Welcome back family. As you know, I grew up deep in the holler of rural Tennessee. Momma always said, "it might be Kentucky, but the mountains know no borders." The holler is a special place. It holds the untouched beauty of our home, but also an isolation that knows no bounds.
This story is my own, coming from my childhood.
When I was nine, we lived in a place that held no name, deep in Claiborne County. There were no lights, and the closest person lived fifteen minutes down the road (an hour and a half on foot). The only rules I was given by my momma were not to be out after dark and stay within earshot of the house. If the cicadas were singing, I was too late. I could spend all day within the "safe" confines of the oaks and poplars- climbing the trees, swimming in the creek in the valley below.
One day it occurred to me that I had never seen the stars before. I had heard about them, and seen them in my picture books, but I aint ever seen them with my own eyes. Despite my momma's rules, I made up my mind to stay out after dark. As I watched the sun set and the suppressing darkness descended upon me, I first felt a sense of relief. Hundreds of twinkling lights danced across the night sky far above me. The sight was so beautiful that I hadn't noticed the harmonizing of the cicadas abruptly cut short. The deafening silence closed in around me. I was too young to know rule #3, so I did nothing but wonder why it had gotten so quiet. I rose to my feet to find that not only were the owls not calling out, but I could no longer see the lights of home. I panicked, calling out against my better judgment.
"Honey, we're over here!"
Hearing my momma's voice calling for me was reassuring. I turned towards the direction to find it was coming from downstream. As I looked at the creek, that was as silent as the grave, headed in the wrong direction. My house sat at the head of the holler, upstream.
"Zachariah, we're over here! Let's go home dear."
Every hair stood on end as I slowly backed away from the direction I heard my name called. My momma has never called me Zachariah in my life, only Zach or Zachary. I took another step back.
"Zachary, come on back boy, supper's ready!"
My daddy's voice now, deep in the woods to my left, across the creek. He was gone to Oak Ridge for the week to work, and wouldn't been back until Friday night. I could hear my blood pumping through my veins, louder than the voices around. The last voice, as if in mockery of the holy trinity, came from my immediate right, no more than 20 feet.
"Zach, I miss ya buddy, it's time to go home."
My sister had been dead for two months. She had been bit by a rattlesnake. We found her by our small cornfield too late and we couldn't get her to a doctor in time. To hear her voice sent me further on edge than I had been already. Something kept me from running, and I wish I had if I could... before I saw them who spoke. With an unnatural coordination, three figures stepped into my field of vision. Their skin was blacker than the coal my papaw used to mine, and faces devoid of any discernable feature. They each sported massive antlers, of the same soot color, that sprouted from their scalps. They towered well over seven feet, their arms hanging down to their knees. I made what I can only describe as eye contact with the things without eyes, and all three spoke in my family's voices, with a now low growl, "Zachariah... welcome home."
I tore through the woods as fast as I could toward the head of the holler. I could hear the wails and cries of those... those things chasing me through the underbrush, close on my heels. The noises and demons still make their way into my dreams even twenty years later. I didn't dare to look behind as I tore through the sigogglin paths my sister Kate and I had created years before. I felt a tug on the hem of my shirt that released just as suddenly as it had grabbed hold. I crossed the property line and collapsed onto the porch. The haints regarded me from the invisible boundary (A boundary of witch bottles my momma had placed, a talent she'd learned from Nana Tackett, and in turn from Mamaw Overbey). The middle haint spoke in the soft voice of my momma, "come away from there child, we've come to take you home..."
Its voice trailed off as a commotion inside the house grew louder. My momma stepped through the screen door, Bible in hand. She spoke with authority and shouted at them in the name of God. I have been witness to many tragedies and heard many a truly awful noise, but nothing will compare to the screeches of haints from that day. It made your skin crawl, akin to nails on the chalkboard- or fork to a porcelain plate, and forced noses to run red. They turned and scrambled into the brush, leaving no trace of their presence, save their impression on my youthful memory.
My momma brought me inside, drew the curtains, and scolded me for hours. It felt almost morning when she finally released me to bed. I couldn't sleep and never have slept well since. We moved to LaFollette the following year, trading the farm deep in the holler to my uncle Robert. The Haints of Claiborne County, as I've come to call them, never truly left me when my momma scared them off. I saw them just this past month when I forgot to draw the curtains before bed, haunting my dreams with the voice of my sister Kait. They remain attached to me, still hunting me, even on the opposite side of Eastern Tennessee, waiting for me to step out in the woods at night so they can call my name once more.
YOU ARE READING
Stories of Appalachia
KorkuThese mountains are old, very old. In their time on Earth, they have seen many things. The weathered hills and trees hide many of these stories of the past. They were here long before we settled and will outlast long after we're dead.
