Backwoods Boogeyman

This story is written as my Dad told it to me. Often, when I was growing up, I begged him to tell it again and again. I have written it in the Appalachian dialect that he and my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins — and sometimes I myself — still use. 

He’d heard ghost stories all his life. 

But as a teenager, my father’s knowledge of the supernatural exceeded his first-hand experience. 

When his Scots-Irish ancestors settled into the mountains of southwest Virginia, they brought with ‘em centuries-old stories of “haints” and knockin’ spirits, of witches and Druids. 

From his maternal grandma (Granny, to me and my cousins), my Dad learned the legends of the Cherokee — her people who’d first lived on this land.

Dad’s Mama told tales of bears and panthers, copperheads and coyotes … and of strange creatures in the dark, unsettled woods beyond their farm. Like other mothers, she used these stories to keep the children close by, safe and out of trouble. 

You see, these mountain people lived and breathed superstition. It permeated their lives from birth to the grave. And prob’ly beyond.

As the fourth eldest of seven sons, my Dad was cautious, but not overly. He was helpful and quick to behave within sight of his elders — and just as quick to get into mischief when they weren’t no grownups around.

But Daddy’s childhood was cut short the summer he turned 13. His father got sick with tuberculosis — they called it “consumption” in them days — and was shipped off to Catawba Sanitorium, plumb up near Roanoke, where he spent months recoverin’. 

With her two eldest already married and carin’ for their own homes and families, Mamaw still had five mouths to feed. Six includin’ hers. 

If they was to have enough food for the harsh winter, the garden and livestock needed tendin’, fruits and vegetables canned, and the dwindlin’ supply of meat in the smokehouse replenished. 

My Dad and his brother Hershel — the two oldest boys at home — slipped into a routine of daily chores. They milked the cows and hauled water from the well. They cut and gathered hay, weeded and hoed the garden, picked the beans and corn. At the edge of the woods, they gathered wild berries, apples and pawpaws. They helped keep an eye on the young’uns, too.

Sometimes, they hired out to neighbor farmers to bring in a little extry money. It was a summer of back-breakin’ work. The kind that made a man out of ya.

As the leaves put on their fall colors, the three younger brothers went on back to school. Dad and Hershel stayed on the farm. Helpin’ feed the family fell mostly to them now.

When the weather turned cold of a night, they knew winter was comin’ fast. 

It was time to kill the hogs and work up the meat. Kinfolk and neighbors come to help, like they did for one another in them days. They all pitched in. The women laughed and talked while makin’ apple butter in a big kettle out back. Axes echoed against trees as the men cut and split wood for feedin’ the family’s fire through the winter.

Now, deer was plentiful in them parts, especially in the fall. Squirrels, racoons and rabbits, too, as they set about storin’ up their food for winter. 

My Dad, he possessed sharp eyes and ears, and was naturally good with a gun. He’d go into the woods and come back in no time flat with a prize — fresh meat for supper.

Daddy said he enjoyed them times spent huntin’. On up through October, him and his coon dog, Blue, trekked into them woods together ever chance they got. 

As Daddy tells it, Blue was a good dog. He knew how to tree coons at night and trail game quieter than a Cherokee during the day. And that dog wasn’t a-scared of nothin.’ Not even the bang after Dad’s trigger pulls. 

Why, he’d run like a blue streak to retrieve the small game. When they were lucky enough to git a deer, that dog would prance around like he was the one who done kilt it. And he’d trail behind with his head held high, like the protective rear guard, as Dad drug it home.

One cold day, on about the second week of November, Mamaw smelled snow in the air. Dad figured it might be his and Blue’s last chance to go a-huntin’ for awhile. 

He bundled up, packed a biscuit and some strong rope, grabbed his gun and knife and called for Blue. He aimed to be back afore dark with some meat for stew.

The two of ‘em set out at a quick pace. Dad knowed a clearing in the woods where the deer come out of a evenin’. The sun was sinkin’ lower over the trees and the shadows was startin’ to fall.

They made it to the spot in record time, settlin’ in to wait behind a tree on the edge of the clearing. Blue laid down and rested his head on Dad’s leg. They both listened and waited. Waited and listened. Still as statues. For what seemed like hours. 

