The Voices of Appalachia

by Brianna West

Growing up, visiting my grandmother was certainly a privilege, not a right. She was the kindest, funniest, but weirdest woman I ever knew-- but since Grandpa died, there were very few times that it was a good idea for me to visit. So, any time mom came into my room and told me I'd be heading up to Appalachia for the weekend, I was stoked. With this excitement, I never could have imagined what was to come.

Dad drove me an hour up into the mountains that weekend in his old, red pickup truck. The thing was way too beat up for long trips, but he always said she would last a lifetime. Every bump made it shake like the wheels had been shot out, and the engine made ear-splitting noises whenever it was started up. To my surprise, we ended up making it to Grandma's road that day. When we approached her driveway, we saw a large tree blocking the remainder of the path by the pond. It appeared to have been split in half by something, and Dad commented that it could have been lightning from last week's storm. 

"You're gonna have to walk up. I can't drive the rest of the way with that damn tree there," Dad said. "Tell Grandma I said hello, okay?" 

I nodded, then hugged him and thanked him, before hopping out of the car and walking up the rest of the driveway. As I got closer, I could tell Dad was right-- there were several other trees that looked beat up and broken from the storm. I finally made it to her front porch, where wind chimes were singing, and birds were feasting at the feeders. I stepped up to the door and knocked gently, holding my tiny suitcase behind me.

The door opened a few seconds later, and my grandmother appeared with a big smile on her face. She hugged me tightly and ushered me inside. I was immediately greeted by Georgie, her little beagle. He was a sweet boy-- he hardly ever barked or caused any trouble, and he loved anyone he ever met. He was abandoned as a puppy and my grandfather found him on the side of the road. According to him, it was love at first sight. The two of them were inseparable. It really showed when Grandpa died, too. Mom told me there were days Georgie refused to eat and would sit and stare at the chair Grandpa always sat in.

After I gave Georgie some much needed attention, I sat down at Grandma’s coffee table for some tea while she told me about Appalachian legends. They were my favorite stories as a kid, and she was the best at telling them. But before she told the stories, she reiterated the rules about staying with her.

"If you hear someone call your name in the woods, come home," she'd say each time I came over. "If you see something out of the ordinary, come home. Close the windows at night and close the blinds. If someone knocks in the middle of the night, don't answer."

I knew the rules by heart, but she wanted to make sure of that. As she spoke, I stared at the table's centerpiece, which were terribly wilted flowers. 

Suddenly, I recognized the vase. My heart sank slightly in my chest. Those flowers had been there for a long time-- they were the last bouquet of flowers Grandpa gave her before he died. 

I forced my attention away from the bouquet so I wouldn't get upset. Grandma must have felt my shift in energy because she went completely off topic.

"Do you want to see a craft I made yesterday?"

Before I could answer, she plucked an object off the counter. It was a multicolored paper mâché sculpture of a triceratops, which she knew was my favorite dinosaur since I was a toddler. I jumped up out of my seat to look at it closer. It was fantastically made, which was unsurprising. Grandma was good at all arts and crafts.

"Now, while you're looking at that, let's get back to some stories, shall we?"

-

Grandma took her afternoon nap around one o’clock. Still staring at the wilted vase of flowers on the coffee table, I decided that on that perfect spring day, I would head out and find her some wildflowers. I figured she wouldn’t toss the old flowers Grandpa gave her, but she’d be happy if I brought her a gift. She adored all of nature, but especially flowers-- but she was too weak to maintain a garden. 

I grabbed a large woven basket out of the garage and set out into the woods. In the previous times I visited Grandma, the woods scared me a little, but this time I could hear the birds singing and it calmed me right down. I walked through patches of clovers and grass, admiring the greenery all around me. Since there were no other houses for a few miles, I figured I could explore as much as I needed to until I found the perfect set of flowers. 

It turned out to be easier than I expected. Within an hour, I had a basketful of yellow, purple, and orange flowers. I threw some dandelions in too. Grandma insisted that even though they were considered weeds, they deserved just as much love as other flowers. While I was picking them, I noticed a big green plant with rounded leaves that I decided to lump in with the flowers. A lightbulb popped into my head, and I decided to make a big bouquet arrangement. I was feeling overconfident in my creative abilities that day, because when I tried to tie it together with some big blades of grass, I was unsuccessful. Frustrated, I gave up and made my way back to the house. 

