Growing up in the high country of North Carolina, you learn to respect, but not necessarily believe, the old mountain folks’ stories of mischievous ghosts and sinister creatures stalking the wilderness of the Blue Ridge. Seemingly unexplained things do happen way out in the boonies, but most of the legends surrounding these strange happenings are nothing more than elaborate stories weaved centuries ago by people who were desperate to rationalize whatever was happening at the time. In some cases, old Appalachian legends began as nothing more than stories fabricated with the purpose of keeping children out of trouble. A good portion are simply the nonsensical ramblings of moonshiners taken too seriously by those who happened to overhear them. Very few are genuine. You could likely count on one hand the number of mountain legends that stem from authentic eerie occurrences with no rational or scientific explanation. Whatever the origin, no matter how true or how outlandish, any story can become a legend given enough time and enough retelling.
One thing that rings true for any creepy story is this: people – especially the old mountain folk of Appalachia – love to tell them. As a child, I spent summers at my grandmother’s isolated mountain cabin situated in the most remote area of the Smoky Mountains – right on the North Carolina-Tennessee border. I remember sitting at her feet as she spoke of legends of the mountains – The Brown Mountain Lights, Moon-Eyed People, The Bell Witch. For hours at a time, I would listen to her smooth voice flow and watch as the light from her fireplace danced across her face, mesmerized by her skillful storytelling ways. If there was a legend to be told, my grandmother told it. Once, she warned me of the Beast of the Mountain. Of course, as a child, all of my grandmother’s stories were just that – stories. Nothing more, nothing less. When she spoke of this gangly, distorted thing that manifested from local legends and mimicked your worst fears, I wasn’t afraid. In fact, I was entertained. The thought of a classic creepy creature that went bump in the night appealed to my childish humor. Even its cheesy name made me giggle. She never went into detail about what that the Beast was – or just how horrifying and dangerous it could be.
As with all other legends my grandmother told me as a child, the story of the Beast stuck with me as I aged. It faded in my mind a bit, but I remembered just enough major details to weave an eerie tale based on it. My version of the Beast of the Mountain became the perfect scary story to tell while sitting around a campfire late at night with friends. “A group of friends were camping in the wilderness, just like us,” I would say, “when suddenly, they heard a branch snap in the forest behind them. When they shone the flashlight toward the trees, they saw it: the Beast. It was standing on its hind legs and, when it saw them, it began screaming a human-like scream.” For most of my college years, I told that story at least once during every camping trip I went on. It was just creepy enough to spook everyone, but not so terrifying that we couldn’t sleep. We would joke about the Beast lurking just outside our tent any time we heard twigs snapping at night, which always made for a fun, creepy night in the woods. In the back of my mind, I always thanked my grandmother for the entertainment.
Eventually, as I got older, I stopped going on camping trips with friends. The youthful fun of telling spooky stories around a fire ring was replaced with a career, a husband, and two children. I still tell a watered-down version of the story at weddings, parties, and other events of the sort, but it’s nothing like it once was. A few months after the birth of my second daughter, with my life in full-swing, I received the call I had been dreading for a while. My grandmother had passed away. She was old and had been sick for some time. I regretted not being able to visit her during the last several months, but wasn’t shocked at her death. Her attorney’s call consisted of a short condolence followed by the news that my grandmother’s cabin had been willed to me with the following message: “It’s your turn to keep the legends alive now. Love, Grandma.” Tears welled in my eyes as I listened to my grandmother’s final message to me. I thought of all those summers spent listening to her craft intricate tales by the fire and found myself smiling a bittersweet smile. As soon as I got off the phone, I began packing mine and the girls’ bags for a trip to the cabin, where we would stay while funeral arrangements were made. My husband planned to join us that weekend, but I thought it would be good for my daughters and I to spend some time alone in grandma’s cabin together.