Suddenly, a twig snapped. Blue’s head popped up, and they was both on the alert. Dad moved his upper body ever so careful to peek around the tree. But nothin’ was in the clearin’. 

In a few more minutes, Blue sniffed at the sack on Dad’s belt, tryin’ to git at the morsel of biscuit. Dad got it out, tore off a good portion to share, and then the only sound was the two of them a-chewin’.

The next thing Dad remembered was wakin’ up, still sat against that tree. ‘Cept now it was dark. As his eyes got used to the darkness, Dad noticed he didn’t hear Blue’s breathin’. He felt the ground beside him and realized that his dog was g-o-n-e. Gone.

He whispered Blue’s name once, then louder, and listened. Nothin’. No sound. The woods was eerily quiet and the blackness around him felt heavy.

Well, shucks, he thought. No dog, no game and not even a lantern to git home with. In his hurry, he’d forgot to bring it. But at least he had his gun.

Nothin’ doin now but to git on home. He knew his Mama would be wringin’ her hands with worry.

So, he started walkin’ the way him and Blue had come. The only sound was the leaves crunchin’ under his boots. That’s just when the stories he’d heard about these woods come a-creepin’ into his head. 

Breathin’ a little faster, he picked up his pace. Directly, he felt somethin’ cold hit his cheek. After a few more somethin’s, he realized it was snowflakes.

Just then, his ears caught a new sound. He judged it was ‘bout 10 feet behind. Rustlin’ leaves was a dead giveaway that somethin’ was trailin’ him. 

Dad gripped his gun tighter and stopped. Whatever was behind him stopped, too — just as quickly as he'd done. Oh Lord, was it a haint or maybe a witch that lived out here all alone?

Then his brain began thinkin’ up all the animals that might track a person, eat a person. Could be a bear, a coyote, a panther … the last one stuck. A panther loved to stalk its prey. And came out mostly at night. 

He willed his body to stay calm. Too scared to turn around and see for himself what it was, Dad began walkin'.  He stepped slow and purposeful. The hair on the back of his neck stood up when the thing started walkin’, too. 

He picked up the pace. A little faster he went. A little faster it went. The thing was a-toyin’ with him. 

His heart thudded in his chest like John Henry’s hammer. He knew if he started runnin’, this thing would run, too. And that might be the end of Mamaw’s fourth son. Would anybody find him — or what was left of him — if a wild cat tore him apart out here in the woods?

He walked quicker and quicker, as fast as his feet would carry him without breakin’ into a full run. The thing kept perfect pace with him. His mind raced. He thought he could feel its hot breath getting closer.

Suddenly, he could take no more!! He broke out in a run, takin’ long strides and coverin’ some serious ground. He was a fast runner and just might have a chance.  

Then, he saw lights in the distance. Home! Keep a-runnin’, keep a-runnin’! 

He’d never sprinted faster in his life than he did those last hundred yards to the porch! Keep a-runnin’, keep a-runnin’.

About 60 feet from the house, he started yellin’ for all he was worth. The door opened as his feet carried him across the yard and jumped the steps. He sailed through the door, hollerin’ “Don’t let it git me! Don’t let it git me!”

He made it to the kitchen and collapsed on the floor, suckin’ in air, his blue eyes wild and bulgin’. 

His Mama and brothers gathered ‘round, all wide-eyed, too. Everybody talkin’ at once, tryin’ to figure out just what the heck had happened. 

Mamaw finally shushed everyone. She scanned for injuries on her boy but didn’t see nary a one. She finally asked, “What in tarnation, Wayne? What you hollerin’ about chasin’ you?”

It was then Dad saw the rope he’d tied to his britches earlier. It’d come a-loose, and more than a good two yards of it was lyin’ limp on the floor, connected to the rest on his belt loop.

Well, when he saw that, he commenced to laughin’ and laughin’! He laughed til they all thought he’d lost his ever-lovin’ mind. He finally caught his breath and told ‘em how he thought that rope was a panther, hot on his tail, a-chasin’ him outta the woods. 

And them brothers? They never let him live it down. They even tell their young’uns and grandyoung’uns about it. 

And his dog? Well, ol’ Blue had got bored and made it back way before Dad — he was fast asleep in the barn.