A Piedmont Porchlight Story
There’s certain things a sensible man don’t do after sundown. He don’t argue with a woman who’s already taken off her earrings. He don’t reach under a porch without first findin’ out what’s livin’ there. And he damn sure don’t go huntin’ on Dugger Mountain after dark.
Now, that last one ain’t a law. Leastways, not one passed by the Alabama Legislature. There are huntin’ regulations, of course, and a man ought to know what he’s legally allowed to shoot and when. But the rule I’m talkin’ about’s got nothin’ to do with the game warden.
It’s older than that. And considerably harder to explain. I first heard about it from Uncle Toby McCarley, who knew more about Dugger Mountain than most people knew about their own backyards.
Uncle Toby had hunted those woods since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, and he’d spent enough nights outdoors to know the difference between a screech owl and a bobcat lookin’ for company. He was also a man who could tell you exactly how many squirrels he’d killed in 1947, but he couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast.
“Don’t hunt Dugger after dark,” he told me one afternoon.
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll hear things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Things you don’t need to answer.”
Now, that struck me as a mighty peculiar piece of advice. “What if somebody calls my name?”
“Especially then.”
And he went right back to cleanin’ his shotgun.
⁂
The first story I heard concerned two brothers named Vernon and Clyde Pruitt.
They weren’t bad fellows, though Vernon had a tendency to exaggerate and Clyde had a tendency to believe him. Together, they could turn a dead possum into an encounter with the devil hisself before breakfast.
One October afternoon, they went squirrel huntin’ on Dugger Mountain. It was a beautiful day, cool and clear, with the leaves turnin’ red and gold along the ridges. They’d been havin’ fair luck and decided to stay until the light began to fail.
That was their first mistake.
Their second was decidin’ to take a shortcut down the mountain. Now, anybody who’s spent much time in the woods knows that a shortcut is generally the longest distance between two points, particularly when the fellow suggestin’ it has no idea where he’s goin’.
Vernon was leadin’.
Clyde was followin’.
And somewhere along the way, they heard footsteps behind them. Not unusual, you might think. Woods are full of animals, and dry leaves make enough noise to convince a man he’s bein’ followed by the entire population of Calhoun County.
But these footsteps was different. When Vernon walked, they walked. When he stopped, they stopped. When Clyde stumbled over a root and cussed loud enough to frighten a Methodist deacon, the footsteps stopped too.
Vernon turned around.
Nothing.
“Quit foolin’ around,” he told Clyde.
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”
“Well, somebody’s followin’ us.”
“Maybe it’s a deer.”
“Deer don’t walk like that.”
“Maybe it’s a peculiar deer.”
They stood there listenin’.
Nothin’.
Then Vernon took three steps. Behind them came three more. He stopped. So did the footsteps.
Clyde looked at his brother.
“Vernon?”
“What?”
“Let’s go on back to the house.”
For once in their lives, they agreed on something.
⁂
They picked up the pace.
The footsteps picked up too.
They slowed down.
So did whatever was behind them.
Finally, Vernon decided he’d had enough.
He turned around and hollered into the gatherin’ darkness.
“WHO’S THERE?”
The woods went quiet.
No birds.
No insects.
Not even the wind movin’ through the leaves. Then, from somewhere up the ridge, came a voice.
“Who’s there?”
Same words.
Same tone.
Same little crack in Vernon’s voice.
Clyde grabbed his brother’s arm. “Don’t answer it.”
Vernon swallowed. “I wasn’t plannin’ to.”
They started walkin’ again.
A minute later, the voice called from behind them. “Vernon?”
Now, Vernon wasn’t a particularly brave man, but he wasn’t generally given to panic either. He stopped. Looked at Clyde. “Did you hear that?”
Clyde nodded. “Sounded like you.”
“Well, it wasn’t me.”
“I know that.”
“Then who was it?”
Clyde considered the question. “I don’t reckon we ought to wait around and find out.” They began movin’ again, this time at a pace that might charitably be described as enthusiastic. Then the voice came once more.
“Clyde?”
And this time it sounded exactly like Clyde. That settled the matter. The Pruitt brothers came down Dugger Mountain at a speed neither had managed since high school. They crossed a creek without botherin’ to find the steppin’ stones. Tore through a patch of briars. Lost a huntin’ cap. And arrived at their truck lookin’ like they’d been dragged backward through a blackberry patch by an irritated mule.
Vernon dropped his shotgun in the bed. Clyde climbed into the cab. And neither said a word until they reached Piedmont.
⁂
Naturally, they told the story at the Coffee Cup the followin’ mornin’. Curtis Pope was there. So was Mr. Blackwelder. And Miss Lorene, who had stopped in for breakfast and was already regrettin’ her choice of company.
“Somethin’ followed us,” Vernon insisted.
“What kind of somethin’?” Curtis asked.
“Don’t know.”
“Well, how big was it?”
“Didn’t see it.”
“What color?”
“Didn’t see it, Curtis!”
“Well, you ain’t givin’ us much to work with.”
Clyde leaned forward. “It talked.”
Curtis raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s more interestin’.”
“Called our names.”
“Lots of people know your names.”
“In our own voices.”
Curtis thought about that. “Maybe it was an echo.”
“Echo don’t call your name when you ain’t said nothin’!”
“Well, maybe it was a delayed echo.”
Miss Lorene put down her coffee cup. “Curtis, if ignorance was taxable, you’d bankrupt the county.”