About five minutes into the walk, I heard a twig snap behind me. Spooked by all the Appalachian horror stories, I spun around to see an older man in the clearing behind me. 

“Excuse me, miss,” he called. He had a wooden cane in his hand, and his skin was covered in dirt. His clothes were beyond dirty as well and had several rips in the fabric. Even his shoes were practically destroyed. My teenage brain couldn’t comprehend that there could be homeless people even in the mountains, not just the city, so I assumed maybe he had been lost for a while.

“Hi,” I replied politely, clutching the basket of flowers close to my thigh. “Do you need something?”

“My dog is missing,” he told me. I got a glimpse of his teeth—they were all rotting, and some had fallen out. “She’s a big old German Shepherd. Would you mind helping me look for her?”

I had a huge soft spot for dogs. I took a step forward towards him, opening my mouth to offer my condolences and help. Before I could, I heard a strange, yet familiar voice. One of a man, but not the stranger in front of me.

“Maggie. Maggie.”

I looked around and saw nothing besides the old man. Immediately, my blood ran cold, and my heart thumped against my ribcage violently. The old man stared at me expectantly.

“You alright, kid?”

Holding the basket’s handle tightly in my fist, I turned around and booked it back to Grandma’s house. I don’t think I have ever run so fast in my life—by the time I arrived on her porch, I was sweating and choking on my own breath. To my surprise, she was awake and sitting on the porch swing.

“Maggie? Where have you been?” She studied my expression for a moment before rising to her feet. “You look terrified, honey. Did something happen in the woods?”

Through wheezes, I spoke, “I heard my name in the woods, so I came back as fast as I could.” I didn’t bother to tell her about the old man.

Grandma hugged me and stroked my hair gently. “I’m glad you remembered the rules. You’re safe now, Maggie girl. Let’s go inside and drink some tea, hm?”

I nodded and took a long, deep breath. “I was out finding flowers for you. Here…”

When she looked down at the basket, her face lit up and all her wrinkles popped onto her cheeks. “Oh, goodness, these are beautiful! Is this what you’ve been doing for the last hour? I can’t believe how many you found!”

Hearing her so excited made me want to cry happy tears. It had been so long since I saw her smile with her entire face and not just her teeth. “Yeah, I went on a walk to find them. I tried making them into a bouquet, but I couldn’t.”

She put her arm around me and led me inside. “I’ll show you how. I’ve got a whole roll of twine in my craft cabinet!”

-

Grandma and I spent about an hour perfecting our flower bouquet before she started dinner. I sat on the empty countertop, quietly observing her while she cut up vegetables and plopped them into a big pot with boiling broth.

“Grandma,” I said. “Are there any not scary stories about Appalachia?”

She looked at me and bit her cheeks in thought. “Well, there are some stories about protective spirits.”

My mind travelled back to the woods that day. I thought of the voice I heard, how familiar it was, and how badly it scared me.

“There is a story my mother told me as a child that always stuck with me. I can’t believe I’ve never told you before,” Grandma began and went back to cutting vegetables. “When she was a teenager, she lost her father to cancer. Her mother was heartbroken. My mother, my aunts, and my uncles practically had to fend for themselves because she was so bedridden with grief.”

“That’s horrible,” I mumbled. At that moment, I truly despised empathy.

“It was. Since my mother was the oldest, she had… different coping mechanisms,” Grandma said slowly. “Now, don’t go telling your parents about this. I don’t want them thinking I’m encouraging bad habits in you, got it?”

I nodded quickly. “Of course. I wouldn’t.”

“Good,” she said with a smile, then continued. “Well, my mother turned to alcohol and some harder drugs. She never told me what exactly they were, but I can assume she took any pill she could find. She got herself tied up with a group of friends that encouraged her bad habits, and she fell into a dark place. One night, they were all partying in a cave in the mountains. She had taken some drugs, and she was pretty out of it. A boy in the group separated her from the others, and at first, she thought he was just trying to maybe make out with her or give her some more drugs. But when they got far enough away, she started to hear a voice.” My eyes went wide. 

