stuffed more with
comfort than survival gear, a decision that felt right every
time we pulled out a pair of dry socks or a snack that wasn't
just trail mix. By the third day, our easy pace
brought us into Hancock County. We entered with the innocent aim
of stocking up on beer and maybe a bottle of Jack to toast to our
adventures. I still remember the chuckle
from the lady behind the counter at the general store when we
asked where the liquor aisle was.
You boys aren't from around here, are you?
She asked, her smile lined with the wisdom of someone who knew
the punchline to a joke we hadn't heard yet.
We're just passing through. Sam replied, looking to pick up
some supplies. Well, you'll find plenty of
supplies, but if it's booze you're after, you're out of
luck. This here is a dry county.
A dry county. The words hung between us, an
unexpected barrier to our evening plans.
We bought what we could. Snacks, more snacks and a few
more snacks, and on her advice, asked around town if someone
could help us out with our particular dilemma.
The townsfolk were friendly enough.
Each person we asked met us with apologetic smiles and polite
declines. Wish I could help you boys out,
but I'm staying local today seemed to be the theme of the
responses. Disappointed, we trudged back
toward the trail, the lack of liquor weighing heavier than our
packs. That's when we saw him stepping
out of the same general store. A guy about our age with a face
that looked like it knew its way around a good time.
He had that lean, rugged look, someone who spent more time
outdoors than in. His shirt faded from the sun,
jeans dusted with the tell tale signs of the local red clay.
Hey, excuse me? I called out, my voice cutting
through the quiet of the early evening.
He turned, eyebrows raised in a mix of curiosity and caution.
I'm Mike, and this is Sam. We heard you might be heading
out of town. Any chance you could help us
pick up some beer? His guarded expression shifted
to a grin. Sure, I could use the company.
You guys OK with a bit of a drive?
What started as a simple question, A minor plea for
assistance, was about to lead us down a path neither of us
expected. As we climbed into his truck,
the setting sun cast long shadows over the road, hinting
at the darker journey ahead. As we rolled away from Hancock
County, the landscape shifted, the dense canopy giving way to
open skies. Our new friend, who introduced
himself as Jake, had a truck that smelled of leather and
earth, and his easy demeanor as he drove made the miles slip by
like Creek water over smooth stones.
So how long you boys been hitting the trail?
Jake asked, his eyes flicking between the road and the rear
view mirror. About 3 days now.
I replied. It's been more about the escape
than the hike, really. Jake nodded as if he understood
that perfectly. Sometimes you just got to get
away from it all. The conversation meandered
through topics as varied as the landscapes we passed.
Jake talked about growing up in Tennessee, about the trails and
the towns and what it meant to live with the rhythm of the
seasons. He spoke with that blend of
pride and resignation you hear from people who love their home
but know its limits intimately. It was when the topic turned to
our futile quest for alcohol that Jake's tone took on a
conspiratorial edge. You know?
He began glancing at us through the mirror.
There's another place I know, not exactly legal, mind you, but
if you're looking for real local flavor.
His voice trailed off, inviting our curiosity.
I exchanged a glance with Sam. The thrill of the forbidden
added an edge to our adventure we hadn't anticipated.
But we're not opposed to exploring.
You mean moonshine? I asked.
Jake's smile was all the answer we needed.
Real moonshine made by a guy who knows his craft, but it's in a
dry county too. You're not cops, are you?
He half joked, but his eyes searched ours for any sign of
deceit. We laughed, shaking our heads
no, just a couple of guys looking for a good story to
tell. That seemed to put him at ease.
Well then, if you're up for a bit of a detour, I can introduce
you to some of the best shine you'll ever taste.
The decision didn't take long. Curiosity, that relentless
driver of human folly, nudged us forward.
Let's do it. Sam said, and I nodded in
agreement. Jake turned the truck onto a
less travelled Rd. the setting sun casting long shadows across
the gravel as we bounced along. The woods closed in around us
and I couldn't shake the feeling that we were diving deeper into
the unknown. We'll be there in a bit.
