Centennial Spotlight: Things in Avery County that go bump in the night
Michael Hardy / (news@averyjournal.com)
Most folks who read this column are familiar with Horton Cooper and his “History of Avery County, North Carolina.” The book was originally published in 1964, has since been re-published and is now available at Avery County Historical Museum. However, this was not Cooper's first book about the area. Sometime about 1935 or 1936 Cooper wrote and self-published “A History of Avery County and its People.” This small book contains some of the same information as his later publication, but it is also different in some ways.
One chapter that appears in the earlier work is entitled “Legends, Tales and Traditions.” Some of these legends are ones that might get passed around this time of year, seeing as they concern the supernatural. Regardless of whether or not a person puts any credence in these tales, they are a part of our local history that bears repeating. As with other legends and tales, there is an element of truth in each of these.
The Black Dog
On quiet summer evenings just as dark settles over the valley, anyone who walks down the road between lower Cranberry and Elk Park may be startled to see a large black dog with strangely piteous eyes trotting a few steps behind him. If the travelers should stop, so will the dog. When the traveler resumes his journey, the dog trots slowly behind. Pistol shots will not frighten the dog, nor take effect in its body. Shouts, scoldings and kindly calls alike go unheeded. At a certain spot in the road the dog disappears suddenly, even while the traveler looks. Just as the dog disappears, something whispers “Rassie.” Should the traveler whisper “Rassie,” the dog reappears, wags its tail, its eyes shine for an instant and it is gone again. It never appears to two or more who travel the road together, nor to one who doesn't believe in haunts.
Before the Civil War ended, a family of slaves was left in charge of the brick house, which stands near the forks of the road on the high school campus. The smallest child was a six-year-old whose name was Rassie. Rassie somehow knew of Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation: He had joined in the family's singing, “Yes, good Lord, we'll be free in the morning,” and he was an ambitious little victim of human bondage. Rassie used to sit of evenings and tell how, when the war ended and they were really free he would work hard and buy the brick house for his pappy.
Then one day the Union raiders came. For some reason they snatched the little black boy and rode away with him toward Tennessee. That was the last time anyone ever heard of Rassie.
Maybe the witches helped him to escape, maybe the good Lord just intervened. Anyway, it is believed that the black dog with the piteous eyes is Rassie's haunt, keeping watch over the old brick house, which he had meant to buy some day for his pappy.
The Rider-less Horse
Gertie Whittaker lived in a little log cabin on Whittaker Branch near the present home of Luther Ollis, a mile above Frank Post Office. Her parents were poor, but they were decent folk who had come into what is now Avery County long before the Civil War to prevent her marriage to a young drunkard near Burnsville. They believed that after a few months in the semi-wilderness the lovers would forget each other and their daughter would meet someone else more to their liking. But in this they were mistaken.
The disappointed suitor followed within a few weeks and managed to see Gertie one morning when she went to the spring for a pail of water. Plans were hurriedly made for her elopement. After supper, while her parents went into the woods for the cows, she would tie some of her clothes into a bundle, saddle a horse and ride away, meeting her lover at the ford of the Toe River near the mouth of Squirrel Creek. Whichever of the two reached the ford first should wait on the other.
As Gertie rode away, her father espied her, rushed for a horse and started in pursuit of his fleeing daughter. She reached the ford before either her father or her lover. While her horse lazily drank, her father dashed into view with a yell. Surprised and startled, she spurred her horse into the water, but before reaching the farther bank, the horse stumbled, the girl was thrown against a rock and her neck broken.
Today there are times, when approaching the ford, a person can hear horses dash through the river in the darkness, though no human horsemen are near, and if one is mounted and pursues, the phantom cannot be overtaken. Sometimes when hard pressed by a courageous rider, the rider-less horse will leave the road, frequently galloping up the sheer side of a cliff before disappearing.
