Storytelling is an integral part of Appalachian culture. Nothing exemplifies this better than the tradition of ghost stories.
Why are ghost stories so popular in those hills, you might ask? Maybe it’s the captivation of them, the suspense. Maybe it’s the probability of truth in an area that is largely untouched. In my own family, we have a story that has been told many times of a Civil War Union deserter who has been on the run for the past 160 years.
When my father was a young boy living at the top of a cliff in Wolfe County, he recalls lying in his bed one lonely night, unable to sleep. As he lay there quietly in the dark, he could hear an approaching sound in the distance. As the sound grew closer, he realized it was the sound of someone running. His heart raced as he lay frozen under the blankets. The fleeing person ran right past the window. Soon afterwards, he could hear the sound of hoof beats in a full gallop. The hoof beats followed the path that led to the bottom of the cliffs to a ravine. Then… silence.
Years later, Dad was visiting his friend, Sam. Sam told a story about when he was walking a trail in the area of Tar Ridge. This area is about 10 miles from where my father grew up. As he was hiking along, he could hear horses in the distance. This was not uncommon, as people did use the trail for riding. Being an older man and moving more slowly than in his youth, he decided it would be a good idea to step aside and rest until the riders passed. As he sat waiting, the sound of a person running rushed past him. Soon afterwards followed the invisible hoof beats of horses in pursuit. He sat in disbelief, deciding it was time to return home… quickly!
As the story goes, a soldier deserted from the Union army. Whether he changed his stance or the horror of war was too much, we will never know. The army does not take deserters lightly and tracked down our AWOL friend to the Tar Ridge area. Chasing him through the hills of Wolfe County, he found himself trapped below the cliff of my grandparents’ home. There he was shot and killed for his crime. How far did he run to escape his fate? And how long must he continue to do so?
Another story I have heard since my youth comes from my maternal grandmother, Lizzie Adams. She had attended the funeral of a loved one. At this time, embalming was not practiced in the area. During the service, she swore that she could see the deceased woman move. It haunted her the entire evening. Was she buried alive? Is she trapped underground, clawing to escape her death prison? She went to bed that night distraught.
In the wee hours of the morning, my grandmother awoke. Standing above her was the loved one who had passed. She was smiling down at her, looking as though she was at peace. She leaned down to kiss her forehead, but Granny was not going to allow that. She pulled the covers over her head. She loved her, but was not ready for the kiss of death! She, however, no longer worried about her friend.
So many stories echo through the hills and hollers of Appalachia. Stories that I hope will continue to be told as times move forward. Whether you believe in ghosts or not, a good story is a treasure found.
