Ghost story of a singing frog who shows that eternal love is not just for humans. Story and video by Stephen Hedrick. Used by permission of the author.

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.

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

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1. Marie Jolie

The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

Biography of Ches McCartney, a.k.a. “The Goat Man,” one of the South’s most famous wandering travelers and folk characters. A modern day Robinson Crusoe, his ship a rickety wagon pulled by a team of goats, whose appearance along Southern highways caused much excitement during the mid-twentieth century. 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.

America’s Goat Man, the definitive biography of the Goat Man, is available in our Bookshop.

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).

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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

Chilling ghost story from Alabama of two young girls who discover the tragic secrets behind a Civil War-era haunted house.

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 soldier, 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 -

Story Credits

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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

Ghost story from Alabama of a wandering traveler who stumbles across the terrifying secret behind a spooky backwoods church.

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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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

Trixster folktale from Alabama about how the Devil uses a powerful female temptation to try splitting apart a lovey-dovey couple. One of our favorites!

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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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

African-American slave folktale about a mysterious tree from Africa and the magic it unleashes on a cruel plantation owner.

Written and told 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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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends