Want to thank the gentleman I met at the camp out for the idea for this one. Don't remember his name but he told us about a hunter they found dead leaning against a tree. He died from a heart attack

East Ridge Hollow

Local legend has always been that it is best to stay away from East Ridge Hollow. That’s what the old timers said anyway. There was a large family named Isbell living out there until the Spanish flu epidemic of 1919 wiped them all out. The whole family died and well, it being so isolated way back there no-one found out about it for a few weeks and when they did it was just terrible. Dead livestock, kids, old people, lying all over the place and buzzards, hogs and other wild animals had eaten most of them in the meantime. The county sheriff went out there with a prison work gang and cleaned it all up. Dug a big pit and threw everything in all together except for what they knew was human and that was all buried in one grave. It was hard to tell what was what though. And I can’t imagine they were real particular about it either. For years afterward someone’s dog would drag up an arm or leg bone from out of the woods and JR’s coon dog brought back a skull one day. Everybody just sort of knew it was from East Ridge Hollow and let it go at that.

So again, folks just didn’t go out there much. Then later the new county road by passed the entry to the cove and after ten or so years you wouldn’t even know that anyone had ever lived out there unless you were looking for it. The house, barn and out houses had fallen in and the rock chimney collapsed. That’s what I was told by an old timer who was thought to be the last person out there and that was over thirty years ago. Said he wasn’t going back either. Never really said why, but just that he didn’t have any business out there and no one else did either. Just not a place for decent folks was all. And being that nothing was over in that part of the county anyway that’s just how it stayed since. Property ownership passed to the last living relative and it was finally let it go to the county for unpaid taxes. A timber company acquired it with four other sections of land. They had it surveyed and decided the East Ridge Hollow wasn’t profitable to cut so it just sat there for about forty years.

Now this is where I came in. Seven of us went in together and bought hunting rights to three timber sections for our club. Price was right, it had been cut twenty years ago and would probably ready again in a few more years. It was classic North Alabama hardwoods with some pine mixed in. Water was plentiful and several open areas for grazing. No doubt there was good hunting there. We hadn’t thought much about it but when the leases were signed I saw that the East Ridge Hollow twenty acres was included in the lease. The property line ran the ridge and there it was – just a small niche below the ridge line. Nothing remarkable, really, open at the bottom, creek coming off the ridge, steep bluffs on the north and south and not much else. There were way too many other great areas to hunt and we were ready. Summer and fall were spent improving trails, putting in shooting stands and planting green fields. Sign was everywhere. This was going to be a good year. No one even considered East Ridge Hollow. No reason to.

And a good year it was. We did better overall than any club in the area. There weren’t any records, but as far as overall size and quality we couldn’t be beat. But there was one buck (isn’t there always) that several of us had caught glimpses of once or twice. He wasn’t overly large for a mature deer nor was his rack record quality. Decent mind you, one everyone would like to have hanging on a wall, but not the best. But damn was he smart. He must have always circled a feeding or bedding area several times and if someone was close enough to get a shot he knew it. He knew when someone was in the area. He could read the wind like a librarian a dictionary. Every time he was seen it was when he was standing there looking at you first. It didn’t matter if you were on the ground or in a tree. And he didn’t blow and stomp either. He’d just slowly back away. But there were other deer to hunt and by golly we hunted them. He’d wait until the rut. He’d come out then. All the bucks do. But he didn’t. So this buck, and if it wasn’t bad enough already, somebody named him Smoky cause he’d simply vanish into air. He started to get a reputation. Smoky must have been doing all his courting at night because he sure wasn’t seen any during the day.

Season was slowing down, it was cold and days were short. Freezers were full. And Smoky was still out there. So Jim and I decided to get him. Before too long there was a bet going (bragging rights, of course) who would get Smoky. Both of us knew what we were doing. Jim tended to favor thickets and stalking by really watching the wind and using his secret potion cover scents while I liked to find a feeding area or path to it and get up in a tree as high as I could. Jim favored a Marlin 30-30 with open sights whereas I always used a Winchester Mod 70 30-06 with a scope. Next we started talking to everyone in the club about Smoky. Made it real plain that you don’t tell me what you heard but tell me what you saw. That took about two thirds of the stories out of the situation. So where did you see him? What did he do? Where did he go? Tell me about his rack. Which way was the wind? What was the lay of the ground? What time was it? How cold was it? Were there any other deer in sight? Had there been any other deer? Were there any sign? Scrapes? Rubs? How did you know he was there? Information began to pull it together. Smoky liked the late evenings. Smoky moved very slowly. Every time he was down wind and he knew exactly where you were. No one had ever heard him. They just had a feeling of being watched and when they looked around he was there. And then he was gone.

It took us a while to start seeing a pattern. Smoky had never been seen north of East Ridge Hollow, nor had he ever been seen further than two miles south of East Ridge Hollow. And you guessed it – never seen more than three miles west of East Ridge Hollow either. The land was perfect for him. It was scrub oak, one thicket after another, thick cedar, briar patches, cane bottoms, rocky outcrops. Place was probably full of timber rattlers in the summer. Quick look and you knew why the timber company had passed it by. Looking at the map and contour lines showed a slight rise in elevation till the ridge then it got real steep. The only water source was the creek coming off the ridge into the hollow. I saw quickly this wasn’t my kind of hunting. It was going to be down on the ground nose in the briars stalking like old Dan’l Boone in the wilderness. So I put my rifle back in the gun cabinet, dusted off my 16 gauge Model 1897 Winchester, got a few slugs and made my mind up to go get Smoky.

