When These Mountains Talk: Tales of Horror From the Heart of Appalachia

By Damean Mathews

The Appalachian Mountains are full of legends, tales that have been passed down for generations on end. Stories of monsters, mysterious phenonmena, even unfamiliar races of people have become part of Appalachian culture, and can be heard in any small town in these mountains. These short stories explore what some encounters with those legends may have looked like - and what toll they could take. From the legendary Woodbooger, to the infamous Mothman and countless tales in between, you are sure to learn plenty about the legends that come from these old hills. Explore the stories inside with the lights on - and explore these mountains with caution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Damean Mathews
• Release date: Oct 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215742099

Damean Mathews

Damean Mathews was born in Tazewell, Va. and fell in love with literature at an early age.  Damean loves writing about things that frighten and inspire. He  teaches and writes, living with his amazing wife in their mountain home.

Book preview

When These Mountains Talk:

Tales of Horror From the Heart of Appalachia

This book is dedicated first and foremost to my amazing wife, Amanda. I love you more than words can describe, and I can never thank you enough for your undying support of me and my craft. You are a true Godsend. Secondly, I dedicate this to all the story tellers, mystery seekers, legend hunters, and paranormal fiends in these mountains. Here you have kinship.

Contents

Introduction

Woodbooger

Lights

Moon-Eyed People

Devil’s Looking Glass

Wings of the Mothman

Wampus Cat

Starlyte

Introduction

The Appalachian Mountains are filled with folklore and legends. In fact, much of our culture was built on the melting pot of settlers to the region sharing stories from their native countries. Many of those stories had similar counterparts across the various areas our settlers came from, which helped build a base of storytelling that has few equals the world over. Those stories, myths, and legends are an immense part of Appalachian Culture, and are some of the reasons I am proud to be a native of this beautiful region. In my opinion every legend must have a basis in reality, and I’ve sought the root of some of my favorites both for personal satisfaction and to better understand how to write about them. The following are some of my fictional works based on some very real legends that help make these mountains the wondrous haven they are.

The legend of Bigfoot has been something of a fascination of mine for most of my life. I can remember when I was young my mother and grandmother would tell me to keep an eye on the woods if we were going to take a long trip in the car, telling me to look for Bigfoot. Looking back I realize it was likely just a ruse to keep me calm in case I finished reading whatever book (or books) I had brought with me, but it played upon my interests perfectly. Living in the Norton, Va. area during and after college, I became familiar with the local version of Bigfoot that has existed there for centuries. The Woodbooger, which now lends its name to a restaurant, statue, annual festival, and more in the area, began as a boogeyman type legend for settlers in the area. Children would hear the warning don’t get out of bed after dark or the Woodbooger will get you. Before long, sightings of a large, hairy hominid began circulating the region, including one tale from none other than Daniel Boone, who claimed to have killed a ten foot tall, hairy creature he called a Yahoo in the nearby mountains of Kentucky. It was only natural the two legends became connected. This is my idea of what one of those early encounters may have looked like.

Woodbooger

I had heard the warnings for years. My Ma always told me to keep a watch on my surroundings and not be out in the woods at night. Most important, all my elders warned me to stay inside after dark, and if I couldn’t do that to at least stay close to the house. Every one of them knew. They all told me to be careful, to stick to the trails I knew, and to always, always watch out for the Woodbooger.

I figured it was no more than a tale, something to keep the young’uns scared enough to make them behave. I never imagined there could be truth to it. That’s why, when I got mad at my parents one afternoon, I took my bedroll and my favorite dog and set out on my own. I was determined to hack out my own way. At 16, I was the oldest kid in the home. I had the most responsibility, the most experience, and my leaving would leave the biggest void in the everyday routine. I’m not proud to say that I was more than a little vindictive.

Me and Harry made our way over the familiar mountains with plenty of time to spare. I had spent more time in these woods than I had indoors for much of my life, and I knew the quickest way to get away from the house. I was a few miles away, and just entering some unfamiliar territory when the shadows began to grow around me. I could feel the cool night air seeping up from the ground, the sound of a creek a little to my right. It seemed like a good enough place to hole up for the night.

I kicked a patch of leaves and twigs into a pile and dropped my bedroll and pack beside it. It didn’t take long to gather a goodly supply of wood and pile it nearby. If I was going to wait out the night here I wanted to make sure I could keep the chill out of the air near me. This close to the water there was bound to be some mist and fog rising as the night wore on. Making the most of the remaining sunlight, I grabbed my canteen from my kit and made my way through the brush toward the sound of the trickling water. I hadn’t gone a few yards before I broke out into a small clearing, vibrant green grasses at my feet rolling all the way down to the edge of the rocky creek.

I tread lightly on the grass, listening to the night birds raising their chorus while Harry trotted around, sniffing at everything he could, and lifting his leg on the fallen branches near the water’s edge. I crouched at the river bank, realizing it was a bit deeper than I initially thought. Bright silver fish, which I instantly thought could make for an excellent dinner, darted around the rocks in the middle of the river as I reached my hands in to splash my face. If I hadn’t done this I might not have noticed the footprints. As I bent down to splash the blessedly cool water in my face, running my wet hands around the back of my neck, I looked down at the muddy bank a few feet to my left. I didn’t know for sure what I was seeing at first. It looked like a flat dip, rounded at one end, sunk a few inches into the soft mud. I thought at first maybe a stone had been there and someone or something had dislodged it, until I saw the toe marks.