Jake said, his voice now lower, almost reverent.
Just a heads up, this isn't your typical roadside stand.
What we saw as we pulled up wasn't what I'd pictured.
No quaint hidden shack with barrels and a smoking still, but
a larger building, rough and imposing.
It looked more like a Community Center, abandoned by time,
except for the row of motorcycles lined up out front.
My heart sank a little. Jake, Are you sure this is the
place? I asked, the first twinge of
real apprehension squeezing my chest.
Trust me, he said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
You want it authentic, right? Doesn't get more real than this.
As we stepped out of the truck, the sound of our boots on gravel
felt ominously final. I looked at Sam, his face
mirroring my unease as we followed Jake towards what
promised to be much more than just an illicit transaction.
The door to the clubhouse swung open with a groan that felt too
cinematic, like the first note of a score meant to unsettle.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of oil and tobacco, an
undercurrent of adrenaline lacing through as we stepped
into the bikers domain. Jake led the way, casual as if
he was walking into his own home, but Sam and I hung back
just slightly, our senses heightened to every movement
around us. The walls were adorned with
signs of allegiance and brotherhood, patches and
memorabilia that told stories of loyalty and Wilder days.
Make yourselves at home. Jake said a bit too cheerfully.
His voice bounced oddly off the concrete and wood.
A dozen pairs of eyes turned toward us, their looks ranging
from curious to downright hostile.
The warmth of the day outside didn't reach this place.
We barely had time to take a tentative seat at the bar when a
hush fell over the room. Through a door at the back, a
man emerged, broad and commanding, his presence alone
demanding respect or fear. He locked eyes with Jake, and
without a word the air shifted, charged with an electricity that
felt like a storm about to break.
Jake approached him, speaking in low tones we couldn't catch over
the hum of conversation that resumed nervously around us.
Sam leaned over, murmuring. Mike, I've got a bad feeling
about this. Before I could answer, the quiet
exploded into chaos. The sound of a fist meeting
flesh was startlingly clear. Jake reeled from a blow by the
biker president, his earlier confidence shattering like glass
under a boot. Panic clawed at my throat as the
president dragged Jake back by the collar, his shouts filling
the room, punctuated by Jake's grunts of pain.
Are you trying to get us busted? You bring cops in here?
The accusation was a slap of reality against my already
racing heart. Sam and I stood, our chairs
scraping loudly against the floor.
The room's attention pivoted to us, and for a moment I felt like
a deer caught in too many headlights.
No, we're not. I started, but the president cut
me off, pointing fiercely towards the exit.
Get out now. Relief was immediate and
overwhelming, but it was tangled with a nauseating guilt.
Jake was still being held, now quieter, the fight gone out of
him as quickly as it had escalated.
We can't just leave him. I said, my voice low, urgent.
He's not your problem. One of the bikers said, stepping
aside to clear our path to the door.
The president's eyes were on me, hard and unyielding.
He was robbing you. Get out while you can.
Outside, the night air was a cold slap to my heated face.
Sam and I didn't speak as we hurried away, the sounds of the
clubhouse fading behind us. Guilt gnawed at me for Jake, for
the thrill that had LED us here, for every step we took away from
that place. The drive back was silent, each
of us lost in our own thoughts. It was only miles later, the
clubhouse a nightmare in the rear view mirror, that I could
breathe again, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from my veins.
Next time we stick to the trail. Sam finally said, his attempt at
a weary joke doing little to lift the heavy cloak of what ifs
and maybes that settled around us as we drove back into the
night, leaving behind a story we'd never forget but never
wanted to relive. Living in Clinch Valley meant
being surrounded by the kind of beauty that could take your
breath away. The lush Green Mountains rose
around our little cabin, their tops hidden by the morning fog
that seemed to hold secrets of its own.
I, Willow May Martin, stood on the porch of our home, my eyes
tracing the familiar ridges and valleys that I had come to know
so well. Life here was supposed to be
peaceful, a perfect place for Alden and me to start our
family. But peace was as fleeting as the
morning mist. We married young, both of us
just seventeen. It was a shotgun wedding, pushed
forward when we found out I was expecting the joy of our soon to
be expanded family brought a fleeting harmony.
Alden, with his strong hands and warm smile, promised me the
moon, and I believed him. I believed that our little
cabin, with its creaky wooden floors and the fire always
burning in the hearth, would be filled with laughter and love.
But as the leaves turned golden and fell to the ground, so too
did our happiness. I lost the baby midway through
the pregnancy. The loss devastated me.
But Alden, he took it differently.
He blamed me, said it was my fault for not being careful
enough, for not loving him enough.
His words cut deeper than the cold wind of Appalachia, and his
warm smile turned cold. Alden worked as an oil driller,
a job that took him down to Texas for two weeks at a time.
Those two weeks he was away were my respite, my little slices of
heaven. I cherish the silence that his
absence brought, the way the house seemed to sigh in relief
with me, but the dread of his return grew with each passing
day. He was gone, knowing that the
man who would come back through that door was not the one I
married. His return marked the beginning
of my two weeks of hell. He drank.
The whiskey seemed to fuel his anger, his disappointment in me,
in US, and he lashed out, leaving marks no one could see,
hidden beneath my sleeves and skirts.
I learned to flinch at the sound of his boots on the porch at the
turn of the door handle. It was during one of these dark
times that Silas came into the picture.
Alden had asked his brother to check on me while he was away.
At first I was wary, unsure if Silas was just another spy for
Alden. But Silas was different.
He had a gentleness about him that Alden had lost long ago.
He did the chores without needing to be asked, fixed the
broken steps, the leaking roof, and sometimes he just sat with
me, listening to the radio and talking about everything and
nothing. One evening, as the sun dipped
behind the Appalachian Mountains, sending long shadows
across the valley, Silas asked me if I was happy.
It was a simple question, but one I hadn't asked myself in a
long time. Tears welled up in my eyes as I
shook my head. No, I was not happy.
That was the first time I admitted it out loud.
Silas listened as I poured out my heart, telling him of the
abuse, the loneliness, and the despair.
In the flickering candlelight of our kitchen, I saw something in
Silas's eyes that I hadn't seen in anyone's for a long time.
Genuine concern. It was then that I began to feel
a glimmer of hope, a whisper of something that might resemble
happiness. As we sat there talking into the
night, I realized that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a way
out of this darkness. And maybe, just maybe, Silas
would be my beacon. The sun was just beginning to
rise, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange as I stood at
the kitchen window watching the day awaken.
Each morning brought a new sense of dread, but also a flicker of
hope, especially since Silas had become part of my life.
Those days when Alden was away working in Texas were my
sanctuary, my brief escape from the nightmare my life had
become. Silas started coming by more
often under the pretense of helping around the house or just
checking in on me, as Alden had asked, but we both knew these
visits were more than that now. We talked about everything, the
books we liked, the places we dreamed of visiting, and
sometimes just the simple beauty of Clinch Valley that seemed so
untainted, unlike our lives. One afternoon, Silas brought a
small radio and we sat on the porch listening to music from
faraway places. It was during one of those
moments, with a soft country melody playing in the
background, that Silas took my hand.
It was a simple gesture, but it felt like a lifeline.
I looked into his eyes and I didn't see Alden's brother.
I saw a man who made me feel safe, understood, and
importantly, valued. I care about you, Willa May.
Silas said softly, his voice barely above the whistling wind.
I hate seeing you hurt like this.
His words warmed a part of my heart that I thought had gone
cold forever. We sat there for what felt like
hours, our hands entwined, letting the music envelope us in
a cocoon where the harsh realities of my marriage
couldn't reach us. But with each visit, the weight
of our secret grew heavier. We were both aware of the
sanctity of the vows I had made to Alden, however broken they
might have become by his own cruelty.
It felt as if every stolen moment with Silas was both a
salve to my wounds. One evening, Silas stayed later
than usual, Alden would be returning the next day, and a
sense of urgency hung between us.
