The forests of the Smoky Mountains are often dark, wet places. Deep coves, numerous streams and a dense canopy of leaves creates an environment that can seem almost prehistoric. Some of the deepest valleys may only see the sun for an hour each day. If you hike here, you become accustomed to moving through a world that seems stuck in twilight at times, and it becomes comforting. The cool mountain air, the mosses and ferns that muffle every step, all of it seems designed to protect you from the larger world. But sometimes, there is a darkness that is unnatural and threatening.
In the summer of 2002, I drove from my home in Asheville to visit friends in Balsam for a day of paintball. There's no playing field there, just a large expanse of uninhabited forest. We walked to the end of the road and then followed a barely visible path that took us past a vacant vacation home and into the woods. The only real sign of human activity was a crumbling foundation wall for a home long since gone. We played in this area for a while, testing our paintball markers and generally enjoying a beautiful summer day. There were only three of us, so we felt free to do as we pleased. We began to walk up the hillside, angling back towards the vacation home and the trail, but moving higher in elevation.
A few minutes later, we crossed the ridge line and were staring into a typical mountain cove. Rhododendron and laurels crowded the sides of the draw where a hidden creek surely ran. Tall oak and maple trees crowned the ridge, with blue sky visible through the canopy. But we, this group of young men enjoying a warm afternoon, were frozen. The darkness in this little cove was threatening. It had a solidity, and it seemed to pulse as we stared into it. It was big, seeming to swallow up the ridge behind it.
I've seen darkness like this twice before on hikes in this area. It's a darkness that seems to hide palpable terror. All three times, I have fled in fear from it. If I ever see it again, I will flee yet again. There's a natural human fear of these wet, dark places I suppose, and that fear is probably well founded. Snakes, spiders, these are the things that have reinforced this fear. But this darkness, this particular darkness, is not of that kind, it is something else. Something more ancient, maybe.
I can't really explain any of this rationally. It's hard to sit here and write, "Three grown men were afraid of a dark spot on a mountain in the middle of the day." But that's what it is. Spend enough time outside and you might see it too. I won't even begin to try to rationalize what we saw or why it affected us so powerfully. I'll just say that we left, quickly and without speaking, and we all seemed to realize that to stay meant to give up, give in to it and maybe not come back. The Cherokee that lived here long before us spoke of places of power, both light and dark. That darkness still seems to haunt the mountains here.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Happy Thanksgiving
Everyone have a happy and safe Thanksgiving! Be sure to check back tomorrow as we address some high strangeness.
WH
WH
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
The Bridge
As a kid, my friends grandfather was a great source of spooky stories. He had a certain conviction in the way he spoke that made every story sound completely true. We hung on every word as he would tell tales of mountain spirits, ghosts and haunted spots. One of his stories was a common one, but it still chills me to think back on it and to the night that we tried to confirm it.
The story goes like this: There is a haunted bridge, and the dark water beneath is patrolled by an unhappy spirit. Stop on the bridge, douse your lights and simply wait. She will come. You'll hear just her footsteps at first, quiet splashes down in the gloom. But if your courage holds out, she will appear; maybe she's somehow disfigured, maybe she'll whisper some horrible words in your ear. The details of this particular story have been lost to me, but that was the gist of it. I had heard it before, or some variation of it, but hearing this gentle grandfather tell it with such conviction made me want to believe. After much coaxing, we convinced him to load us up, the grandsons and myself, and take us to this cursed bridge.
We drove up, scared maybe but definitely excited, through dark trees and blind curves, until he indicated that we were there. To be honest, it wasn't much of a bridge. More of a large culvert with a small stream running through it. He pulled his enormous car just to the edge of the bridge and turned off the motor and headlights. Ghost or no, this was a very quiet, dark and creepy setting. The oldest of the grandsons quickly grew restless and opened his door, sliding out into the night, and made his way to the middle of the bridge, a large kitchen knife in hand. We could barely make him out in the darkness.
This is when I'll spoil this story for you: Nothing happened. No ghoul emerged from the water; my friend wasn't dragged into the underworld. Nothing. But here's what did happen: Our host, this man who had seen war and serious health problems, began to show fear. He seemed almost frantic as he turned on the headlights. His grandson called out for him to kill the lights, that he wanted to have this experience, and his grandfather did. He turned off the lights and plunged the bridge back into gloom. But not for long. Within a minute he was reaching for the headlights and urging his grandson back into the car. We left soon after, convinced that the story was just a story. But something about the grandfathers response to the darkness has always haunted me. Was there more to it? Bridges have long been fixture in mythology; that boundary between land and water seems to blur the lines between our world and some other unseen world. Was he reacting to some deep genetic memory of this, or did he know something that we didn't?
I've been back looking for the bridge, but it seems to be mostly gone now. New houses have been built, the road seems a little wider than before. But the creek is still down there, and maybe something still lurks, waiting for darkness and quiet and a lone traveler.
The story goes like this: There is a haunted bridge, and the dark water beneath is patrolled by an unhappy spirit. Stop on the bridge, douse your lights and simply wait. She will come. You'll hear just her footsteps at first, quiet splashes down in the gloom. But if your courage holds out, she will appear; maybe she's somehow disfigured, maybe she'll whisper some horrible words in your ear. The details of this particular story have been lost to me, but that was the gist of it. I had heard it before, or some variation of it, but hearing this gentle grandfather tell it with such conviction made me want to believe. After much coaxing, we convinced him to load us up, the grandsons and myself, and take us to this cursed bridge.
We drove up, scared maybe but definitely excited, through dark trees and blind curves, until he indicated that we were there. To be honest, it wasn't much of a bridge. More of a large culvert with a small stream running through it. He pulled his enormous car just to the edge of the bridge and turned off the motor and headlights. Ghost or no, this was a very quiet, dark and creepy setting. The oldest of the grandsons quickly grew restless and opened his door, sliding out into the night, and made his way to the middle of the bridge, a large kitchen knife in hand. We could barely make him out in the darkness.
This is when I'll spoil this story for you: Nothing happened. No ghoul emerged from the water; my friend wasn't dragged into the underworld. Nothing. But here's what did happen: Our host, this man who had seen war and serious health problems, began to show fear. He seemed almost frantic as he turned on the headlights. His grandson called out for him to kill the lights, that he wanted to have this experience, and his grandfather did. He turned off the lights and plunged the bridge back into gloom. But not for long. Within a minute he was reaching for the headlights and urging his grandson back into the car. We left soon after, convinced that the story was just a story. But something about the grandfathers response to the darkness has always haunted me. Was there more to it? Bridges have long been fixture in mythology; that boundary between land and water seems to blur the lines between our world and some other unseen world. Was he reacting to some deep genetic memory of this, or did he know something that we didn't?
I've been back looking for the bridge, but it seems to be mostly gone now. New houses have been built, the road seems a little wider than before. But the creek is still down there, and maybe something still lurks, waiting for darkness and quiet and a lone traveler.
The Dog
One night in early fall 2005, I was sitting on my porch, my feet on the rail, simply enjoying the quiet. I was no more than 25 feet from the road, but traffic at night is almost nonexistent in Balsam. I heard a dog making its way down the road; I could hear nails on the pavement, the clink and clatter of its collar and its rhythmic breathing as it trotted closer. In the darkness, I couldn't see anything, but the sound was absolutely unmistakeable. There was a dog, and it was walking down the road. I quickly stood up and crossed the yard to the road. Both of my nearest neighbors had dogs and I wanted to be sure that this wasn't one of theirs that had managed to escape. I could still hear the sounds, the click of nails and the jangle of tags, and it had gotten much closer, but I still couldn't see anything, not even movement. As the sound got closer, I froze. There was the sound, unquestionably a dog, but there was no dog attached to it. The sound passed by me, through me even, and faded on down the road behind me. I quickly slipped into my house, locked the doors and turned on a movie to provide some noise and company. I never experienced anything like that again, but I also didn't spend much time on my porch after dark, either.
Balsam Mountain Inn backstory
If you live in this area long enough and talk to the right people, you'll eventually hear stories about the supposed haunting at the Balsam Mountain Inn. Guests relate stories of footsteps, covers being pulled from their bed, mysterious shadows with no discernible source. Employees of the historic building also have tales of lights that are turned off by unseen hands, items thrown in empty rooms, even apparitions. I'll be examining some of these stories in detail in later posts, but I want to take a minute to discuss the history of the Inn, and the potential source of the haunting.
The Balsam Mountain Inn was opened in 1908 and served the well-to-do tourists who came to the area in search of cool summer days, clean air, and quiet. Built by Joseph Kenney and Walter Christy of Athens, Georgia, the Inn was a grand destination in the heart of the Smokey Mountains. But when the passenger train service to the area ended in the late 1940's, the Inn began a slow decline into disrepair. By the end of the 80's, the Inn was only open seasonally, and served very few guests. A restoration by a passionate innkeeper began in the 90's, and the Inn is again a vibrant destination in western North Carolina.1
So with this long history, there are obviously stories to be told. But is there a source for the allegations of a haunting, some trauma or horror hidden beneath the fresh paint and well-varnished floors? Most stories elude to a shooting on the property, with only a vague idea of the time frame in which this murder may have occurred. In general though, the tale goes like this:
Sometime in years past, the community of Balsam was holding a picnic, celebrating the warm, long days of summer. One of the local deputies was in attendance, enjoying the hospitality and friendship of this small mountain community, when he was shot by some long-forgotten villain. The deputy was carried inside, but died in one of the rooms before medical assistance could arrive. His spirit, tied forever to this place, is now one of several ghosts seen on the property.