We waited for the right day. It needed to be cold. We needed a steady north of north east wind. And we wanted it to have rained. Stalking is difficult. Stalking on dry ground is nearly impossible. Finally it looked good. It was a Thursday, the 12th of December. That’s a date I’ll never forget. Jim and I left the truck two miles south of the hollow. I’ll never forget those two miles either. It was rough going. It had rained steadily the night before. We took out the map, oriented it with a compass, set a direction, and off we went. Instead of crossing and busting through the flat areas we decided to go sharply to the east, get to the base of the ridge, and then slowly work north to the edge of the hollow. Smoky most likely would be bedding in the sheltered hollow and leave to feed before dark. The opening to the hollow was about two hundred yards wide and we hoped we could see across it. Depending on the lay of the land, we would set up staggered about forty yards apart. Since I had the shotgun I’d be up close, Jim would set up down lower with the rifle. His arc of fire would be to the south west, mine more to the north. We moved steadily, carefully, watching and listening. The wind was steady, the ground wet. Jim was a good stalker. I just stayed back, kept him in sight, and followed his movements. We got to the base of the ridge with no problems. The undergrowth was thick but Jim eased through it at a measured pace. I had heard he was a point man in Vietnam but he never said anything about it and I never asked. He did know what he was doing. We moved slower now. Jim would sometimes wait several minutes before moving again. He would stop, drop to one knee, and wait. He turned his head slowly from side to side. He would look down low and then stand and look at the same area from a different height. This was fine with me. We had time.

The area gradually cleared as we came to the opening. It was perfect. Wind was still steady from the north east. Jim motioned me up to him. Surveying the area, he whispered that he would move as planned further south west and set up there. This would give him a wider and longer field of fire. His attention would be toward the west. I would move up and watch the narrower northern part of the hollow. As quietly as I could I eased into the edge of the hollow. Surprisingly, it was open and not nearly as overgrown as I thought it would be. And over there was a pile of tumbled chimney rocks. That must have been the old house. I backed into a cedar thicket and got comfortable. Dark would come soon enough. We were going to get Smoky.

It’s been a long time and I’ve gone over what happened next in East Ridge Hollow thousands of times in my mind. I still can’t believe it. Jim is still dead. I didn’t see what he did but I know what I saw. We had been sitting for a little over an hour. The magic window would soon open. It’s that time all deer hunters know when you see the first hesitant set of antlers ease up from the edge of the woods to a clearing and takes slow hesitating steps. It’s when a large doe stands absolutely still except for her nose and ears tasting and listening. You see them. And they don’t see you. I knew exactly where Jim was but couldn’t make him out. So I waited. Then I had the feeling, no, not a feeling but a certainty, there was no doubt – I was being watched from the hollow. Slowly, slowly, slowly I turned my head toward the collapsed chimney rocks. Smoky was standing there. He was just as real as anything I’ve ever seen. He looked exactly as he had been described. Suddenly a cold chill ran through and made me tremble and terrified me to my soul. I couldn’t move. But it wasn’t Smoky that I couldn’t take my eyes away from. It was the ghost following close behind him.

It was a small girl. She somehow was iridescent and faintly glowed which made her very distinct against the darker background. She walked as any little girl would – relaxed, carefree, somehow you knew she wasn’t afraid. Smoky was gone. The little girl came closer, closer. She walked right up to me and stopped. I was sitting on the ground and we were at eye level. And she just stood there. I saw a terrible deep sadness in her eyes.

[



Just as she opened her small mouth to speak a cold icy grip of steel seemed to choke the air out of me. My chest tightened and I couldn’t breathe. And then everything became very dark.


When I came to I was lying in the back of a truck. I still have no idea what happened. I was told that when Jim and I didn’t come back they went looking for us. These were good experienced men. They had generations of deer and coon hunting. They found me first. Took a while longer and they found Jim. He was leaning against a small tree inside the outside edge of a thicket. He was dead. Autopsy showed he’d suffered a massive coronary and died quickly. Still was holding his rifle. I never told anyone about the girl. The story sort of developed that Jim died from a heart attack and the shock of it caused me to collapse. That’s what had to have happened because nothing else could have. Jim was a Vietnam veteran. It’s on his tombstone. Well, needless to say, I haven’t been back to East Ridge Hollow. Smoky be damned.

Thats some crazy scary shucks...

Thanks roadkill, thanks a lot. There's a lot of graveyards where I hunt. Now I'll be thinking about Smokey and the girl everytime I walk by. And, for what it's worth, all of the graveyards are from the 1800's timeframe.

You have a creative mind! Great story.

I'm sure I'll be thinking of that crazy mess when I hunt some back part of the lease one evening!

Good read!!

Another good one

That was another great read. Thank you very much

Great story. Can we have a weakly story time? Pleaseeee.

Great as usual!

First of all thanks for the kind words. I write these for fun and am glad some of y'all enjoy them. Regarding more frequent - can't do that. This forum isn't here for me to take up space. I really appreciate the kindness of the forum owners and will not take advantage. As I initially said, this one came from the Aldeer camp out a few weeks back. A member (wish I could remember his name) told us about a hunter found dead from a heart attack leaning against a tree. Its sort of like putting together a puzzle without knowing what its going to be but you know when pieces fit. I enjoy it. And if I can make some of y'all feel a little creepy leaving your stand in the dark then that makes me smile.

No more going in before daylight and staying after dark for me. I'll be watching for all the spooks in the daytime and that'll be bad enough

Daytime spooks are the worst cause you don't expect them and the look like everyone else.

It was me that told you about it. He was hunting and camping with dad. He has been told by doctors to stay home and quit hunting. He didn't come back to camp and dad made the walk out to Mikes tree and there he sat with his rifle across his lap.deer slayer from way back his name was Mike Watson.