Willa, we can't keep doing this. He whispered, his voice thick
with emotion. It's not right to you, or even
to Alden. I knew he was right, but the
thought of not having Silas in my life was more painful than
any physical wound Alden had inflicted.
What are we going to do? I asked, my voice barely a
whisper, fearing even the walls might hear.
We have to decide, Willa. May either we stop this now or
you have to leave him. You deserve happiness, not this,
not a life filled with fear and pain.
Silas said, his tone resolute. That.
Night I lay awake. Thinking about everything Silas
had said by morning, my decision was made.
I couldn't and wouldn't live in fear any longer.
With Silas's love giving me strength, I began to plan my
escape from Alden. The next few days were a blur as
I packed my things secretly, each item stashed away a silent
testament to the years of suffering.
I wrote a letter to Alden, telling him everything I felt,
sparing no detail of the pain he had caused and my resolve to
leave him. When the letter was done, I felt
a mix of relief and overwhelming sadness.
I knew there was no turning back now.
I was leaving to meet Silas, clutching not just my suitcase,
but the fragile hope of a new beginning.
As I rode the wagon to Bean Station, where Silas and I plan
to start our journey to California, I felt the chains of
my old life breaking link by link.
The cool morning air nipped at my cheeks as I stepped off the
wagon at Bean Station. My heart pounded with a mixture
of excitement and fear. Today was the day I would start
anew with Silas. My eyes scanned the small,
bustling station for his familiar face, but instead, a
chilling sight caught my breath. It was Silas's favorite felt hat
and jacket, but the man wearing them was not Silas.
As the figure turned toward me, my heart sank into the pit of my
stomach. Alden.
It was Alden wearing his brother's clothes.
My mind raced, trying to piece together how he could have known
where to find me. Panic clawed at my throat as he
approached, his steps steady and sure, his eyes cold and
unreadable. Alden, what?
How did you? My words stumbled out, tripping
over my shock and fear. Thought you were smart, eh?
Willow May leaving me for my own brother.
His voice was low, laced with a bitterness that sent shivers
down my spine. I stepped back, but he was too
quick, grabbing my arm with a grip that promised pain.
He didn't wait for my response. With a forceful pull, he led me
away from the station, away from the public eyes that might have
offered some semblance of safety.
We rode in silence, the only sound the clopping of the horses
hooves and my heart pounding in my ears.
I didn't know where we were going until we turned up the
path to Silas's house. As we approached, my worst fears
were confirmed. Hanging from the porch beam was
Silas, lifeless. A scream tore through my lips, a
sound of pure agony and despair. Alden dismounted, dragging me
closer to the horrifying sight. Look at him, Willow May, Look at
what you did. Alden's voice was a harsh
whisper in my ear. I couldn't tear my eyes away
from Silas, from the man I loved, now gone forever because
of the twisted path my life had taken.
Tears blurred my vision and grief overwhelmed me as Alden
continued his cruel taunts. Finally, he forced me back onto
the horse. We're going to the sheriff.
You're going to tell them everything but.
Alden's plans changed. Quickly upon arriving in town,
he didn't head for the Sheriff's Office, but instead handed me
over to the deputies, telling them where to find Silas's body.
He confessed to his actions, his words cold and detached.
They took him away, leaving me alone with my grief.
The next few days were a blur. I was lost in a fog of sorrow
and shock. When they went to collect
Silas's body, it was gone, vanished as if it had never been
there. And with him, I felt my last
connection to this world slip away.
That night, I made my decision. I couldn't stay in Clinch
Valley, not with the ghosts of my past haunting every corner.
I left under the. Cover of darkness, leaving
behind the pain, the sorrow and the love that had turned so
tragically wrong the morning. After I left.
They found a cart in front of the Sheriff's Office.
Underneath a tattered sheet lay Silas, embalmed and pristine,
with a wedding band on his finger, a band I had never seen
him wear. It was a final message, a sign
that perhaps Silas was still with me in some way, guiding me
as I fled from the horrors of my past, searching for peace that I
hoped still existed somewhere in the world.