Harry was slurping the water on my right and hadn’t been near the muddy area yet. I stood slowly, forgetting about my canteen for a moment. Could that really be a footprint? It was easily at least 8 inches longer than mine, and twice as wide. I’ve known some big men in my day, my father towering at just over 6 and a half feet tall, but even his heavy footprints would be swallowed by the depression in the mud. Harry noticed my wary behavior and came to my side, looking in the direction I was looking and sniffing loudly at the air in front of him. Whatever he smelled was not anything he liked. He immediately dropped into a crouch, the hair on his back raising in tufts as he began growling deep in his chest. He approached the print slowly, sniffing at the ground and growling. Once he reached the impression in the mud he pulled his lips back to reveal his teeth and began looking around us, his tail stiff and straight out behind him. Whoever had been here did not smell good to my old friend.

What is it, Harry? I asked, walking up to him and dropping to a crouch beside the print.

He looked over at me and dropped his lips, letting his tail swish at the air a time or two to make sure I knew he wasn’t trying to be a threat to me. I reached out and touched the raised earth at the edge of the print, feeling the stiff crust of drying mud beneath my fingers. Whoever had been here hadn’t been too recent, but it was recent enough that the mud wasn’t crumbling. I guessed it must have been sometime that morning. But that still posed the question of what sort of giant man was walking around with no shoes on by the river that close to our homestead.

I searched the rest of the muddy bank, looking for more signs of the mystery guest, but found nothing. Harry sniffed around, shaking his head as he got to the light grass, coughing once as he got to an area where the moss and grass were turning a light brown as if something had been poured on them. I found no other signs, no other footprints, no indication anyone had been there, until I made it to the higher grass. Harry darted forward and began sniffing at something that was against a tree trunk, half buried by leaves. I moved forward with caution, grabbing a stick from the brush nearby to poke at the leaves. I pushed the stick into the pile, getting very little resistance. I flipped the top layer of leaves away, growing confused when I saw a partially stripped fish skeleton mixed in with the leaves and twigs. The smell hit me before I could investigate further.

A stench of rot and manure pushed its way through the disturbed leaves. I pulled my head back when the smell hit me, Harry retching once as the scent rose into the clearing.

Harry, what in God’s name did you find, boy?

The dog backed away from the stirred up leaves, licking his lips and looking sick. Holding my nose, I walked forward, looking at the ground around me to make sure I wasn’t coming up on some kind of rotten mess. Flies buzzed around the leaves now as I approached warily. At first I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking at. A pile of reddish brown goo was nestled on the ground at the base of the tree, what looked like fur and seeds mixed in with it. I got closer than I wanted to before it hit me that I was looking at scat. Something had made this tree its bathroom, then made a better than average attempt to cover it up, throwing a fish carcass on top, almost like it was trying to mask the scent. Or else, create fertilizer for the tree.

Let’s get back to the water and fill up the canteen, boy, I said to Harry, throwing the soiled stick into the woods by the tree. I wanted no more of that place.

The crystal clear water filled the canteen quickly, the silver fish darting around to investigate my hand as they saw the bubbles glug from the small mouth of the bottle. It would have been only too easy to catch one, or spear it with the knife strapped to my hide belt, but after seeing the waste pile by the tree nearby all thoughts of eating one of these fish made my stomach churn.

I rushed back to my campsite, sparing no time in getting my small pile of kindling ready. My knife struck the small flint stone in my hand once, twice, three times, before a volley of sparks caught a leaf. Blowing gently on the slowly building embers, I slapped my leg in glee when the flames caught the dry debris. I slowly added sticks of varying size to the pile until I had a blaze that seemed stable enough for a couple of logs. The sun was just sinking behind the horizon through the trees, shadows stretching with an unnatural urgency toward me. I pulled a piece of jerky and one of the leftover biscuits I had brought with me from my kit. With my fire burning high, the chills on my arms began to lessen.

Even though I knew the temperature had nothing to do with it, it was nice to feel the comforting heat of the flames against the steadying chill of the late summer twilight. By the time I finished my small meal the sun was gone, and with it any chance of me seeing to safely navigate my way back home in the growing dark. I lay back against my bedroll after throwing another log on the blaze. I knew I should have more than enough wood to make it through the night if I was careful, but something told me I might want to grab a few more large pieces. I drank deeply from my canteen, throwing Harry a hunk of jerky to gnaw on while I stared at my moderate pile of fuel. I couldn’t shake the nagging urge to have more.

Throwing a few thin branches and a handful of leaves into the blaze, I got up and made my way toward the side of the clearing where the brush was thicker, hoping I would find a good amount of wood quickly. Pushing through the brush, Harry on my heels, I quickly lost sight of the fire. Keeping the sound of the river and the crackling flames on my left, I gathered plenty of decently thick branches quickly. It still didn’t feel like enough. I pushed through the brush again, this time a little closer to my fire, and put my pile