Written by Bill Darby

He had seen her twice before she called out to him. He walked up to her porch and took a seat by this lively country lass.

“What’s your name?” she asked as he stretched out his legs.

“Frank, Frank Gorin. I moved here just a few weeks ago.”

“I’m Carol Haislip. I seen you a walking down through the road there.”

Frank almost laughed at her slurred words and grammar. She was charming to look at… to be with. He took her to be in her twenties; but she didn’t seem to be very mature. Oddly, he liked that about her.

“I need to take walks,” he said. “It helps me get the layout of the town. I moved from a bigger city. Had to change jobs, ways, a life.”

He was beginning to like this town. His new job was tolerable. The slower pace was getting hold. Somewhere in the distance he heard some kids playing – a sound that he had almost forgotten. He wondered if this Alabama town was typical of other southern communites.

“You like walkin’?”

“Sure. There’s not much else to do here.”

“You like runnin’?” he eyes brightened as she sat up a bit.

“Pretty much,” he said almost laughing again. “I was on the track team in high school. Boy, that seems like such a long time ago.”

“I love to run,” she said sitting back. “I run most every day. I was always the fastest one in my school. I bet you couldn’t keep up with me.”

Again, he was almost startled. She sounded like an eight year old.

“Oh, I imagine I could,” he argued nudging her slightly.

“I’ll take you around the block, right now.”

“Here? Wouldn’t we look kind of silly?”

She giggled. “Folks around here just expect to see me runnin’. It won’t matter a bit. They know me.

“Maybe some other time,” he said.

He felt her relax next to him. He felt strange; but he was enjoying this. The dusk had begun to creep in; and there was a slight August wind whispering through the street.

“There’s this lake, Peterson’s lake that’s a beautiful place. We could go there,” she said softly.

“That sounds fine,” he agreed. “What do you say, you show me the lake this weekend.”

“OK,” she said.

So he had a date. When he knocked on her door that fine Saturday morning, she appeared in a long skirt, obviously worn a long time. It was sad how these people lived, he thought. But, also, there was an alluring charm about it as well. He drove her to a beautiful lake beside several green hills.

After they ate, they were sitting in the shade of a big oak. The talk was scattered and unimportant. This was a new experience for him.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, “Why don’t we race?”

“We just ate,” he protested.

“So,” She stood up, looking around like an excited school girl. “I race ya to that tree over there.”

He laughed, starting to get up. “What is it about you and racing?”

She was off. He took off after her; but to his amazement, was unable to gain on her. Her legs ran with precision as she flung the long dress wildly. He turned on the speed, determined to catch her; but he gave out. A stab of pain in his side reminded him that he hadn’t run for a long time. She stopped and looked back.

“What’s the matter?” she called out.

“Give me a second,” he said bending forward.

She strode back up to him with a smirk on her face. “I got you on that one.”

“It’s been a long time,” he heaved. “Longer than I thought.”

“Oh, that’s OK,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk. There’s some really neat trails up on those hills.”

He straightened up. Those hills looked tall; and he wasn’t in a hurry to climb them. Still, he couldn’t let her show him up so. Without a word, she took his hand, and off they went at a lively pace.

They arrived at a small stream that fed into the lake. They stepped across, seeing a winding trail that led upwards into green thicket. She started up with agile steps. He followed more cautiously.

“You must come out . . here a lot,” he said.

“All the time,” she said. “I like it here.”

The climbing became more difficult; and again, he found himself being outpaced by this sturdy country girl. “Try to keep up,” she said.

A few minutes later, he was alone on the trail, his progress reduced to to a slow plodding. She was nowhere in sight. He looked upward trying to see.

“Come on,” she called out some distance away. He continued on; but his side was hurting him again. After a few more minutes, he had reached the hilltop. He struggled over to a fallen log and sat down, getting back his breath.

“What’s the matter?” came a voice beside him. She was there. He jumped over to the right.

“I didn’t see you,” he heaved. “Where did you come from?”

“Right here. Come on, there’s a neat little cave down at the bottom of this hill.”

“Can’t we rest a minute. That climb almost killed me.”

“Ohhh, ” she mocked. She sat down. “What’s wrong old man. You can’t keep up with me.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “like I said, ‘s been a long time. . ”

He was cut off in mid sentence. He saw something. Slowly he got up and walked over to a large maple. The rounded object looked, at a glance, so much like . . He moved it with his foot. It was an old yellowed skull – a human skull.

“Look at this,” he almost said to himself. Carol came up beside him.

“Carol. Somebody died up here.”

“These hills are haunted with ‘em,” she said with her eyes sparkling. “At night you can hear them whispering and crying to each other. Awful sound.”

A chill went down his spine. “But, we need to report this,” he said looking for something to say.

“You can tell old Rodgers about it,” she said. “He couldn’t even climb these hills if he had to.”

“Well, I’ll look him up and let him know about it. This was probably a missing person or something. I wonder how he could have died.”

“He couldn’t keep up,” she said perkily.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Come on,” she said tugging at his arm. He followed her. She was headed down the hill – in the other direction.

“Oh, not that way,” he said. She was running ahead. “Wait.”

He regretted this date. He had gotten a lot more than he had bargained for. He went down a slope which suddenly turned steep. The trail was hard to see. He was holding limbs and small trees to keep his balance. He swore, falling a few times.

After several more minutes of this, he found himself at another stream bigger than the one before. He would have to wade through it to get to the other side. But there was no sign of a trail now.

“I see you,” came a distant voice.

He looked for her without success. Noticing the sun, he saw it lowering through the western trees. How could that be? How long had he been here with this wild lass?

“Carol,” he called out.

“Up here.”

Groaning, he stepped through the water and began to climb the hill. This one was not as steep; but he was fatigued, and every step hurt. He didn’t want to think about the trip back. He would take a few steps, then rest against a tree. He temples were throbbing.

At last, he reached the top. He was in a canopy of green, sweat pouring off of him. He heard some footsteps beside him and looked.

“Don’t tell me you’re sittin’ again,” she said.

“Carol. It’s getting late. We’ve got a few miles of hills to cover before we get back to the lake.”

“All right,” she conceded. “But I can get back there in no time at all.”

“Yes,” he agreed, but I can’t.

“Old man,” she muttered.

His humor had quite disappeared. He only wanted to get back home and take a cool shower. He stood, because his left leg was getting cramped. That is when he saw the rib cage.

Walking over to it, he knelt down. It had to be human. And here was an arm bone, and some other smaller pieces.

“Holy cow! Here’s where somebody else died. What is this place? Do people just come up here and drop dead?”

“Listen,” she giggled. “They’ll start telling you secrets if you listen real close.”

Something was working in his mind – something really dark and sinister. There was some very uncomfortable questions forming. He had heard really strange tales about lynchings and murders in the country. But all of that was over now, right? That sort of thing did not happen any more.

“We’d better go,” he said.

“OK lazy bones, I’m off.”

“No ! Carol, wait.”

But she had run down the hill. Incredibly she wove through the trees without so much as a bump. He took off as well, making about fifty feet before he fell. His side was killing him now. He could not run.

It seemed that dusk was coming. He knew the way back, he thought. Sure. Down this hill to the stream. And wouldn’t the stream lead right to the lake? But he couldn’t leave her on the hill. He had to find her again. In time, he made it to the stream. He looked around.

“Up here slow bones,” he heard her say from above. Another hill.

He climbed. He rested. The sun was now low and red, peeking at him through the forest tangle. His side hurt. His legs were numb. Years of neglect were showing. But finally, he had topped the first hill. It would have been beautiful to view if he wasn’t in such pain. Again, she was beside him as if she had appeared.

“Come on,” she said.

“I can’t. In a minute. Carol, I found another body on that other hill. We’re going to have to report this. People don’t just come up here to die. Something’s wrong here.”

“You couldn’t keep up with me,” she said slightly pouting.

“All right!” he shot back. “I couldn’t keep up with you. What is the big thing about keeping up?!!”

“Nobody can,” she said. “You’re just like all the rest.”