The next day, the girls and I pulled up the long, snaking driveway to the cabin. It was just as I remembered it: a small, solid house made of logs with a chimney on its left side and a clothesline next to the garden to the right. The shady forest seemed to creep in from all sides, forming a dark green circle around the property. Golden afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees and spackled the property with pockets of bright light. A cool mountain breeze drifted through the summer air, rustling the leaves as it blew. It was beautiful – serene, even. But it would be dark soon and I wanted to be sure we had time to settle in to rest before meeting with the funeral home the next day, so I wanted to start unloading the car right away. I wrapped my infant against my chest and instructed my 4-year-old to stay close as I carried our things into the house. She scampered off toward the garden, which was well within view, and began admiring the vegetables her great grandmother had grown that year. I smiled to myself. How was it that, even in death, my grandmother still managed to bring such joy? I watched my daughter frolic happily for a few minutes, then wiped a tear from my eye and began unloading our things.
Some time went by and, as dusk approached, I called for my daughter to come inside. She did not answer. I walked over to the garden, where she had been playing. She was nowhere to be found. I immediately began to panic. When was the last time I saw her? Where was she? Did she stay close? Oh, dear God, what if she wandered into the wilderness? I searched the property, screaming her name, for at least 15 minutes. She did not answer. Just as I turned toward the house to run inside, desperately praying that the landline telephone in the kitchen still worked, I heard a small voice call out “Look, mommy. I found Great Grandma!” I recognized that voice. It was my daughter. I whipped around, clutching the baby to my chest, and blinked to clear my vision, sure what I was seeing must be a hallucination. There was my daughter, standing at the edge of the dark forest - and behind her stood my grandmother. My daughter beamed at me while my grandmother smiled her familiar, sweet smile. Her hands were placed gently on my daughter’s shoulders. She looked good – healthy. It was as though she hadn’t been sick at all. I gasped, covering my mouth with my free hand, and took slow steps toward the two of them. “Grandma? How are you here?” I whispered as I quickened my pace. Soon, I was running toward the tree line, still holding the baby with one arm while reaching the other toward my daughter and my grandmother. It felt like I had been running for an eternity, aching to wrap the two of them in my embrace. Suddenly, I stopped short.
Something wasn’t right. My daughter and grandmother were still standing in the exact same place, smiling the exact same smiles. They hadn’t moved an inch toward me, despite being so close to me now that they were mere steps away. It was as if they were frozen in place, bound by some unknown force to remain motionless. Finally, my grandmother’s mouth opened, but didn’t move. “I have been waiting a very long time for you” declared a deep, gravelly voice that wasn’t hers. “It’s your turn to keep me alive now!” I stumbled backwards in shock of this wretched, demonic voice. To my horror, the image of my grandmother and daughter began to twist and distort into a horrifying sight. The sickening sound of bones cracking into place filled the cold night air as this thing contorted itself into a tangled mess of long, gangly limbs, rotting flesh, sharp, gnashing teeth and looming antlers. Once all of its pieces were in place, it stood looking down at me with menacing black eyes. Its sharp, glistening red-tinged antlers reached up toward the bright moon. Flesh sloughed off its long deer-like face, exposing a gaping mouth filled with sharp, bright white teeth. It had a thin, skeletal neck that led to a broad human-like chest, which consisted of bits of wet flesh barely covering a semi-exposed rib cage. The creature had four long, lanky limbs with mutilated ends, which were contorted into the shape of hooves. It loomed mere inches away from me, standing on its hind legs. Its silhouette against the moonlight was impossibly large and inhuman. Its huge chest heaved with each raspy breath it took.
I stared in horror at the beast before me, paralyzed by fear. I knew I needed to run, but I couldn’t. In that moment, I knew it was over. I was far too close to this thing to escape and running would only enrage it. I had already lost a child to this creature and I knew I was next. My baby would grow up a motherless only child – if my husband managed to find her before she starved to death with no one to care for her. Suddenly, my racing thoughts came to a complete stop. My blood ran cold as I slowly tilted my head down… and realized I was still carrying my baby against my chest.