That ended the scientific discussion. Or ought to have. But then Mr. Blackwelder spoke. “My daddy used to talk about that.”
Everybody turned toward him.
“About what?” Vernon asked.
“Voices up on Dugger.”
“What’d he say?”
Mr. Blackwelder stirred his coffee.
“Said if you heard somebody callin’ you after dark, best thing was to keep walkin’.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t say.”
“Well, what happened if you answered?”
Mr. Blackwelder looked at him. “Reckon that’s why nobody knows.”
Nobody laughed. Not even Curtis.
⁂
Now, I might’ve dismissed the whole business as a couple of fellows gettin’ themselves worked up in the woods, except that Uncle Toby told me another story. This one concerned a man named Hollis Brackett.
Hollis was a good hunter. Quiet. Patient. The sort of fellow who could sit against a tree for three hours without movin’ anything but his eyes.
One November evenin’, he was makin’ his way down a narrow trail when he heard somebody workin’ the action of a shotgun behind him. That unmistakable metallic sound.
Ka-chunk.
Hollis stopped. He was alone. Had been alone all afternoon. He turned around. Nothin’. Then he heard it again.
Ka-chunk.
Closer this time. Hollis called out. “Who’s back there?”
No answer. He waited. Listened. Then, from somewhere in the darkness, came a voice.
His own voice.
“Who’s back there?”
Hollis didn’t answer. He just started walkin’. And behind him, somebody started walkin’ too.
Now, Hollis wasn’t a man given to runnin’. He’d once told Uncle Toby that runnin’ was somethin’ a fellow ought to reserve for fires, floods, and women with rollin’ pins.
But that evenin’, he ran. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs felt like wet rope. He ran until he reached his truck. And when he finally got the door open, he heard one last sound from the woods.
Ka-chunk.
Right behind him.
He drove away without lookin’ back. The next mornin’, he went back for his huntin’ stool. Found it exactly where he’d left it. Beside the stool was a single empty shotgun shell.
Now, that wasn’t particularly unusual.
Hunters leave shells in the woods all the time, though they shouldn’t. But Hollis hadn’t fired his gun that day. And the shell was the same brand and gauge he used.
He picked it up. Looked at it. Then put it back down. Uncle Toby said Hollis never hunted Dugger Mountain after dark again.
And neither did Uncle Toby.
⁂
I asked him once whether he believed those stories. We were sittin’ on his porch, watchin’ the afternoon light fade behind the trees. He took a long sip of coffee.
“Well,” he said, “I believe Vernon and Clyde heard somethin’.”
“What about Hollis?”
“Believe he heard somethin’ too.”
“But what was it?”
Uncle Toby shrugged.
“Don’t know.”
“Could’ve been an echo.”
“Could’ve.”
“Could’ve been another hunter.”
“Could’ve.”
“Could’ve been somebody playin’ a joke.”
“Could’ve.”
I was beginnin’ to get irritated.
“Well, what do you think it was?”
He looked at me. “Son, I reckon the woods are full of things we don’t understand.” That was all he said.
And for a long time, I thought that was all there was to the story.
⁂
Then one October evenin’, I was drivin’ along the road below Dugger Mountain. The sun had just disappeared behind the ridge, and the trees were turnin’ black against the last orange light. I had the windows down.
The air smelled of dry leaves and woodsmoke. I was thinkin’ about supper, which is somethin’ I do with considerable dedication.
Then I heard somebody call my name. “Jim?”
I slowed down. Looked toward the woods. Nothin’.
“Jim?”
The voice sounded familiar. Not exactly mine. Not exactly anybody else’s. Just familiar enough to make me want to answer. I pulled onto the shoulder. Turned off the radio.
Listened. Nothin’. Then, from somewhere among the trees, came a voice.
“Jim?”
And this time, I recognized it.
It was Uncle Toby.
Now, by that time, Uncle Toby had been dead for years. I sat there with my hands on the steerin’ wheel. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Then the voice called again.
“Jim?”
I thought about all those afternoons on his porch. About his stories. About the way he’d looked at me when he told me not to answer voices on Dugger Mountain after dark.
And I did exactly what he’d advised. I put the car in gear. And drove away. I didn’t look back. Didn’t stop at the Coffee Cup.
Didn’t tell anybody until several days later. And when I finally mentioned it to Mr. Blackwelder, he listened without interruptin’.
Then he asked one question. “Did you answer?”
“No.”
He nodded. “Good.”
“Why?”
He went back to countin’ nails. “Because there’s some things you don’t want followin’ you home.”
⁂
Now, I don’t know what those men heard up on Dugger Mountain. I don’t know whether there was somebody playin’ tricks on them, or whether the woods were doin’ somethin’ nobody could explain. And I don’t know whose voice I heard that October evenin’. But I do know this.
Every once in a while, when the wind comes down off the mountain after dark, it carries sounds a man can’t quite identify. Sometimes it’s an owl. Sometimes it’s a fox. Sometimes it’s nothin’ but leaves scrapin’ against one another. And sometimes, if you listen closely enough, you might hear somebody callin’ your name.
If you do, I wouldn’t answer. Not because I know what happens if you do. But because nobody’s ever given me a good reason to find out. And if somebody insists on huntin’ Dugger Mountain after dark, well, that’s his business.
But he’d best make sure he knows who’s walkin’ behind him.
And he’d better be damned sure who’s doin’ the talkin’.
⁂