He tried to stand back up; but he collapsed again. “What do you mean ‘all the rest ‘ What are you talking about?”

“I’m going,” she said disappointedly.

“Wait,” he moaned with closed eyes. “I don’t know the way back. There’s . . . there’s no trail. Just give me a minute. Ohh.”

But she disappeared down the hill, out of sight, still gaily bouncing. She paused a moment to look back at him. He saw a look of teasing glee in her eyes as she turned away to resume her escape. Again he tried to rise; but he could not. His legs seemed to be paralyzed.

He was alone. The sun was setting. He was terribly thirsty; and he knew, somehow, that he would be spending the night there. And slowly, his mind echoed her last words to him – ‘You’re just like all the rest’. Slowly, painfully, he now realized just what she meant.

- THE END -

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A creek in the woods, wandering lost,
ripples beneath the low hanging moss
and carries falling leaves for a ride,
they swirl in the eddies and raft on the tides
and rush to and fro to the swampy lows,
then slow, to unfold in a pool of shadow.

And only be chance do the leaves arrive
at the hidden pond where Joeabb resides.

Here, the sunlight is filtered by shade
of trees in the water. Their trunks colonnade
at the edge of the pond like sentries at guard;
banishing all who would venture this far
to spy on creatures asleep on the logs,
that swim in the cattails or slog thru the bog
or perhaps the reclusive Joeabb the Frog,
the once famous tenor, ghost of the fog.

Leagues to the south, as the blackbirds fly,
at a green lily pond in times gone by,
a young Joeabb, just tadpole to frog,
soon discovered his gift from the fog;
a beautiful voice, hauntingly tender
with range and power – basso to tenor.
Those who heard him were staggered with awe
and news spread quickly of Joeabb the Frog.

Come evening, the pond was symphony hall,
crickets would fiddle, hoot owls would call,
heron and egrets swooshed in the shallows
and frogs by the scores puffed their bellows.
Birds of all feathers flocked the trees,
lightning bugs lighted the mist magically,
a lodge of beavers thumped hollow logs
but all would go still, for Joeabb the Frog.

It seems he would sing to the night, unaware
that a throng of listeners had gathered there
and often his eyes would drift to his maid,
a spotted she-frog, he called Lilyjade;
crooning sweet tones for her alone
as if his songs were a lover’s poem.
And after the throng of the gathered had gone,
they’d snuggle together to wish on the dawn.

Joeabb rejected the trappings of fame;
refused the gifts, ignored the acclaim.
Offers of travel and sing on the lake,
though tempting, he thought, tempted the fates.
Until he was nudged by his own Lilyjade;
with a goodbye kiss, he was whisked away
and night after night he sang for her sake,
while millions listened around the great lake.

The fog rolled in, his tenor voice soared
and those so impressed by this frog troubadour
thundered a cheer that rippled the lake
at the end of the concerts of Joeabb the Great.
Each morn, he vow to the great beyond
that soon he’d return to the green lily pond
where surely his mate ponders the dawn
and lingers with fading stars to wish on.

At the final performance, a fierce wind blew
and everyone, looking for cover, withdrew.
Joeabb impulsively headed for home
and wrestled the gales of the night alone.
He arrived along with the calm of day
and met by the creatures who weathered the fray,
he saw his pond completely transformed
and heard cruel stories wrought by the storm.

Heads bowed when he called Lilyjade,
for she was swept by the hurricane’s rage.
Joeabb searched thru the woods for leagues
and refused to accept what the others believed.
He swam the swamps and the waterways,
journeyed farther and wider each day,
and after months of the same, on and on,
he never returned to the green lily pond.

Some say he’s lost, others he died;
fell in a cavern, buried alive.
Some say he found a moonbeam of blue
and climbed to the sky for a better view.
But in truth he repaired to this swampy glade,
so cloistered by backwater bramble and shade
and began a song so incredibly strong
that time itself refused to move on.

When the mist comes from the trees beyond
he croons to a moon and a love that is gone
and endeavors to conjure his Lilyjade
from the ghostly haze that glides the glade;
certain that when his voice becomes pure,
she’ll respond from beyond the misty moor.
But the fog only drifts thru his sad serenade,
years into decades and age upon age.

Now, a thousand years have gone by;
his voice so pure, just a note makes you cry.
And so, the angels who bring forth the dawn
were moved to tears by his woeful song.
With a touch they placed this hidden pond
between the here and the great beyond
and nestled the souls of two little frogs
who live forever in love in the fog.

On warm summer evenings while lying your bed
or rocking the porch with stars overhead,
you may hear a voice so incredibly pure
you’ll clutch at your heart in rapture, assured,
if you close your eyes and breathe the night air
you’ll drift with the mist that lifts you to where
a blithe little spirit sings in the fog
and you’ll hum along with Joeabb the Frog.

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Written by Craig Dominey

The picture hung in my parents’ home for years before I finally asked about it: a pencil sketch of a gentle old man looking like some unkempt, nomadic Santa Claus, cradling a baby goat in his strong, leathery hands. Behind him, a team of older goats pulled a ramshackle, trash-strewn wagon, a placard on its roof screaming “GOD IS NOT DEAD.”

As a kid, I dismissed the drawing as yet another curiosity that my parents would buy in the folk art galleries and antique stores that surrounded our North Georgia mountain home. But when I began writing columns for the local paper and became hungry for story material, I asked my mother one day about that strange old man on the wall. She flipped the picture around with a smile, revealing a manilla folder full of newspaper articles taped to the back, waiting for the day that I would ask.

That was how I first became acquainted with the fascinating life of Mr. Ches McCartney, a.k.a. the “Goat Man.”

For over five decades, the Goat Man roamed the highways and byways of the South, fueled by little more than simple wanderlust. Most of this time was spent in a goat-powered, scrap wood wagon covered with cooking utensils, dented signs, old furniture, rusty lanterns and whatever else he could find on the roadsides. “The Goat Man’s coming!” became a common refrain on radio stations and newspapers across the region. Traffic would back up for miles as curiosity seekers stopped to gawk at him. Some schools would even let out early so that the children could see this modern day pioneer.

After his “retirement” from traveling in 1987, rumors circulated in the press that the Goat Man and his team had been killed on a rain-slickened highway by an out-of-control truck. But back in 1998, I discovered he was indeed alive and well at the Eastview Nursing Home in Macon, Georgia. After arranging for a visit with the staff, I drove down to see him.

As I was led into the crowded television room, I spotted a short and frail old man sitting alone on a bench. He was indistinguishable in his clean plaid shirt and pressed khaki slacks, a new baseball cap covering what was left of his brittle white hair. He constantly rubbed the stubble on his face, as if he were feeling for the fuller beard of his youth. His hearing was nearly gone, and he mumbled almost unintelligibly when he spoke. But the minute he smiled at me, the gentle, road-tested wanderer from my parents’ picture suddenly appeared before my eyes.

He immediately spotted a Goat Man biography under my arm and motioned for it. Without my asking, he took out a pen and signed his name twice on the cover page. Although pictures and framed magazine articles on the Goat Man hung throughout the nursing home, the other residents seemed oblivious to the fact that a celebrity was in their midst. “Ain’t no lies in that book,” he said, excitedly tapping his long fingernails on the cover. “I don’t tell nothin’ but the truth. ”

The nursing staff around us smiled. No one is sure how many of the Goat Man’s stories are fact or fiction. He claimed to be around 105 years old, although nursing home records at the time estimated his age to be somewhere in the mid-to-late 90s. He said that his goats were on display at Disney World, although no one had ever seen them. He also claimed to have spent the night in the White House as President Carter’s guest, although I found no official record of such a visit.

But most accounts of Ches McCartney’s life agree that he began his traveling days in 1915 when, as a teenager, he ran off to New York City from his home in Iowa. According to one of his self-published booklets, he sold newspapers on a street corner before embarking on a whirlwind romance with a 24-year-old Spanish knife thrower. Struggling to make ends meet, the couple put on a traveling circus act in local taverns where, upon arrival, Ches would take down the dart board, get up on the wall and allow his new bride to throw twenty-five keenly sharpened knives in his direction.