Aunt Sallie's witch story
From L. Clark Vance's notebook
About 130 years ago, during Aunt Sallie's mother's life, the witches came to her house in the form of a hog and turned the cradle over, in which the baby was lying, and turned the baby into a pig and turned the sweet milk into whey. There were certain words one could say over, then the witches could have no power, but if one failed to say the words, then the witch could turn the meal into dirt, make the cows give bloody milk or turn the milk into whey, or stop the cow from giving milk, turn all the family into horses, deer, bears or anything else the witch wanted.
A witch doctor's formula
From L. Clark Vance's notebook
Now to remove the witchery off a cow that has been turned dry, or gives bloody milk:
Take some milk the cow has given; put it in a pot, or if the cow is dry, pretend to milk her into a pot. Pretend that there is at least a quart of milk. Set it on fire at daybreak and get two long bladed knives and stir and jab into the pot until the sun rises. Then the cow is OK.
A Cherokee Indian tale
Ages ago an awful beast with widespread wings and beady eyes plunged suddenly from the sky, seized and carried off a child at play.
Such raids were repeated elsewhere among the mountains of the Cherokee Nation, and terror grew among the people as the marauder devoured many little children.
Finally the den of the monster was discovered on the steep slopes of a peek, but it was inaccessible even to the most dauntless hunter. The Cherokee made fervent supplication to the Great Spirit for help and in answer to their prayers thunder and lightning were sent against the monster and destroyed it.
The Great Spirit then decreed that the tops of some of the mountains should be cleared of trees so that the Indians could keep a lookout against the visitations of another monster.
This is why, ever after, the Bald Yellow, the Roan and other mountaintops on the Appalachians have been bald.
‘Haints of the Hills’ tale
There is yet another local tale, not collected in Cooper's book, but found in a volume by Daniel W. Barefoot entitled “Haints of the Hills.” This story revolves around Robert Sevier, one of the hero-patriots that fought at the Battle of Kings Mountain in October 1780. According to Barefoot, “Local folks familiar with the area where Captain Sevier died and was buried swear that his spirit left the grave long ago and walks along US 19-E in southwestern Avery County near Plumtree, a community 3.5 miles from where he succumbed to his wound in 1780. On numerous occasions over the years, unwitting pedestrians walking that remote route have sensed the eerie presence of someone following them. Upon turning around to look, the walkers have found no one there.”
Old-timers in this part of Avery County are quick to say that “the following haunt” is the ghost of Sevier. It is believed that his spirit cannot rest because his body lies many miles from his home and family far across the Blue Ridge. To this day, the spirit follows unsuspecting persons walking northwest along US 19-E. It is said that Sevier is trying to make it back to the Nolichucky settlement.
The Black Dog
On quiet summer evenings just as dark settles over the valley, anyone who walks down the road between lower Cranberry and Elk Park may be startled to see a large black dog with strangely piteous eyes trotting a few steps behind him. If the travelers should stop, so will the dog. When the traveler resumes his journey, the dog trots slowly behind. Pistol shots will not frighten the dog, nor take effect in its body. Shouts, scoldings and kindly calls alike go unheeded. At a certain spot in the road the dog disappears suddenly, even while the traveler looks. Just as the dog disappears, something whispers “Rassie.” Should the traveler whisper “Rassie,” the dog reappears, wags its tail, its eyes shine for an instant and it is gone again. It never appears to two or more who travel the road together, nor to one who doesn't believe in haunts.
Before the Civil War ended, a family of slaves was left in charge of the brick house, which stands near the forks of the road on the high school campus. The smallest child was a six-year-old whose name was Rassie. Rassie somehow knew of Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation: He had joined in the family's singing, “Yes, good Lord, we'll be free in the morning,” and he was an ambitious little victim of human bondage. Rassie used to sit of evenings and tell how, when the war ended and they were really free he would work hard and buy the brick house for his pappy.
Then one day the Union raiders came. For some reason they snatched the little black boy and rode away with him toward Tennessee. That was the last time anyone ever heard of Rassie.
Maybe the witches helped him to escape, maybe the good Lord just intervened. Anyway, it is believed that the black dog with the piteous eyes is Rassie's haunt, keeping watch over the old brick house, which he had meant to buy some day for his pappy.