Before I could form another thought, my maternal instincts took over, forcing my body to spring into action. I took one last look at the thing before turning to run. Its half-exposed jaw opened wide. An impossibly amplified, garbled roar escaped from its throat, shaking the trees around the clearing. When its bottom jaw finally closed to meet its top jaw once more and the sound stopped, I realized my baby was now wailing. The creature tilted its head to the side, as if it were a dog hearing an intriguing new sound, and fixated its gaze on my infant. A soft breeze blew from behind me, drifting over my daughter and I, and toward the beast. It closed its eyes, sniffed the air the way wild animals do while on a hunt, then snapped its eyes open and roared again – only this time, it sounded hungry. I knew I needed to run. Now. I turned around and sprinted full-speed toward the house. I heard a loud thump and felt the ground shake as the creature fell to all fours, preparing for a pursuit. Next came the sound of massive hoofbeats pounding on the ground behind me, growing louder and louder by the second. Rhythmic, raspy huffing intensified as it gained on me. My infant daughter, who was clutched against my chest, screamed bloody murder as I ran, and the creature roared hungrily in response. Faster, faster! I have to save her! I thought as I neared the steps to the cabin. I felt hot breath on my neck as I leapt toward the front door.
I grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and rushed in, slamming the door behind me. I threw my weight against the door, preparing to feel a crash as the thing rammed the door in an attempt to get inside. But there was… nothing. After a few minutes of holding my weight against the door, I gathered the courage to peek out the window to my left. I just knew that fleshless face with those dark, evil eyes would be peering back at me, looking for my baby. But it wasn’t. The pale moonlight shone on my grandmother’s garden. A soft, slow breeze tousled the leaves of a tomato plant. There was no creature to be found. I closed my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly, I had a gut-wrenching thought: my oldest daughter. She was with that thing. Where is she? I spun away from the door, ready to tear through the house in search of my daughter, when I stopped in my tracks. There before me was my little girl, fast asleep on the very same couch my grandmother used to sit on while telling me stories. A fire crackled softly in the fireplace to the right. I approached her slowly, carefully examining her. Her chest rose and fell steadily and her face was soft. She was sleeping peacefully, completely unharmed. I watched her in sheer amazement for a few moments before noticing a note on the coffee table to the left of the couch. I opened it carefully and immediately recognized my grandmother’s handwriting:
Sweetheart,
Do you remember the summers you spent with me here at the cabin? Do you recall the stories and legends I shared with you? I told most of them to you many times over, simply because you enjoyed them. How I loved watching your little face light up with each twist and turn! I am so happy we get to share those memories. Out of all the legends I told you, there was only one I didn’t share with you enthusiastically. Rather, I did so begrudgingly, and only when I had exhausted all other options.
You see, the Beast of the Mountain is not just a legend. Over the years, all those old mountain stories of strange happenings managed to manifest themselves into a dark energy: the Beast. You must understand that this thing feeds on the fear of those who hear its story, so telling the legend to new victims provides the Beast with nourishment. Once one hears the legend of the Beast and believes it, it becomes that person’s responsibility to pass the legend on and make others believe, thereby keeping it alive. Should one refuse to tell the story, their soul makes a nice meal for the Beast.
I need you to understand that by the time I told you the story of the Beast, I had already tried to stop it. I wanted to kill it. But when it came for me, it showed me what would happen to me if I didn’t pass the legend on. My fate would have been worse than death. So, I made a deal. I knew you would believe the Beast’s story. You were a child and children believe most things with ease. I also knew that you were a natural-born storyteller and that you would have no problem passing the legend along so that it wouldn’t come for you. My dear, I strongly encourage you to make the same deal I did: tell the story to as many people as possible and as often as you can. The Beast will let you live so long as you do this.
Love, Grandma
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So, dear reader, now you know the story of the Beast of the Mountain, one of the few true legends of Appalachia. I am so sorry to burden you with the responsibility of keeping this story alive, but I had no choice. My advice to you is this: share the legend with as many people as possible and as often as possible. So long as we all do our part, the Beast will be satisfied and we will all be safe. Oh, and one more thing: be prepared to make a deal if the Beast comes to you. When I refused to tell its story to my two daughters, it allowed me to sacrifice strangers on the internet instead.
Love, Sam Nic