The performing duo eventually split up, and Ches returned to Iowa. Thinking he had quenched his wanderlust, he remarried, had a son, Albert Gene, and settled into a life of farming. Ches was first introduced to the benefits of “goat power” when he used them to plow his fields after he lost his horses during the Depression.

The McCartneys eventually lost their entire farm in the Depression, and Ches went to work cutting timber for the Works Progress Administration (WPA). It was during this time that a tragic event occurred that would forever alter his life. While working deep in the forest, a tree fell across him, shattering his left side and pinning him to the ground for hours. According to Ches, when a search party finally arrived, they presumed he was dead and took him to the local funeral home. He later awoke on the embalming table, much to the shock of the mortician.

Ches eventually recovered, but his left arm was forever mangled. Unable to work, Ches nevertheless refused go on the public dole, wanting to be his own boss. “I decided to do what I could,” he would later write, “and so my life with the goats began.” Inspired by one of his favorite books, Robinson Crusoe, he had his wife sew goat skin outfits for him and his son, while he designed two goat skin-covered wagons. The family then set off for parts unknown.

His wife eventually grew tired of the road and left him. Albert Gene stayed in Iowa to attend school, rejoining Ches on his vacations. But Ches traveled on, gaining notoriety across the country as the “Goat Man.” His goat skin outfit eventually gave way to several layers of greasy, sooty clothes, which he would peel off depending on the weather. He never shaved or bathed, and it was said that his smell would roll into town long before he did. “[The goats] don’t care how I smell or how I look,” he later wrote. “They trust me and have faith in me, and this is more than I can say about a lot of people.”

At its height, the Goat Man’s junk-filled “goatvoy” consisted of two wagons pulled by a team of over thirty goats. The larger billies were hitched to the front of the wagon with homemade leather leads. Nannies were tied to the back with a couple of strong billies that served as the “brakes” on steep hills. The Goat Man also collected stray and neglected goats that he found during his travels, including a three-legged goat that rode in a special box on the front wagon. He referred to the goats as his “babies,” and called each of them by name as he walked beside them.

He slept with the goats in the back wagon, which he dubbed the “maternity ward” since it was where the females gave birth. At night, visitors to his campsite would frequently find him curled up with his goats in the back wagon, reading Robinson Crusoe or The Bible under the warm glow of a kerosene lantern. “On cold winter nights, my goats are the finest electric blanket I can find,” he would say.

Upon arriving at his chosen campsite, usually on the outskirts of some town, the Goat Man’s first responsibility was to feed and water his goats. He would then build a campfire out of whatever sticks and trash he could find lying around and cook his dinner. The final touch was to throw a couple of junk tires on the fire that he kept stocked in his wagon. He claimed that the thick, acrid smoke chased the mosquitos away and added a distinct flavor to his food. But the burning tires more than likely served a more ingenious purpose: to attract visitors.

Thinking there had been a car wreck, those curiosity seekers who were already held up in traffic behind his slow-moving caravan would rush over to the campsite at the sight of the smoke. There, they would find the Goat Man drinking flesh goat milk from his herd, which he claimed had kept him healthy for years. He would then offer up a plethora of novelties for sale: booklets on his travels, picture postcards, proprietary medicines, sewing materials. Whether folks bought something or not, he always thanked everyone for coming out.

All of the money he raised either went to the maintenance of his goats or to a series of churches he planned to build throughout the South. The Goat Man claimed to have been ordained by the Pentecostal Church, and refused to travel on Sundays so that he could preach in a booming voice to the crowds gathered around his wagon. One of his tiny churches, the Free Thinking Christian Mission in Jeffersonville, Georgia, stood for several years until vandals burned it down. When I asked him about this, he sadly shook his head. “Takes all kind of people to make a world,” he said. “And I think we got ‘em, all right.”

For those hardy visitors who could stand the stench and the constantly bleating goats, the Goat Man would eagerly recount stories of his travels and offer opinions on his three favorite subjects: God, politics and women. He claimed that modern day preachers were only interested in the Almighty Dollar, and warned of upcoming race wars and economic depressions. He also tried to generate interest in a run for the Presidency on a third party ticket. By the late 1960s, he claimed to have been married three times, fathered children by each of his wives, and to have received over 25 additional marriage proposals. “The Good Lord gave me three wives, which proved to be three too many,” he would often say. “The Good Book says that there’ll be seven women for every man. Somebody can sure have my other four.”

One subject that continued to haunt the Goat Man in later years was Vietnam. He claimed to have another son missing in action, and my mere mention of the subject brought about an unexpectedly angry response. “The money people just kept sendin’ the boys over there, killin’ ‘em all,” he said. “People know how to kill, but they don’t know nothin’ about savin’.” At one time, he even considered camping out with his goats on the White House lawn until he received an answer on his boy’s whereabouts.

Over the years, the Goat Man became a problem for law enforcement. Due to heavy traffic jams behind his wagon, he was frequently rerouted at various state lines. Humane societies charged him with cruelty to animals, although he was never convicted. In the 1940s, he was even suspected by some Twiggs County, Georgia residents of being a Nazi spy. After a short investigation, the local police decided that his mountain man appearance was not a disguise. “[The whiskers and long hair] have something to do with professed religion,” they concluded.

Unfortunately, the Goat Man’s herd proved irresistible to vandals. One of the worst violations occurred on a snowy Christmas morning in 1964 when the Goat Man awoke to find Old Billy, his oldest goat and so-called “companion of companions,” wounded by a hunting arrow. Kind passers-by helped bring the goat to a veterinarian, but he died of complications four months later. The Goat Man later eulogized him in one of his autobiographies with the heartbreaking poem, “In Memory of Old Billy.” The vandals were never found.

Despite this setback, the Goat Man traveled on, eventually covering, by his count, some 100,000 miles and 49 of the 50 states. The only state he missed was Hawaii, due to logistical problems and his concern that, as he told an Alabama newspaper, the “goats might eat the grass skirts sight off the hula girls!”.

As superhighways were constructed across the country in the late 1960s, it became more dangerous for the Goat Man to continue his odyssey. But it would take two more tragic events to knock his caravan off the road for good. While traveling through Chattanooga, Tennessee late one night in 1968, the Goat Man was violently mugged. He later awoke in a hospital with a gash in his head that required twenty-seven stitches to close. His goats were not so lucky; eight were found dead, their throats slashed.

Horrified by his ordeal, the Goat Man and his herd were driven to Conyers, Georgia to recover. While there, two of the remaining goats were stolen. One was believed to have been tied to a railroad track, while the other was never found. This proved to be too much for the Goat Man, who finally called it quits in 1969.

His livelihood gone, the man who prided himself on being his own boss finally moved into a one room wooden shack in Jeffersonville and lived off Social Security. One evening, he forgot to extinguish his makeshift stove after dinner, and fire swept through his shack while he slept. Luckily, he escaped with only his hair and beard singed, but his shack burned to the ground. Sympathetic Jeffersonville residents bought him and his eldest son Gene an abandoned school bus to live in.

Domestic life eventually became too dull for the Goat Man, and he soon became a common sight limping along Highway 80 between Jeffersonville and Macon, decorating himself with various objects he scavenged from the roadsides. He would also hitch a ride into Macon every week to socialize at the senior citizen’s center. Frustrated with his shrinking Social Security checks, he vowed to renew his cross-country odyssey, this time with the help of airplanes and buses.

In October 1985, the Goat Man followed through on his threat. He was reported missing to the Twiggs County Sheriff’s Department, and did not resurface until three months later, when a doctor from Harbor-UCLA Medical Center in Los Angeles called to report that the Goat Man was hospitalized there after being mugged. The Goat Man claimed to have traveled to Hollywood with the intention of romancing actress Morgan Fairchild. Instead, he was robbed at gunpoint of his watch and two government bonds. After his release, friends purchased a plane ticket back to Georgia for the dazed Goat Man.

The California trip effectively ended the Goat Man’s wandering days – that is, to everybody but the Goat Man himself. He considered his stay in the Eastview Nursing Home to be only a temporary thing. “I’m on the go all the time, bud,” he repeatedly told me. He then scratched his stubble with a smile, saying how anxious he was to grow his flowing beard back.

As my visit ended, I asked the Goat Man if he would allow me to take a picture of him to put in the frame of my parents’ drawing. He smiled and guided me out onto the sunny deck, allowing me to take all I wanted. Our task completed, he stayed back in the dining room as I told him goodbye.

“God be with you,” said the Goat Man. He then turned and stared silently out the window at the open blue sky.

ADDENDUM: Not long after my visit, tragedy struck Ches again as his son Gene was shot to death on their Twiggs County property near the old school bus, a murder which remains unsolved. Gene is buried in a donated plot in Jeffersonville, Georgia. A few months later, Ches passed away at his nursing home at age 103.

You can help keep the stories coming by making a donation to The Moonlit Road.com. Large or small, any amount helps!

Photo/Artwork Credits:

Home Page:

“Face Of A Legend.”  Pencil drawing by Larry K. Martin.  Copyright by Larry K. Martin. Printed with permission of the artist. This subject and others are available as prints from larrykmartin.com.

Story Page:

1. “America’s Goatman – Mr. Ches McCartney.” Pencil drawing by Larry K. Martin.  Copyright by Larry K. Martin. Printed with permission of the artist. This subject and others are available as prints from larrykmartin.com.
2. Postcard of the Goat Man handed out at his stops, photographer unknown.
3. Home movie of the Goat Man provided by Robert Bonner.
4. Picture of Goat Man in 1998 by Craig Dominey.

Other Goat Man Links:

Facebook group for The Goat Man
Great slide show of Goat Man photos
Wikipeda entry on The Goat Man
The Goat Man, America’s Legend
America’s Goat Man
New Georgia Encyclopedia entry on The Goat Man

Additional Resources:

Darryl Patton,  America’s “Goat Man” (Mr. Ches McCartney) (Gadsden, Ala.: Little River Press, 1994).

Written by Anne Gilstrap

I would like to share a story with you that my two best friends related to me. Kathy, who had just had her fourteenth birthday, and Nan, her sister, went with their parents to their grandparents’ farm right outside Montgomery, Alabama. It had been a long, hot, boring ride from Atlanta, and having arrived at their grandparents’ farm, they were restless to do something besides watch Mom and Dad busy working to settle the estate.

As they wandered off into the cooler woods gathering wildflowers, they came to a clearing. There, in the middle of the clearing, was a small cottage, run down so badly even the shutters hung at an angle – never again to cover the windows that had lost most of their window panes – and a porch with tall grass, growing where there were no boards.

With a sudden burst of recklessness, the girls raced to the cottage. As they reached the half open front door, Kathy called out, “Is there anybody home?” And then they laughed, for of course, there was no one there.

As they came into the front room that at one time may have been pretty, they found it was full of dust and cobwebs, and stuffing falling out of the sofa cushions. Hurrying along to the next room, they found a kitchen with a table set for a meal, looking as if someone had hurriedly left the room, the chair being pushed half way aside at the table.

A growing sense of being watched overwhelmed the girls. They bolted from the room and down the hall.

As they reached the stairs, curiosity overcame their fear, and they climbed the stairs to the second floor. Kathy opened the door to the left of the hallway. “Whew!” she said as she viewed the pretty brass bed with a dirty old quilt that had become home for many different wild animals.

Closing the door, Kathy crossed the hall and gasped as she opened the door. Nan looked over her shoulder and saw a room as neat as a pin, no dust anywhere – a shining floor with an old worn rug, tattered curtains hanging listlessly at the open windows. And there in the middle of the room was a rocking horse, rocking back and forth very fast as if a child had just jumped off.

They watched with fascination as the horse slowed and stopped. As they looked around the room, they saw a child’s bed with a rocking chair beside it, and against the wall on the other side of the room was an old trunk. Quickly the girls moved to the trunk, knelt beside it and opened the lid. Kathy reached in and found a letter that gave her a hint of the occupants of the little cottage. The letter was from a soldier husband fighting in Virginia. He wrote, “I miss you and our little son so very much. It frightens me to think I might not be able to come back home to be with you.”

Putting the letter back, Kathy picked up another and started reading it out loud. Suddenly she grew silent, and Nan saw tears running down her checks. Taking the letter, Nan saw it was from the mother, and it read, “My dearest love, our precious son had pneumonia, and because the doctor was away with the troops, there was no one to save him.”

Nan put the letter back in the trunk, and as she did, her hand touched a piece of parchment. Drawing it out of the trunk, careful not to let the pieces fall away, she read a telegram that had been sent to the soldier in Virginia: “We regret to inform you your wife has taken her life.”

As the girls sat looking at each other through tears, there suddenly seemed to be a presence in the room, and the soft sound of a lullaby could be heard above the hum of the bees. Quickly and carefully, they put the paper back in the trunk, closed the lid, and hurriedly crossed the room. As Nan passed the closet, she felt something brush against her arm. Whirling around, she saw to her horror the rocking chair begin to slowly rock back and forth, and the sound of a lullaby became louder.

The girls frantically dashed down the stairs, out into the yard, and into the safety of the woods. Turning back to look at the little old cottege once again, they saw in the upstairs window a little blond boy watching them. Panicked, they ran through the woods, falling over broken limbs and being scratched by the briars.

When they arrived at the farm, they rushed to tell their father what they had seen. Father listened and then said, “Girls, the story is told that in anguish and grief, the solider, upon returning home, burned the cottage to the ground. The woods have long ago grown over the clearing where the little cottage once stood. There is no house.”

- THE END -

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Adapted from folklore by Craig Dominey

Now this story happened long before there were cars, or highways, or motels. Back in the old days, folks would travel or haul things by wagon, riding miles down long dirt roads to get from one place to another. And the wagoners – that’s what the old folks used to call guys who hauled things – would get mighty tired after being on the road so long, and were always looking for a place to sleep.

That’s the dilemma Joe Bates found himself in. For two days, he’d been steering a wagon full of farm equipment destined for Red Springs, Alabama. Night was falling fast – as were his drooping eyelids. The last thing he wanted was to fall asleep and steer his team of horses into a ditch. So he figured he better find a place to catch a wink or two, even if it was on the cold, hard ground.

As luck would have it, Joe passed an old farmer walking home from a long day in the fields. Joe stopped him and asked where he might find some lodging. “There ain’t nothin’ between here and Red Springs,” the farmer said. He then pointed toward a small dirt path that split away from the main road into a dense pine forest. “That there’s a short cut that’ll git you there in half the time. But I wouldn’t travel on that road at night.”

“Why’s that?” Joe asked.

The old farmer spit a stream of tobacco juice into the bushes and said, “‘Cause ever’body knows that road is haunted.”

Well, Joe had been traveling through Alabama long enough to know that country folk made up a lot of tall tales to pass the time. So Joe grinned, patted the old man on the back and said, “Thanks, old timer, but I’ll take my chances, ghosts or no ghosts.” And with that, he steered his wagon into the forest.

A couple of hours went by, and Joe was starting to think that this so-called “short cut” wasn’t so short after all. All he could see around him in the darkness was thick, impenetrable forest. His lantern cast eerie shadows on the stark pine trees. Strange night creatures chattered amongst themselves in the shadows, as if waiting for the forest to swallow Joe alive.

Finally, the trees broke on one side to reveal a small, white clapboard church sitting on a small rise. The windows were dark, but Joe knew the door was probably unlocked. After all, preachers encouraged their flock to pray whenever they could, even at odd hours of the night. So Joe tied his team to the front post, walked up the stairs, and opened the heavy door with a loud creak.

Sure enough, the church was empty, So Joe stretched himself out in a pew in the back and chuckled to himself. He couldn’t believe his luck, finding this place so far out in the woods. It was almost enough to make him consider going to church again on Sundays! But he quickly shook that thought off and fell into a deep, much-needed slumber.

Moments later, Joe awoke to a sudden thumping sound coming from the front of the church. He lay quiet for a moment, thinking an animal had crawled inside. He heard it again, louder this time. Joe reached for his extinguished lantern, but couldn’t find a match to light it with. Cursing under his breath, he peered over the pew in front of him. His eyes took awhile to adjust to the darkness.

But when they did, he saw something that made him jump. Standing by the pulpit was a small figure in white, rocking back and forth on her heels slowly. “Who’s there?” Joe called out, only to be answered by a low, painful moan.

Joe found the matches in his pocket. He tried to light the lantern, but no luck. He looked up, and a chill ran through him as he saw the figure had moved closer. He could see it was a woman in a torn white dress, her long, stringy hair hanging over her face. She was moaning louder now as she approached him. Joe found himself backing away toward the door. He tried to light the lantern again, but still the flame wouldn’t catch. He looked up and saw that the woman had moved even closer. He noticed that the front of her dress was stained with mud.

“Wh…what do you want?” Joe asked her, his voice cracking with fear.

He backed up against the door, but it was closed. The woman moved closer and closer, her moans growing louder and louder. Joe fumbled with the lantern again, striking another match. This time the flame caught, and as he lifted the lantern in the air, he gasped – the woman was standing right in his face, her eyes crazed and bloodshot, skin pale and cracked like some long lost china doll! She reached for his face, and even in that split second, Joe could see that her fingernails were broken and dirty.

Joe flung the door open and ran to his wagon. He could hear the woman’s bare feet thumping down the church stairs behind him. He frantically untied the horses and leapt into the driver’s seat. And right before he sped away, he swore he felt the woman grab his shirt, trying desperately to pull him off the wagon.

Joe rode swiftly away from the church and did not stop until he reached Red Springs, just as the morning sun cracked the horizon. He found a local restaurant and collapsed into a chair. With trembling fingers, he lit a cigarette as the morning breakfast crowd stared at him strangely.

“You all right, Mister?” the Manager asked as he poured Joe a steaming cup of coffee.

Joe shook his head and told him the story of the ghost he’d seen in the church. The Manager stared at him for a moment, then sat quietly beside him and said, “That weren’t no ghost you saw. I think you saw Mary Ann Finch. And the Sheriff’s been looking for her for days.” The Manager went on to explain that Mary Ann was a young woman who’d escaped from a nearby mental hospital. Seems she had delivered a baby girl out of wedlock a year or so ago. She was so scared that the townsfolk would shun her that she killed her baby, and buried it deep in the forest where no one would find her. But her guilt only festered inside her, eventually making her crazy. So much so that her family put her in the hospital. But while she was in there, she cried out that she had had a change of heart, and wanted to dig up her baby, lying somewhere out there in those piney woods, cold and alone. Problem was, she couldn’t remember where she had buried her.

One night the doctors went to Mary Ann’s room to give her her nightly sedative, but she was gone. Most folks figured she had run off into the forest, but nobody was too eager about going in there and finding her.

After Joe told the Manager his story, the police went back to the old church, but all they found were a bunch of muddy footprints. But Joe didn’t stick around long enough to find out what ever happened to Mary Ann Finch. He delivered his equipment as promised and rode back home, swearing never again to take a questionable short cut, no matter how much time it saved.

And he also learned that he shouldn’t easily dismiss the tall tales that older folks might tell him. ‘Cause there may be a germ of truth in them after all, if you listen hard enough.

-THE END-

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Adapted from folklore by Evelyn McCray and Craig Dominey

Now, I know y’all think the Devil is a little red man with horns growing out of his head with a red tail and a pitchfork. Well, the folks down in south Alabama say that just ain’t so. They say the Devil is nothin’ but an ol’ trixster, just like Brer Rabbit. And you all know how Brer Rabbit’s always going around trickin’ folks, especially Brer Fox and Brer Bear.

Well, that ol’ Devil was travelin’ back and forth all over Alabama trickin’ folks.What he liked to do most of all was to get loving couples to start fightin’ with one another. He had husbands and wives and boyfriends and girlfriends fightin’ all over the place. Once the Devil came a-callin’, it wasn’t long before somebody said the wrong thing to their mate, or somebody forgot an anniversary, or one person cheated on the other. Pretty soon, the loving couple would fight and split up, and the Devil would strut down the road toward the next house, laughin’ all the way!

Well, the Devil was doing a pretty good job until he came across a couple of newlyweds down in the valley. They were so lovey-dovey that the Devil couldn’t get them to part, no matter how hard he tried. After several days, the Devil got real frustrated and just gave up on those two lovebirds. The Devil was walkin’ down the road all discouraged when he ran across a strange woman who was as barefoot as an ol’ possum. The Barefoot Woman looked at the Devil and said, “What’s wrong with you, Mister Devil? You sick or somethin’?”

“Nah,” said the Devil, “I’ve just been tryin’ to break up that couple down in the valley. But they’re so lovey-dovey, I can’t get ‘em to part.”

“Shoot, is that all?” said the Barefoot Woman. “Listen, I’ll make you a deal. I ain’t ever had a new pair of shoes before. If you’ll get me a brand new pair of fancy red shoes, I’ll part that couple for you.”

“If you can get ‘em to part, I’ll get you the most expensive shoes in town,” said the Devil. “But you don’t get ‘em ’til after you do the job.”

“No problem,” said the Barefoot Woman. “You just meet me down at the crossroads tomorrow evenin’ with my shoes.”

The next morning, the Barefoot Woman baked a mouth-watering apple pie and went up to the newlyweds’ home in the valley. The Husband was in the field chopping cotton, his shirt soaked with sweat. The Barefoot Woman asked if she could visit with his Wife, for she had just moved into the valley, and she wanted to get to know her new neighbors. The Husband smiled and pointed the Barefoot Woman toward the house.

The Wife invited the Barefoot Woman in and they began to chatter away. The Barefoot Woman took a seat and began to praise everything in the house as the “prettiest thing she ever saw” – the kitchen, the dishes, the furniture, even the ol’ rooster outside! The Wife thanked her for all her kind words and gave her a bucket of freshly-picked blackberries. “Yessir, everything in this house is pretty,” said the Barefoot Woman. “But you know what the prettiest thing of all is? You are.”

The Wife blushed and said, “Oh, no, I’m not the prettiest. My husband is prettier than I am.”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s pretty alright,” said the Barefoot Woman. “But he’d be even prettier if he didn’t have that big ol’ flesh-mole on his neck with those ugly black hairs stickin’ out.”

The smile briefly faded on the Wife’s face, and she said, “Yeah, I know. He’s pretty embarrassed ’bout it. But I’m used to it by now.”

“You don’t have to get used to it,” said the Barefoot Woman. “Why don’t you just cut it off?”

The Wife’s jaw dropped. “I couldn’t do that!” she exclaimed. “He’d bleed to death!”

“Naw, he wouldn’t,” said the Barefoot Woman. “Here’s what you do: take a razor with you to bed tonight. When he’s fast asleep, reach over and whack that thing off real fast. Then dab his neck with some spider webs to stop the bleeding. He won’t even know you did it ’til the next morning. And I’m sure he’ll thank you for it!”

The Wife finally agreed to do it, thanking the Barefoot Woman over and over again. After telling the Wife good-bye, the Barefoot Woman went outside and visited with the Husband, who was still working in the field. “Boy, you sure is a hard worker,” said the Barefoot Woman.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the Husband. “But I don’t mind it at all, ’cause the harder I work, the more I can give to my beautiful wife. She means the world to me.”

The Barefoot Woman chuckled and said, “Yeah, I’m sure she does. But from what I hear, she means the world to somebody else, too.”

The Husband stopped working and glared at her. “What you mean by that?” he asked.

“Well, from what I hear, she’s seein’ another man in town. And one of these nights, if you’re not careful, she’s gonna do away with you.”

The Husband clenched his fists in rage. “Get offa my property, you lyin’ ol’ hag! Nobody talks ’bout my wife like that!”