“It was calling her name over and over. Celia. Celia. Celia,” Grandma repeated. “She knew the Appalachian legends as well as you and I do, so she ran for it. That same boy raped another girl in the group that night.”

“Did she recognize the voice?” I blurt out. I pause, realizing I could have seemed insensitive., but Grandma replied too quickly for me to take it back.

“Actually, she did. I totally forgot about that. She said it sounded just like her father,” she said, furrowing her brows. “She said that she was so drunk and high that she thought she hallucinated it.”

I couldn’t think or speak. My brain was fogged with both terror and disbelief. 

“I will say that is a positive story, because that voice saved her,” Grandma said as she washed her hands. “Why don’t you take a seat at the table? I have some fresh sourdough bread ready that I can give you before the soup is ready.”

I felt like a zombie walking over to the table. I replayed the voice over and over in my head—Maggie, Maggie, Maggie. The more I thought about it, the more it sounded like Grandpa. He was a big cigarette smoker, so the crackle in his voice was unmistakable.

Grandma served me soup when it was ready. I ate it straight out of the pot—the burn on my tongue and the delicious taste distracted me from the earlier endeavors. The sun was almost down beyond the trees, and I could hear the crickets chirping all around the woods.

After dinner, Grandma served me some calming tea and headed to bed. I sat up in my room for a long time, reading through books about Appalachia, trying to see if there were any stories like my great-grandmother’s. I found nothing. Before I knew it, I was lost in sleep.

I woke up to the low hum of the television in the living room. Normally I could smell breakfast by eight o’ clock, but it was already nine and the house was scentless. I got out of bed groggily and slid on my slippers, then walked out into the hall. The sounds became louder from the television, but the rest of the house was deathly silent.

When I stepped into the living room, I saw Grandma sitting in front of the TV watching the news. On the screen was a scraggly man’s mugshot. My skin felt as though it was being pricked by icicles.

The news anchor spoke. “Sixty-three-year-old Robert McAllister was found attempting to transport the body of a deceased thirteen-year-old girl. Police searched his residence to find two other bodies of similar-age adolescents, who are estimated to have been dead for months. They have yet to be identified. More information to come.”

Grandma’s hand was placed over her mouth. I had never seen her sit so still.

“First, they reported about the missing girl this morning at seven,” she whispered into the silent room. “Now they’re reporting her murder.”

The mugshot remained on screen. After a moment of staring, my morning grogginess faded and dread set in.

The man on the television was the same man who asked me to help him find his dog in the woods. 

Complete and utter silence overtook the living room. Grandma, still staring hard at the screen, picked at her fingernails anxiously. She turned her head to me, and I could have sworn she saw right through me.

“Maggie, you look so pale. Are you sick?”

“Grandma, I saw him,” I managed to choke out. “I saw that man. He asked me to help him look for his dog. I was going to help him, but… but I…”

Grandma quickly stood up out of her chair to sit me down. Her frail hands were on my shoulders, and she kneeled in front of me. Her brows were furrowed, and her face was equally as colorless as mine.

“I heard Grandpa call my name,” I whispered. “And I did what you said, I ran. I ran and came home.”

The silence that filled the house was deafening.

-

When Grandma died, I decided to move into her old cabin with my husband and five-year-old daughter. It was impossible for that house to lose its charm—I left all her crafts, antiques, and trinkets displayed in the wooden cabinets of the living room, so it was easier for me to remember her. My husband loved her just as much as I did while she was alive, so he was on board with whatever I wanted to do.

After our first week at the house, my daughter Celia—named after her great-great-grandmother—approached me holding an aged poster. Immediately, I recognized it as a craft I had done as a child. It listed all the rules of Appalachia that had been passed down to me through my grandmother, and I realized she had kept it all along.

“Mommy, what’s this?” she asked me and slid it onto the coffee table.

I felt a smile form on my lips, and I think of Grandma. “Sit down with me. I need to tell you some super important rules about the mountains.”