The region surrounding the. Fabled Appalachian Mountains are
home to some fascinating but often misunderstood myths and
legends. Many are already familiar with
the likes of the Mothman, the red eyed harbinger of Doom who
lurks at the locations of impending disasters, or the
Flatwoods Monster, who many believe is an example of
extraterrestrial visitation. Yet fewer are familiar with
another Appalachian legend, which, after some research,
might just be rooted in a very unsettling truth in certain.
Parts of Southern. And Eastern Appalachia.
Some folks still talk of an eerie nocturnal race of imp like
humanoids known as the Moon Eyed People.
The Moon Eyed People are said to be around 4 feet high with pale
ghostly bodies and large, slightly bulbous eyes.
They are mostly harmless and only ever come out at night due
to their general fear of humanity.
But go walking on the trails where the moon is big and bright
and you might just spot a moon eyed person bathed in silvery
light. To most, the moon eyed people
sound like nothing but a quaint rural folk tale.
But like many so-called myths and legends, there can be
varying degrees of truth to them, and in the case of
nocturnal gnomes, that degree of truth might be very large
indeed. Prior to the removal of 1838,
North Georgia and other parts of the Appalachians were still part
of the Cherokee Nation. In 1782, the region's governor
was a man named John Severe. That same year, Severe paid a
visit to the Cherokee chief Okota at Fort Mountain, who had
recently reached the ripe old age of 90 years old.
Given his status as the regional governor, Severe and Okota
dedicated a great deal of their discussion to local politics.
Severe sought the old chief's wisdom, yet he also sought his
experience, and before long, the conversation turned to history.
Severe and Okota began discussing the origins of the
Cherokee with the old chief, describing how his people had
migrated to Appalachia from the northern Great Lakes region.
Okota claimed his ancestors had arrived to find another people
had settled the area, a people so sophisticated that they
turned the mountain into a veritable fortress, hence why it
was given the name. The Cherokee fought hard to
conquer the indigenous tribe but eventually prevailed and drove
their enemy from the region before settling it themselves.
Severe then asked the old chief if he knew anything of the
vanquished tribe. What he was told shocked him
deeply. Chief Okota's forefathers told
him that those who had occupied Fort Mountain before the
Cherokee were and I quote white men from across the great Sea.
The Chief went on to describe how these moon eyed people
earned their name. Not only did they have huge disc
like eyes, much larger than any humans, but they evolved to be
viciously effective nocturnal hunters with natural night
vision so strong that it struck fear into the hearts of the
Cherokee who didn't dare venture away from their camps after
dark. Governor Severe was stunned and
assumed that these Caucasoid tribespeople were merely the
stuff of legend. Yet Chief Okota assured him that
his account was no mere myth. Severe promised to return the
following spring and in the company of a historian so that
the chief's account could be officially recorded.
Yet sadly, when Severe returned in the spring of 1783, he
discovered that the elderly chief had passed away.
Despite Chief Okota's death, rumors of the moon eyed people
did not abate. In fact, almost every band of
Appalachian Cherokee was familiar with the legends, so
much so that it attracted the attention of a man named
Benjamin Smith Barton. Born in 1766 in the British
colony of Pennsylvania, Doctor Barton was one of the early
United States most prominent physicians.
He studied at the Philadelphia School of Medicine, but also at
Scotland's University of Edinburgh and Germany's
University of Gottingen. He was also such a famous and
well respected figure that he received honorary diplomas from
both the Lisbon Academy and Keel University.
At one time Doctor Barton specialized in botany and after
corresponding with naturalist throughout the United States and
Europe, he published the first American textbook on the
subject. Yet around the end of the 18th
century, Barton became fascinated with the subject of
anthropology and more specifically the origins of
humanity. After many years of study,
Doctor Barton published his 1797 book New Views of the Origin of
the Tribes and Nations of America.
The book includes excerpts of an interview with AUS Army Colonel
named Leonard Marbury. Fluent in the Cherokee language,
Colonel Marbury acted as an intermediary between the
government and the natives for the better part of 20 years, and
in that time had heard many a story regarding the so-called
Moon Eyed people. The Cherokee tell us that when
they first arrived in the country which they inhabit, they
found it possessed by a certain moon eyed people.
Colonel Marbury explained these wretched people could not see in
the daytime and were expelled following a brief but bloody
war. At first Doctor Barton theorized
that there had been some kind of miscommunication and that these
pale moon eyed people were not some previously undiscovered
race of stunted humanoids, but rather a collection of French
settlers. The Cherokee had sometimes
described the moon eyed people as possessing what they
described as alien or unfamiliar weaponry.
Yet when Doctor Barton interviewed 1 frequent visitor
to the Cherokee, he claimed these alien weapons were little
more than hoes, axes, guns, and other metallic utensils that had
been brought to the New World by the French.
Many others have supported this assertion, claiming the moon
eyed people were no more than rogue European settlers who
specialized in hunting by night rather than by day.
Yet when South Carolina historian BR Carroll interviewed
merchant explorer James Adair, he refuted any and all claims
that the moon eyed people were European.
Born in the Irish county of Antrim in 17 O 9, Adair sailed
to the New World with a British trade mission at the age of 26.
He spent the next 40 years living among the natives,
chiefly among the Chickasaw and eastern Choctaw, while being
almost entirely cut off from the outside world.
In 1775, when Adair was in his 60s, he was encouraged to pen an
account of his experiences with the native tribes, titling the
book A History of the American Indians.
The book cemented Adair's status as one of the most knowledgeable
Indian experts of his generation, hence why he was
sought out by the author BR Carroll, and when asked if he
was familiar with the so-called moon eyed people, he replied in
the affirmative. Adair claimed that almost all of
the Appalachian tribes had stories concerning this
primordial race of albino humanoids, but it was not the
frequency with which he encountered these stories that
convinced Adair of their veracity.
It was the consistency with which they were described.
Each and every tribe spoke of the Moon Eyed People being
stunted, nocturnal, and incredibly pale, and what's
more, most tribes agreed that the cause of their malformation
was that they chose to live underground.
Scientifically speaking, the Moon Eyed People's wide eyed
form is entirely consistent with an offshoot of humanity having
taken to living underground, especially if they've done so
for thousands upon thousands of years.
And while this all might sound like the stuff of science
fiction, it is firmly rooted in truth.
Back in 2003, A-Team comprised of local and Australian
archaeologists began excavating in an Indonesian cave known as
Liangbua in the hopes of uncovering pre modern human
remains. Two years later, the team was
undertaking a routine dig when they discovered evidence of a
human skull. When a section of this skull was
sent away for analysis, Indonesian scientists believe
that due to its relatively small dimensions, the skull must have
belonged to a child. Yet after more of the person's
skull was uncovered and analyzed, it was discovered that
their teeth were that of a full grown adult.
The remains they discovered were not those of a Homo sapien.
They belong to a previously undiscovered relative, Homo
floresiensis, named after the island of Floris in which they
were found. Homo florescensis were
determined to be an extinct species of small archaic human
that inhabited the island until the arrival of modern humans
about 50,000 years ago. The remains found in the
Liangbua Cave belonged to an adult female believed to have
stood at 3 feet 7 inches tall, which earned her the nickname
The Little Lady of Flores. If the Cherokee did indeed
migrate to Appalachia around 12,000 years ago, which is when
the last of the Flores Hobbit people are believed to have died
out, it's frighteningly feasible that they encountered a
prehistoric race of subhuman cave dwellers against whom they
waged a terrible and ultimately genocidal war.
But then again, how could the Cherokee be so certain that
every last one of the moon eyed people were extinct?
Perhaps they simply took shelter in the deepest recesses of their
subterranean settlements and became even more cautious
following the arrival of European settlers.
Maybe the stories of stunted, ethereal looking beings roaming
the Appalachian Trail aren't just stories, but rather an
aspect of ancient anthropology that we have yet to fully
explain. After all, if the little Lady of
Floris and her kin were only discovered in 2003, what else
has mankind yet to discover regarding our ancient and
mysterious origins? I remember the day we moved to
the. Holler like it was yesterday,
even though it was a bunch of years ago.
My dad said we were going to live in Kentucky, right in the
foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.
I didn't know much about it then, but I learned fast that
life there was different from anywhere else.
We lived in what everyone called a holler.
It's kind of like a cul-de-sac, but instead of being surrounded
by other houses, we were nestled between big old hills covered in
thick trees. Our house was a cozy double wide
trailer in the middle, with family homes scattered around,
but none directly behind or across from us.
It was just us in the woods. My grandma, who everyone called
Graham's, was pretty serious about her rules.
At first I thought they were kind of silly, like something
out of an old storybook. Don't mess with the wild
animals, she'd say, or never go into the woods by yourself.
Those made sense, kinda. But then there were the weirder
ones. Don't whistle at night.
If you hear your name called from the woods, don't answer it.
And the strangest of all? If you see someone you know in
the woods, pretend you didn't. I figured maybe these were just
things old folks believed in, like superstitions, But there
was something about the way Grahams looked when she said
them. It made my stomach twist a
little. Life in the holler was quiet,
mostly. My dad worked a lot, and when he
was home he liked to spend time outdoors.
We'd often take walks along a path he'd mowed through the tall
grass and bushes just left of our place.
He said it was good to know our own patch of land.
Well. Sometimes on special nights,
we'd camp out there, just a stone's throw from our house so
we could still keep an eye on Grams.
One night, Dad decided it was perfect for camping.
We set up our old green tent and gathered some wood for a
campfire. As the sunset, the sky turned a
deep orange, then purple, and finally black.
The stars came out, but they were often hidden by the
towering trees around us. We roasted marshmallows and Dad
told me stories about his childhood adventures in these
very woods. It felt magical, like we were
part of the wild. The sounds of the night were
loud around us, crickets chirping, the occasional rustle
of small animals in the underbrush, and the distant hoot
of an owl. It was peaceful, and for a
moment, all of Graham's strange rules seemed unnecessary.
As the fire crackled, Dad checked his watch.
I need to head back to the house for a bit, check on Graham's.
You going to be OK here for a few minutes?
He asked, tossing another log onto the fire.
Yeah, I'll be fine. I said, trying to sound braver
than I felt. He nodded, gave me a pat on the
shoulder, and walked back up the path towards the house.
Sitting there alone, the fire's warmth felt good, but the woods
seemed to close in around me. The noises of the night grew
softer, and a chill crept up my spine.
I pulled my jacket tighter around me, staring into the
flames, wondering if maybe, just maybe, Graham's rules were there
for a reason. There I was, sitting by the
campfire, trying to remember the exact way the stars looked,
because Dad had once told me that no two nights under the sky
are ever the same. The woods were alive with
sounds, just like they always were.
Crickets were singing, and somewhere far off, an owl was
hooting like it was talking to the moon.
But then something weird happened.
It was like someone had turned down the volume of the world.
The cricket stopped mid chirp and even the wind seemed to hold
its breath. I shivered, not from cold, but
because the silence felt wrong. It was too quiet, too still.
I scooted closer to the fire, hoping the crackle of the flames
would make things feel normal again.
That's when I noticed the taste. It was like I had a mouthful of
pennies, that sharp metallic Tang that made me want to spit.
I didn't know what was happening, and I really wish Dad
was there instead of back at the house.
The fire popped, a spark flying up into the dark, and I jumped.
Just the fire. Just the fire, I told myself,
trying not to think about Graham's rules or what might be
out there beyond the light of our camp.
Then, out of nowhere, the first drop of rain hit my forehead.
It startled me, and I looked up just as the sky opened up.
The rain wasn't heavy yet, but the sound of it hitting the
leaves brought some noise back to the woods.