The Barefoot Woman shrugged her shoulders and turned away. “Alls I’m sayin’ is watch out,” she said over her shoulder as she walked back down the road.

Later that evening, the Barefoot Woman snuck back toward the newlyweds’ home, hid outside in the smokehouse, and watched the couple through the window as they prepared for bed. Even though he loved his Wife, the Husband had been thinking all day about what the Barefoot Woman had said. He barely spoke a word to his Wife all night, and pretended he was asleep when she crawled into bed beside him. After midnight, the Wife awoke, saw that her Husband was sleeping, then reached under the bed for the razor. She slowly moved toward her Husband and positioned the razor by the big mole on his neck, ready to cut away. Suddenly, the Husband opened his eyes and grabbed her wrist with a vise-like grip. “I knew it!” he screamed. “That ol’ Barefoot Woman said you’s gonna try and kill me so’s you could be with your new man!”

“But…” protested the Wife.

“I don’t want to hear it,” screamed the Husband. “Get outta my house, you hear? Get out! And don’t you ever come back!”

The Wife cried, packed her things and moved away, her heart broken. And the newlyweds never saw each other again.

The next evening, the Barefoot Woman went down to the crossroads to meet the Devil, just as they had arranged. When she got there, she found the Devil holding out a brand new pair of red shoes to her on the end of a long stick.

“What’s goin’ on here?” she asked. “Why you holdin’ those shoes out like that? I did what you asked.”

“Yeah, you sure did,” answered the Devil. “But anybody that can cause that much disturbance, I don’t want no part of. Here, take your shoes.”

The Barefoot Woman then smiled and said, “Why, Mister Devil, don’t you know who I am?”

Suddenly, the Barefoot Woman’s skin started smoking like it was on fire. It melted right off her body, and there in the bright moonlight stood the Devil’s own wife – Mrs. Devil!

“Mrs. Devil!” exclaimed the Devil. “Why’d you go and trick me like that?”

“Mister Devil, I’ve been tryin’ to get you to buy me a brand new pair of shoes for years, and you been too stingy to do it!”

The Devil stared at the ground and shook his head. “Husband of mine,” she said, “don’t you ever underestimate the power of a woman – especially your own wife!”

And that’s the story of The Barefoot Woman.

-THE END-

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Written by Lester Thomas

Many rains ago, a mighty African king planted a click-bok tree on the day his son was born (for those of you who don’t know, a click-bok is an acorn tree). The king prayed and believed the tree would protect his family, and she did.

When the king died, his son buried him under the shade of the click-bok tree, so that even in death, the mighty king could protect his family. Whenever the son needed a spear, he would use wood from the click-bok tree, and he would be protected from the lion and the tiger. Whenever the son went to battle, he would always trick his enemies back to the click-bok tree where her low branches would tangle them, so he could win his battles. With the help of the click-bok tree, the son became a mighty king himself.

One day, strange looking men came with powerful magic – sticks that made lightning. The new king tried to lure the men back to the click-bok, but they wouldn’t come. Instead, they captured his wife and sons. The king attacked the men with the fierceness of the tiger, but the lightning sticks were too powerful. Just before his oldest son was taken away, the king gave him a nut from the click-bok tree and told him “plant this where you plant yourself.” The mighty king then died.

The strange looking men took the king’s oldest son to America in chains, as their slave. And they made him work on a large plantation in south Alabama. The son did as his father told him, and planted a click-bok tree on the day his own son, Zebedee, was born. Zebedee’s father prayed and believed the tree would protect his family, and she did.

When his father died, Zebedee asked the Taskmaster if he could bury his daddy in the red Alabama clay dirt under the shade of the click-bok tree. The Taskmaster was a mean ol’ hateful so-n-so, and told Zebedee, “No!” But when he did, a heavy branch from the click-bok tree fell on him and broke his leg, crippling him for life.

After that, things got hard for ol’ Zebedee. Every night, the Taskmaster would find a reason to beat Zebedee until he bled. If, for some reason, he couldn’t beat Zebedee, he’d beat Zebedee’s wife. Zebedee had made up his mind to just up and run away, when his wife said she was heavy with his son, Young’un.

Poor Zebedee had to stay now, ’cause being on the run was no place for a gal that was heavy with his Young’un. When the Young’un was born, that mean ol’ Taskmaster made Zebedee’s wife work the fields the very same day. So she strapped her Young’un on herself and went to work the fields that cloudy October day. When the Taskmaster saw her Young’un, he said to her, “The fields ain’t no place for no baby! And you done had enough time off having him, so you can’t take him back! Put that baby in this ol’ empty horse trough under that tree y’all love so much. That way he can’t crawl off!”

Zebedee’s wife was afraid of a beating, so she left the baby and went off to the fields, being sure not to go off too far so she could hear her Young’un crying. She had worked most on the day when it started to rain. Not just a sprinkle, mind you, but a downpour! It was rainin’ so hard the critters started pairing up and heading for the nearest mountain.

At first, Zebedee’s wife was enjoying the coolness of the rain. But then she remembered her Young’un. She ran back toward the trough, but the ol’ Taskmaster blocked the way. She pleaded with him, “Please let me get my Young’un! He’ll catch his death in this rain!” Ol’ Taskmaster just cracked his whip and said “Get back to work! That li’l thing is alright. Can’t you hear him bawlin’?”

But just then, the crying stopped! Zebedee’s wife cried out, “My baby! Oh lawd, my baby done drowned in that trough!”

When Zebedee and the others heard this, they all stopped what they were doing and started toward the Taskmaster. Before they could reach him, he pulled out his pistol and shot two times into the air, and said, “If y’all don’t get back into that field, I’ll fill ya’ with lead!”

As soon as he got them words out, he heard something behind him. BOOM! It sounded like a tree falling. BOOM! It happened again! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! This time, Zebedee’s wife backed up in fear. Ol’ Taskmaster swung around to look, and what he saw struck fear to his heart – Click-bok was walking toward him!!! The tree was actually pulling its roots out of the ground and walking, like a man walking in deep mud. And every time she pulled her roots up, she left no trace of ever having being planted there.

Ol’ Taskmaster swung around with his pistol and fired a round smack dab into the heart of that tree. Click-bok swung her limbs in the air like she was in a wind storm. Then – BOOM! BOOM! – she took two more steps. He fired twice more, and this time Click-bok stumbled backwards and let out a mighty cry – a painful cry that sounded like a man dying and wood splitting, all mixed up. She took another step, BOOM! This time coming close enough to for the ol’ Taskmaster to touch. The Taskmaster knew that was a might too close, so he swung around and aimed at Zebedee’s wife and said to Click-bok, “Make one mo’ step and I’m gonna shoot!”

Click-bok stopped and stood very still, just like a tree should. Then the Taskmaster looked at Zebedee and said, “It’s yo’ pappy’s fault for planting this Devil tree. Yo’ wife is dead.” And with that, he pulled the trigger and the shot rang out.

Click-bok quickly pushed a root in the way and caught the bullet, letting out a painful cry. Ol’ Taskmaster swung around, put the gun right up against the Click-bok and pulled the trigger. The gun let out a mighty… CLICK!

Click-bok had been counting on this, for she had been counting the shots, and she knew he was out of bullets. The Taskmaster turned to run, but Click-bok reached out with a root, wrapped it around his ankle and started to pull. Ol’ Taskmaster reached for his Bowie knife and went to cut off her root, but she was too fast for him. She wrapped a root around his arm and pulled the knife away. Then she started to pull him into the ground. Ol’ Taskmaster started to scream – it was a horrible scream, the scream of a dead man.

Zebedee’s wife covered her ears from the sound. When Click-bok saw her, she wrapped a root around Taskmaster’s mouth. The last thing anyone heard of the ol’ Taskmaster was his muffled screams coming from under the ground. And then the ground was still, like that tree had always been there – all was quiet.

Then Zebedee’s wife heard a whimper in the tree. When she looked up in the low branches of ol’ Click-bok, she saw her Young’un. She ran to climb the tree, but Click-bok lowered her branches and gently handed Young’un to his mama. Then Click-bok spread her branches and stood up tall and proud. And she’s stayed that way to this very day.

Now, in the fall of the year, you might find yourself seeking shelter from the rain under a big ol’ oak tree. If you listen, you can hear the acorns hitting the ground (Click-bok! Click-bok!). Some folks say if you listen real close, you can still hear the muffled screams of the ol’ Taskmaster. Now don’t you worry, because as long as the red Alabama dirt is fertile and the rain comes down, the Click-bok tree will be protecting her children – now and for many rains to come.

- THE END -

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Written by Richard and Judy Dockrey Young

It was the night before the senior prom, and one girl didn’t have a dress to wear. She was poor and lived in a section of town where there were many immigrants from Haiti and other islands in the Caribbean Sea.

She had gone to the neighborhood funeral parlor that same day to pay her respects to the remains of an elderly neighbor. While she was in the funeral home, she had seen a young girl about her age and size lying in state in a casket in one of the many rooms, which she had entered by mistake. As she looked down at the casket, she noticed that the dress was very pretty and brand new. It had been bought just for the burial.

While she was in the room, the funeral director came in and said it was time to close the casket. He sealed it with a big key – kind of like a wrench – and said that the casket would remain closed from then on, and that the burial would take place the next morning.

After the director left, the girl went on down the hall to the room where her dead neighbor was laid out. While she was in the room paying her respects, she heard a lot of crying and wailing down the hall. Someone had collapsed with grief in one of the rooms, and everyone, including the funeral director, ran down the hall to help that family.

As the girl ran by the room with the sealed casket, she had an idea. She went into the room, opened the sealed casket with the huge curved wrench, and quickly slid the white dress off the girl. She put the key back in the socket and the casket lid and sealed the lid again. Stuffing the white dress into her school bag, she slipped out past the room where all the crying was coming from.

The next night, she put on the dead girl’s white dress and went to the dance.

As she danced with several different boys she knew, her joints began to get kind of stiff. As time went by, her muscles began to stiffen, and she began to walk and dance awkwardly. She thought maybe there was something wrong with the dress, so she went into the girl’s restroom and slipped into a stall. She took off the dress and searched all over it, but couldn’t find anything wrong with it. So she put it back on.

As she danced, she became colder and stiffer until she was as stiff as a board. The ambulance was called, and she was rushed to a hospital. The doctors pronounced her dead – but she was alive! She could hear every word everyone said, and see everything that was happening. She just couldn’t move or speak.

Soon, she was lying in state in the same funeral parlor, with her family and friends coming by and crying. She tried to move or cry out, but she couldn’t.

The funeral director came in and closed the lid on her casket. And the next day, the casket was taken to the graveyard. And she could hear the gravediggers working: “Did you hear what happened at the funeral home this morning?” said one of them. “No, what?” said the other as they threw shovel fulls of dirt onto her casket. “A young mortician’s assistant heard a knocking sound in one of the caskets. Well, he opened it up, and a young girl in a slip climbed out. She said she’d been the victim of a voodoo ritual. Someone had given her a dress dusted with that zombie powder, so she seemed dead when she wasn’t.”

“Huh,” said the first gravedigger. “I wonder what happened to that dress.”

And then the girl couldn’t hear anything else….

- THE END -

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Adapted from folklore by Craig Dominey and Curtis Richardson

On the Georgia coast, there is an island called St.Simons Island – a beautiful place where the sea laps against the sandy shores, the Spanish moss sways gently in the salty breeze, and there is a real sense of peace.

But St. Simons is also a place of mysterious and tragic stories – some true, and some folktales that have become legends. One of these stories concerns a lone grave marker sitting a few yards off the main highway. What is strange about this grave is that no vegetation grows around it – no trees, no grass, and no moss.

The most popular version of this story takes place over 100 years ago, when large rice plantations were in operation up and down the coast. One day, the plantation owners on St. Simons decided they were going to hire a schoolmarm to teach their children. So they found a young woman from Ohio named Margaret to come down and live on the island as the local teacher. She was a wise woman, for she had traveled in Europe and had attended a number of well-known schools. Margaret would teach the white plantation children during the day – but at night, she would teach the black slave children whose parents toiled day and night on the plantations. The plantation owners did not like this, for they did not want the slaves to be educated in any way. They thought that, if the slaves became educated, they might rise up and attack their captors.

But Margaret was headstrong, for she had seen how other people lived around the world, and firmly believed that blacks were as deserving of an education as whites. Since Margaret was such a good teacher, the white plantation owners reluctantly looked the other way. But they became very suspicious of Margaret, and kept a close eye on her.

There was one little slave boy named Joshua who Margaret liked to teach the most. Joshua soaked up knowledge like a sponge, for he felt that a good education was his ticket to freedom. Joshua especially loved English literature and poetry. Long after the other slave children had left school, he would stick around and beg Margaret to read to him some more.

Margaret was truly touched by Joshua’s eagerness, and found herself growing close to him. But Joshua never got a chance to use his newfound knowledge. One day, a slave uprising erupted on one of the plantations. During the furor, a white slave owner was killed. Later that evening, an angry white mob rode through the island and started beating the horrified slaves, whether they were part of the uprising or not. They kicked down the door of Joshua’s home and savagely attacked his parents. When Joshua leapt to his mother’s defense, a young white man viciously clubbed him in the head, killing him instantly.

Margaret took the news of Joshua’s death hard. She was so grief stricken that she isolated herself from the community. The only time she would speak to anyone was when she was teaching the children. The rest of the time, she wandered the backroads of the island, alone and sad.

It was while she was walking down an island road one day that she had a strange feeling she was being watched. She looked above her and saw a large black raven flying overhead, seemingly following her. As the days passed, the same raven would always seem to be around her. Whenever she arrived at school in the morning, the raven would perch upon the windowsill and watch her teach the children. And when she would go home, the raven would follow her and perch in a tree near her front door.

At the end of one of the school days, after all of the children had left, Margaret was cleaning the classroom while the raven watched her from the window. She looked at the bird and thought about how much she missed Joshua, for this was the time of day she used to teach him one-on-one. She picked up a poetry book and began to read to the raven. The raven bobbed its head up and down, as if understanding what Margaret was reading. Margaret smiled and read more poetry to the bird, and before she knew it, she was reading lessons to the bird every day after school. Margaret would sometimes laugh at herself for reading aloud to a bird, but strange as it was, she found it to be a good way to deal with her grief.

Late one afternoon, some white children returned to school to pick up some belongings they had left behind. When they got to the school, they saw Margaret speaking to the large black raven on the windowsill, reading the day’s lesson. They ran back to their parents screaming, “The teacher’s a witch! She’s a witch! She’s brought that little black boy Joshua back from the dead as a bird!”

The parents didn’t believe them at first, but they agreed to accompany the children back to the schoolhouse. When they got there, they also saw Margaret reading poetry aloud to the bird. When they saw Margaret smile at the bird, and the bird nod its head back, the parents ran back to town and, like their children before them, screamed “The teacher’s a witch!”

The islanders were a close-knit, fiercely religious community, and were frightened of anyone who practiced black magic or witchcraft. The rumors of Margaret being a witch also fueled many islanders’ long-held suspicions about her. So it wasn’t long before an angry white mob marched to the school, dragged Margaret outside and killed her, leaving her body for the vultures.

When the time came to bury her body, one of the plantation owners had pity for Margaret. He tried to have her buried at Christ’s Church, a famous church on the island where John Wesley had preached. But the other plantation owners wouldn’t hear of a witch being buried in a church cemetery, or in any other cemetery on the island. So the kind owner buried her body on a small piece of land he owned off the main road. He had a grave marker made for her that was inscribed with three simple words – “A Beloved Teacher.”

Within a month, the locals who happened to visit the grave noticed that all the vegetation had died within a few feet of where Margaret was buried. And for the next hundred years, nothing grew around the grave – no trees, no grass, no moss.

