Echoes of Appalachia

Halloween in the mountains had a feeling all its own. The air turned sharp with the smell of wood smoke, and leaves crunched under our feet like dry cornflakes. The hills of Marshall, North Carolina, stood dark and close around us, their ridges holding secrets that only children and old folks could sense. I grew up tucked away in one of those hollers, where life was simple and hard all at once. Folks worked the land, raised gardens, and stretched every dollar till it near split. Even so, when Halloween came around, we found a way to make it something special.

My Mama never needed store costumes or fancy supplies. She would sit me and my brothers down by the kerosene lamp, pull out her old makeup tin, and start painting. Her brushes were worn, and her reds and blacks had long faded, yet somehow, she could turn us into ghosts, hobos, and witches that looked fit for a movie. We wore old shirts with holes, pants patched at the knees, and shoes that had walked far more miles than they were meant to. That became our disguise, and we wore it proud.

Before we left the house, we’d grab paper bags from the kitchen drawer. They were the same ones that once held flour or sugar, and we would draw on them with bits of broken crayon or pencil stubs. Crooked pumpkins, lopsided cats, a ghost or two. Those bags would be our candy sacks, though candy seldom filled them full.

When the sun dipped behind the ridge, we set out down the dirt road that wound through our holler. The night came quick in those mountains, and the only light we had came from the moon and the glow of porch lamps far apart. The road stretched out like a long ribbon of dust and shadow. We could hear dogs barking off in the distance and the crunch of our own feet as we walked from house to house.

Each door we knocked on opened with a smile. Folks who had a little would share what they could. Sometimes we got a handful of Tootsie Rolls, maybe a piece of hard candy wrapped in crinkly paper. Every bite tasted like a feast. One year, we stopped at a small house where a man answered with a kind grin and told us he had no candy. We figured we’d move along, yet he disappeared inside and came back with something that took us by surprise. Each of us got a potato. To anyone else, that might sound strange, though to us, that was worth more than gold. A potato meant a meal, and meals meant comfort. Another house handed out cans of corn and beans, and we carried them home like treasure from a king’s table.

We didn’t feel cheated. We felt rich. Those small things meant our bellies would stay full for another night, and they came with laughter and kindness from neighbors who understood our lives.

When Halloween fell on a school night, the older boys in the community made sure no one worried about the next morning. They would sneak out late and cut trees across the road so the school bus couldn’t pass. By dawn, the driver would turn around, and the news would spread quick. The children of our holler had earned an extra day of freedom. Parents might shake their heads, yet a smile always followed. Everyone knew those boys meant no harm. It was mountain mischief, plain and simple.

By the time we made our way home, our paper bags were soft from the night air, our fingers sticky from candy, and our legs tired from miles of walking. The smell of burning wood met us before we reached the porch. Inside, the fire crackled, throwing orange light across the room. My granny sat close to the stove, her eyes bright in the glow. Once we settled in, she began her ghost stories.

That was where I first learned about the Phantom Hiker who wandered the Blue Ridge trails, forever searching for his lost way. She told of the Demon Dog of Valle Crucis, with eyes that burned red as coals and a growl that froze your blood. Her words painted pictures so real that I would glance toward the window, half expecting to see a shadow moving past. Those stories carried the weight of old mountain beliefs, part truth and part warning. They filled my head with wonder and a little fear, the good kind that stays with you long after the fire dies down.

We would sit there for hours, listening to her voice and the hiss of wood settling in the stove. Outside, the night stretched deep and still, and somewhere an owl would call. Those moments made Halloween come alive.

Children today gather candy from car trunks lined up in bright parking lots. They have flashlights, music, and safety all around them. They will never know the thrill of walking through the fog on a country road, the sound of gravel crunching underfoot, and the shapes of trees bending in the moonlight. That kind of fear and excitement ran through your veins and made you feel part of something bigger, something wild and beautiful.

The 1960s and 1970s gave me the finest childhood a person could ask for. We lacked money, yet we never lacked joy. Every Halloween brought laughter, stories, and the kind of togetherness that no store could sell. When I close my eyes, I can still see my Mama painting our faces, still hear Granny’s voice weaving tales of ghosts and haints, still feel the cool wind on my cheeks as I walked that dark dirt road with a paper bag in my hand.

Those nights shaped who I became. They taught me gratitude, courage, and imagination. The best Halloween I ever knew came from the heart of the mountains, under a sky full of stars, surrounded by family and the night sounds of an Appalachian night.

-Tim Carmichael