So is there any truth to this? Surprisingly, there is. On Friday, August 31 (or Saturday, September 1, depending on the source) of 1928, Deputy Sheriff Claud Green of the Jackson County Sheriffs Office, was shot and killed during a box supper at the Balsam School, which lies at the foot of the hill below the Inn and is now used as the Balsam Community Center. His attacker, a man named Ed Smathers, used two separate weapons to shoot the deputy, and was later convicted of Second Degree Murder. He served only a short sentence before being released and moving west.2,3 However, the family of Ed Smathers has their own version of events, one in which Ed was not the true killer, and that a cousin of Ed's had actually pulled the trigger that ended Green's life.4
I can't find much else about the death of Deputy Green. Did he, as the legend insists, make his way to the Inn before passing? It's unclear. I've begun some research into this, but it's hard to find historical accounts from the time period. Green is buried in the Parris Cemetery in Dillsboro, NC5, but does his spirit still roam the halls of the Balsam Mountain Inn? Did his traumatic death somehow stain the grand old hotel, causing countless unexplained encounters? Guests have spoken of a shadowy man in a hat lurking on the second floor porch. Are they seeing Deputy Sheriff Green searching for peace? Is he still trying to find justice, more than 80 years after his death?
Sources and Notes:
1: A Brief History of the Balsam Mountain Inn
2: Jackson County Fallen Officers
3: Officer Down Memorial Page
4: Smathers Family Legend
5: Claud Green's cemetery record
Note: Deputy Green's first name is spelled either Claude or Claud depending on the source. I've chosen the less common spelling of Claud because that is what is on his tombstone.
 |
| Photo by W. Hill |
The Balsam Mountain Inn was opened in 1908 and served the well-to-do tourists who came to the area in search of cool summer days, clean air, and quiet. Built by Joseph Kenney and Walter Christy of Athens, Georgia, the Inn was a grand destination in the heart of the Smokey Mountains. But when the passenger train service to the area ended in the late 1940's, the Inn began a slow decline into disrepair. By the end of the 80's, the Inn was only open seasonally, and served very few guests. A restoration by a passionate innkeeper began in the 90's, and the Inn is again a vibrant destination in western North Carolina.1
So with this long history, there are obviously stories to be told. But is there a source for the allegations of a haunting, some trauma or horror hidden beneath the fresh paint and well-varnished floors? Most stories elude to a shooting on the property, with only a vague idea of the time frame in which this murder may have occurred. In general though, the tale goes like this:
Sometime in years past, the community of Balsam was holding a picnic, celebrating the warm, long days of summer. One of the local deputies was in attendance, enjoying the hospitality and friendship of this small mountain community, when he was shot by some long-forgotten villain. The deputy was carried inside, but died in one of the rooms before medical assistance could arrive. His spirit, tied forever to this place, is now one of several ghosts seen on the property.
So is there any truth to this? Surprisingly, there is. On Friday, August 31 (or Saturday, September 1, depending on the source) of 1928, Deputy Sheriff Claud Green of the Jackson County Sheriffs Office, was shot and killed during a box supper at the Balsam School, which lies at the foot of the hill below the Inn and is now used as the Balsam Community Center. His attacker, a man named Ed Smathers, used two separate weapons to shoot the deputy, and was later convicted of Second Degree Murder. He served only a short sentence before being released and moving west.2,3 However, the family of Ed Smathers has their own version of events, one in which Ed was not the true killer, and that a cousin of Ed's had actually pulled the trigger that ended Green's life.4
 | ||
| Deputy Sheriff Claud Green |
I can't find much else about the death of Deputy Green. Did he, as the legend insists, make his way to the Inn before passing? It's unclear. I've begun some research into this, but it's hard to find historical accounts from the time period. Green is buried in the Parris Cemetery in Dillsboro, NC5, but does his spirit still roam the halls of the Balsam Mountain Inn? Did his traumatic death somehow stain the grand old hotel, causing countless unexplained encounters? Guests have spoken of a shadowy man in a hat lurking on the second floor porch. Are they seeing Deputy Sheriff Green searching for peace? Is he still trying to find justice, more than 80 years after his death?
Sources and Notes:
1: A Brief History of the Balsam Mountain Inn
2: Jackson County Fallen Officers
3: Officer Down Memorial Page
4: Smathers Family Legend
5: Claud Green's cemetery record
Note: Deputy Green's first name is spelled either Claude or Claud depending on the source. I've chosen the less common spelling of Claud because that is what is on his tombstone.
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