I felt a little relieved until the first flash of lightning lit
up everything. The whole world seemed to freeze
in that white light for just a second.
I saw past the stream, beyond the yard, and over the road.
There was something standing there.
It was too far and too quick to see clearly, but it looked like
a person, only wrong. The next rumble of Thunder was
distant, but it felt like it rolled right under my feet.
I squinted into the darkness, trying to see if the figure was
still there, but it was too dark, and the next flash of
lightning was a long time coming.
When it did, the figure was closer, near the first line of
trees. It didn't move like a person.
It's sort of wobbled, like a shadow that didn't know how to
be real. I stood up.
The fire was behind me, my only source of warmth and safety, but
it didn't feel safe anymore. It felt like a beacon, calling
attention to me, standing there alone.
Dad. I whispered, but the wind
swallowed the sound. I wanted to run, but my legs
didn't want to move. They knew running in the dark,
in the rain, wasn't a good idea. Then the figure was in the
middle of the road. The last flash of lightning
before the storm really hit showed it standing there,
looking right at me. I couldn't see its face,
couldn't see much of anything really, but I felt it watching
me. That was enough.
I turned and ran, not caring about the rain or the mud or
anything. I ran all the way back to our
house, burst through the door and slammed it shut behind me.
My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would break my ribs.
Graham's was at the sink, washing dishes.
She looked up, surprised to see me, so wet and scared.
I tried to tell her about the figure, but my words came out
all jumbled. Before I knew it, Dad was there,
locking doors and pulling curtains.
I didn't sleep in the tent that night.
I didn't sleep much at all. The next morning felt different.
The sun was out and the birds were singing again, like they
were trying to make up for being so quiet during the storm.
But even with the sunlight streaming through the windows
and the normal sounds of the holler filling the air, I
couldn't shake off the fear from last night.
Dad and I went out to check on the campsite.
The path was muddy from the rain, and our footsteps
squelched loudly as we walked. When we got there, the first
thing we saw was our tent, or what was left of it.
The door of the tent looked like something had ripped it off.
It wasn't torn or cut, more like it had been pulled apart by
something strong. Dad frowned as he examined it.
This wasn't an animal. He muttered, more to himself
than to me. I just nodded, not knowing what
to say. The image of that strange figure
by the trees flashed in my mind and I felt that weird metallic
taste creeping back into my mouth.
We didn't stay long at the campsite back home.
Graham's was waiting for us. She had heard about what
happened from Dad and she had that look on her face, the one
that said she was worried but trying not to show it.
The next few weeks were strange in the holler.
I wasn't the only one who felt uneasy.
Something had shifted. Even the adults were acting
differently. They started accompanying us
kids to the bus stop every morning, which never used to
happen before. Dad had to.
Go to work late. Because he was one of the adults
who stayed with us until the bus came, I tried.
Talking about what I. Saw that night a few times but
it was like the adults had made a pact not to discuss it.
Whenever I brought it up they'd change the subject or tell me
not to worry about it. It was frustrating.
It felt like they knew something they weren't telling me.
Years passed and I grew up, but I never forgot about that night.
It wasn't until I was in my 20s at a family gathering for
Halloween that I got some answers.
I started telling my cousins about what happened, thinking it
was just a spooky story for the occasion, but my aunt overheard
me and got really upset. Don't you tell them that, she
snapped. Don't you put that evil on them.
Her reaction shocked me. It was the first time an adult
had reacted so strongly to the story.
Later, she calmed down and explained why she had been so
angry. She told me about the Goat Man,
a creature from local legends known for causing fear and
mischief. It was the same name she had
shouted at me during the party. Suddenly, all those years of
being shushed and brushed off made sense.
The adults hadn't been trying to ignore the problem.
They had been trying to protect us from it, from the fear and
the truth of the Goat Man. I wish I could say knowing the
name made everything better, but it didn't.
It did give me a sense of closure though, to finally
understand what I had seen that night.
And now whenever I visit the hauler, I make sure to remember
Graham's rules, because some things are better left alone.