The Rider-less Horse
Gertie Whittaker lived in a little log cabin on Whittaker Branch near the present home of Luther Ollis, a mile above Frank Post Office. Her parents were poor, but they were decent folk who had come into what is now Avery County long before the Civil War to prevent her marriage to a young drunkard near Burnsville. They believed that after a few months in the semi-wilderness the lovers would forget each other and their daughter would meet someone else more to their liking. But in this they were mistaken.
The disappointed suitor followed within a few weeks and managed to see Gertie one morning when she went to the spring for a pail of water. Plans were hurriedly made for her elopement. After supper, while her parents went into the woods for the cows, she would tie some of her clothes into a bundle, saddle a horse and ride away, meeting her lover at the ford of the Toe River near the mouth of Squirrel Creek. Whichever of the two reached the ford first should wait on the other.
As Gertie rode away, her father espied her, rushed for a horse and started in pursuit of his fleeing daughter. She reached the ford before either her father or her lover. While her horse lazily drank, her father dashed into view with a yell. Surprised and startled, she spurred her horse into the water, but before reaching the farther bank, the horse stumbled, the girl was thrown against a rock and her neck broken.
Today there are times, when approaching the ford, a person can hear horses dash through the river in the darkness, though no human horsemen are near, and if one is mounted and pursues, the phantom cannot be overtaken. Sometimes when hard pressed by a courageous rider, the rider-less horse will leave the road, frequently galloping up the sheer side of a cliff before disappearing.
Aunt Sallie's witch story
From L. Clark Vance's notebook
About 130 years ago, during Aunt Sallie's mother's life, the witches came to her house in the form of a hog and turned the cradle over, in which the baby was lying, and turned the baby into a pig and turned the sweet milk into whey. There were certain words one could say over, then the witches could have no power, but if one failed to say the words, then the witch could turn the meal into dirt, make the cows give bloody milk or turn the milk into whey, or stop the cow from giving milk, turn all the family into horses, deer, bears or anything else the witch wanted.
A witch doctor's formula
From L. Clark Vance's notebook
Now to remove the witchery off a cow that has been turned dry, or gives bloody milk:
Take some milk the cow has given; put it in a pot, or if the cow is dry, pretend to milk her into a pot. Pretend that there is at least a quart of milk. Set it on fire at daybreak and get two long bladed knives and stir and jab into the pot until the sun rises. Then the cow is OK.
A Cherokee Indian tale
Ages ago an awful beast with widespread wings and beady eyes plunged suddenly from the sky, seized and carried off a child at play.
Such raids were repeated elsewhere among the mountains of the Cherokee Nation, and terror grew among the people as the marauder devoured many little children.
Finally the den of the monster was discovered on the steep slopes of a peek, but it was inaccessible even to the most dauntless hunter. The Cherokee made fervent supplication to the Great Spirit for help and in answer to their prayers thunder and lightning were sent against the monster and destroyed it.
The Great Spirit then decreed that the tops of some of the mountains should be cleared of trees so that the Indians could keep a lookout against the visitations of another monster.
This is why, ever after, the Bald Yellow, the Roan and other mountaintops on the Appalachians have been bald.
‘Haints of the Hills’ tale
There is yet another local tale, not collected in Cooper's book, but found in a volume by Daniel W. Barefoot entitled “Haints of the Hills.” This story revolves around Robert Sevier, one of the hero-patriots that fought at the Battle of Kings Mountain in October 1780. According to Barefoot, “Local folks familiar with the area where Captain Sevier died and was buried swear that his spirit left the grave long ago and walks along US 19-E in southwestern Avery County near Plumtree, a community 3.5 miles from where he succumbed to his wound in 1780. On numerous occasions over the years, unwitting pedestrians walking that remote route have sensed the eerie presence of someone following them. Upon turning around to look, the walkers have found no one there.”
Old-timers in this part of Avery County are quick to say that “the following haunt” is the ghost of Sevier. It is believed that his spirit cannot rest because his body lies many miles from his home and family far across the Blue Ridge. To this day, the spirit follows unsuspecting persons walking northwest along US 19-E. It is said that Sevier is trying to make it back to the Nolichucky settlement.