If you’re ever in the area, ask one of the locals where the grave marker is and see for yourself. You’ll see that nothing grows around where they buried the beloved teacher.

-THE END-

Story Credits | Story Background

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Written by Craig Dominey

To some folks, Christmas might not seem like the right time of year to tell ghost stories. But I’ve got a spooky tale to share with you. And to understand my story, you first have to understand the relationship between my father and his dog.

You see, my father loved his dog more than anything else in the world, including his own family. Or at least that’s the way it appeared to me. There were no pictures of my mother and I in his wallet, only that big, sloppy, clumsy dog. He took his dog everywhere he went – on family vacations, out in the fields, even to bed at night! He showered every ounce of love he had on that dog, and it made my blood boil.

Back then, I was an only child growing up in a farmhouse deep in the South Georgia countryside. The wooden house sat at the edge of a thick forest that stretched on for miles. It was a drafty old place with high ceilings, cavernous hallways and dark hardwood floors that creaked loudly with each footstep.

My father was an ex-army colonel, and a strict disciplinarian. He had a cold and stiff demeanor, as if some army trainer along the line had squeezed every ounce of emotion out of him. As the years passed, I grew more and more distant from my father. In fact, sometimes I was downright scared of him. And I paid little attention to any awkward attempts he made to show his affections. But every human being needs an outlet for their emotions, so my father got something that wouldn’t talk back or challenge him – a dog.

As if by divine intervention, a stray black lab came bounding onto our property one day, wet and starving. After some half-hearted attempts to locate the original owners, my father named him “Mac” and welcomed him with open arms into our home. Mac constantly tried to play with me – jumping up on my lap, nudging me with a dirty tennis ball in its mouth, licking my face. But I shoved him away each time, sending him running back to my father. Over the years, Mac never seemed to get the message that I wanted no part of his affection. I even shut the door to my room to keep him out.

When I was about 13 years old, Mac grew sick with cancer. My father watched in horror as his dog deteriorated before his eyes. Mac spent his days lying in the middle of the family room, panting and unable to eat, his sharply defined ribs heaving with each pained breath. When my father would reach down to pet him, a joyous recognition would flash in his eye, only to be extinguished by his agony. We had no choice – my father made the hardest decision of his life and had Mac put to sleep.

After it was done, he wept and spent many hours alone. Each part of his daily routine – driving to the store, walking around the property, reading the paper in the morning – seemed empty without Mac around. But to be honest, I felt no sadness. Deep inside, I felt like we could now be a normal family with Mac out of the picture.

One day, I walked into my parents’ bedroom and noticed a strange wooden box sitting on my father’s nightstand. It was nailed shut, and had the name “Mac” engraved on a brass plate. When I confronted my mother about it, she rolled her eyes and told me the ghastly story. Shortly after Mac’s death, my father had had him cremated, and now kept his ashes beside the bed. Well, that was the last straw. My father couldn’t stay away from that dog when he was alive, and now he was clinging to him in death. I simply could not live another moment with that dog in the house. So one night when my parents were away, I grabbed a shovel, stole the box from their bedroom and ran through the dark into the forest. I buried that box under a tree and covered it with pine straw. It was so far out in the woods that there was no way my father would ever find it.

I knew I’d get the beating of my life when my father came home, and I didn’t care. The look of agony on his face made it worth it to me. Now he would pay for not being the father I wanted. Hysterical with rage, he dragged me out into the forest the next morning and made me dig under every tree for that box. But I honestly couldn’t remember where I had buried it. After days of trying, we finally gave up.

Needless to say, our relationship soured even more after that. We rarely spoke to one another, and when I grew older and left for college, I rarely returned home. Christmas seemed like a painful obligation, with a cold chill hanging over us as we sat silently around the festive table. My poor mother tried everything she could to bring us together as a family, but the damage had been done.

I eventually married and moved far away from my parents. They barely knew my wife, and we spent most holidays with her parents up north. But the bitterness of my childhood wormed its way into my marriage, and before I knew it, we were divorced. In the following years, my parents passed on, leaving the old family house cold and empty.

I dreaded the Christmas season of 1985, for I knew that for the first time, I would truly be alone. The sounds of Christmas cheer were like nails under my skin, and I drank heavily to block them out. So when I was asked one day to look after the old family house while it was being put on the real estate market, I quickly agreed. Perhaps deep in the country I could get away from all the bright lights and wretched merriment.

What I discovered was that the old house was a dark crypt of painful memories. Although the outside was run-down, everything inside was left as it was, as if my parents had suddenly been plucked from the earth by some unseen force. Fortunately, this also meant that my father’s bar was still fully stocked. Without hesitation, I grabbed a bottle of scotch, made myself a fire in the old stone fireplace in the den, and drank myself to sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I was awakened by an odd thumping noise coming from upstairs. The house was dark and cold, and my fire was long extinguished. In my drunken stupor, I had forgotten to leave any lights on, and now I was enveloped in the blackness. After an eerie silence, I heard the thumping again, this time sounding like something moving about in the upstairs hallway, the floorboards creaking under its weight. I remembered that squirrels and other small creatures sometimes found their way into the house when I was young. But this sounded larger than a squirrel.

The thumping sound descended the stairs and moved closer and closer toward the den. Through my drunken haze, I recognized it as the rasp of claws on wood. I heard it enter the room, then stop. I fumbled around me in the dark for a candle, found one on the mantle, and lit it.

I could scarcely believe my eyes. Sitting in the doorway, slobber dripping from the sides of his mouth, was Mac, looking strong and youthful. He made no move toward me, but just stared at me with twinkling, excited eyes. After a long pause, he whirled around and ran out the door, barking loudly.

I guess it crossed my mind that this was very strange, being visited by a dead dog in the middle of the night. But I found myself following him as he bounded through – and I do mean “through” – the front door. Before I knew it, we were running through the frosty night deep into the woods, the brittle pine needles crackling under my feet. My flickering candle cast strange shadows on the dark trees towering ominously overhead, as if they were encircling me for the kill. After what seemed like miles, Mac suddenly stopped under one of the trees and began pawing at the ground.

Now, have you ever have one of those moments when you finally realize you’re dreaming, and you have the power to wake yourself up? Well, this was one of those moments, and I wasn’t about to be fooled. “Okay Mac, I know what this is about,” I heard myself say. “I ain’t digging up your ashes, you hear me? I know this is a dream, and I’m gonna wake myself up now. You ain’t ever gonna leave these woods.”

With that, I pinched myself on the arm. Mac stopped digging, looked at me with that goofy grin of his, then slowly vanished. I could feel chill bumps on my skin, and I knew that, any minute now, I would be awake.

To my surprise, I found myself still standing in the forest. Mac was gone, and the ground showed no signs of his paw prints. But now the trees had taken on a strange, burnt orange glow, and the air was thick with smoke. Was I awake, or had I just moved into another dream?

I turned around, and my jaw dropped. The old family homestead was on fire – a giant tower of flame licking the night sky. I ran back to the house, but it was too late. The fire had been burning for almost an hour, and everything was gone.

Shortly thereafter, fire investigators reasoned that a stray cinder falling out of the fireplace as I slept caused the fire. The house was so old and wooden that it burned in no time at all. What was miraculous to them was that I had somehow walked out the door in my sleep when the fire started burning. Otherwise, in my drunken stupor, I certainly would have died.

But I knew there was another part of the story: that Mac had come back and guided me to safety. And I also knew that there was only one thing I could do to thank him. I grabbed a shovel and went back to that spot in the woods where I had stood the night before. I dug right where Mac had been digging, and sure enough, I found the box I had buried many years before. I then bought a plot near the foot of my father’s grave and laid Mac to rest – much like he had slept at the foot of his bed when I was young.

My life changed after that Christmas. I married again, had a son of my own, and have tried every day to be the best father I can be. I told no one about what really happened that night, but I think of Mac every day. Most importantly, I learned that you must give of yourself if you expect anything in return. And that everyone is capable of unconditional love – not just four-legged creatures.

Happy holidays, everyone.

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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