Mark grew up in the shadow of the ancient Allegheny Mountains. All his life he had heard the stories of the mysterious things people had claimed to see in the mountains, but nothing prepared him for the story that Old Tim came down to tell one cold, rainy night.
Mark tells me that Old Tim was an honest-to-goodness mountain man, a son of a son of a mountain man, and the last of his kind. Old Tim lived higher up on the mountain than anyone else. His family was long gone and Old Tim was left to himself in his broken-down cabin. In town, he was known as a rascal, prone to drink and what Mark called “wrassling.” But Old Tim kept himself busy hunting, fishing and trapping his food.
One rainy night, as Mark worked an empty bar, he got quite a fright when Old Tim slammed open the door. “He didn’t just look like he has seen a ghost,” Mark recalls, “he looked like the ghost had beat on him a bit.” Old Tim stared straight ahead, not speaking, until Mark had poured and Tim had drank a few stiff whiskeys.
“Then he started talking, telling me what had happened,” Mark says. “We finished the bottle and had to open another before he was done.” It seems Old Tim had been having a string of bad luck. Someone had been stealing his catches and messing with his traps. To make matters worse, Old Tim had begun to notice a drop in the population of game. That’s when Old Tim realized he had competition on the mountain.
Old Tim had an old shed. It was set a ways up on the mountain, and Tim used it to rest in when he was out hunting. His grandpappy had used it to make moonshine years ago. Tim thought he could beat his rival at his own game and that the shed would make a mighty fine trap. So Old Tim got to work reinforcing the shed and dismembering the old still and setting up enough ropes and pulleys to rig a sailboat. When everything was ready, Tim carefully laid half a deer carcass on the floor of the old shed. He backed slowly away and through the open door. Now all he had to do was wait.
Three days later, his wait was over. Old Tim had checked the shed many times and each time he had found it just as he left it. But this time, as Old Tim trudged through the underbrush in the late afternoon light, he knew his trap was sprung. Even at a distance, Tim could hear the sound of ragged breathing from the clearing where the small shed stood. What ever was in the shed was big – bigger than any mountain bear – and it began to dawn on Tim that he had a tiger by the tail.
“When I was a kid, we called it Monster Eyes,” Mark remembers with a chuckle. “But the old folks called it the Tall Man.” Old Tim knew the Tall Man as much as anyone. Living on the mountain, he knew the legends and, once, he had even heard a sound – a scream – that no known animal could make. Old Tim had never paid no mind to the Tall Man until the Tall Man had paid mind to him. “Old Tim was as crazy as he was ornery,” Mark says.
Old Tim crouched in the grass at the edge of clearing, listening to the deep, heavy breathing as he considered his options. Tim’s trap consisted of a jury-rigged cage made of ropes and old pieces of the family still. It was strong enough to hold something, but not for long. The shed door was slightly ajar and the trap Tim had devised was not visible in the feeble light inside the shed. He had to decide what to do quickly, but Old Tim could only imagine what was waiting in the dark.
Feeling the courage that his hunting rifle provided, Old Tim began to quietly make his way toward the shed. The sound of the Tall Man breathing was the only thing Old Tim could hear in the sun-speckled clearing. Tim timed his footsteps to the Tall Man’s exhalations, and one slow step after another, Tim had made his way the the shed. But of course animals can smell as well as they can hear and, as Tim got within a few yards of the shed, the Tall Man sharply inhaled. Old Tim froze as a snort blasted the shed and the creature began a throaty growl.
“Old Tim had his bark on that day,” Mark tells me. As the Tall Man rattled the makeshift cage inside the shed, Old Tim quickly knocked back a large swig of moonshine from the flask in his pocket. His attempt at subterfuge thwarted, Old Tim addressed the matter directly: “Don’t be crying now, I’m coming for ya.” His rifle steady and his flask empty, Old Tim charged forward and flung the shed door wide open.
Back at the bar, Tim reached for the bottle one more time. “His hand was shaking so bad I had to take the bottle before he dropped it,” Mark remembers. After two snorts of whiskey, Old Tim described the scene inside the shed. He opened the door and a great shadow rose up higher than Tim thought possible. The hastily constructed cage was distended and broken; in a matter of moments, it would be useless. The thing that stood before Old Tim, the Tall Man, was trapped in the cage due only to the cage’s small size and the creature’s girth. As the Tall man began to struggle in earnest, Tim could see that the cage was twisted around its body and wedged firmly inside the shed. The shed’s ancient wooden frame began to buckle as Tim leveled his rifle at the hairy arms reaching through the doorway. In the sunlight Tim could see the caked blood from the deer carcass on the Tall Man’s wicked claws. He fired his rifle, and in the smoke and noise, everything exploded.
Old Tim awoke in a pile of debris that was once his old shed. The Tall Man had freed himself, and Old Tim had been buried under the shed’s remains. “Of course, I asked him if he hit the thing or not,” Mark says. Old Tim had fired point blank, but all he could remember was looking into the Tall Man’s burning red eyes. When he awoke, he heard in the distance, high up on the mountain’s peak, a terrible scream like a curse from Hell in some ancient tongue. He didn’t stick around.
In the weeks that followed, Old Tim returned to his hunting and his traps and it seemed that the Tall Man was gone. But a year later, Old Tim up and disappeared and some folks said they had seen him on the road leaving town, that Old Tim had packed up and left the mountain where his fathers were buried. No one knew why, but some said that Old Tim’s bullet had flown true that day on the mountain and the Tall Man had staggered off to die in the untraveled knolls and gullies. They say that things were peaceful for awhile until Tim’s traps began disappearing again and he knew right away that it was no bear, that it was the Tall Man returned and Old Tim, bold and ornery as he was, could devise no trap that could catch a monster’s ghost.
Mark tells me that Old Tim was an honest-to-goodness mountain man, a son of a son of a mountain man, and the last of his kind. Old Tim lived higher up on the mountain than anyone else. His family was long gone and Old Tim was left to himself in his broken-down cabin. In town, he was known as a rascal, prone to drink and what Mark called “wrassling.” But Old Tim kept himself busy hunting, fishing and trapping his food.
One rainy night, as Mark worked an empty bar, he got quite a fright when Old Tim slammed open the door. “He didn’t just look like he has seen a ghost,” Mark recalls, “he looked like the ghost had beat on him a bit.” Old Tim stared straight ahead, not speaking, until Mark had poured and Tim had drank a few stiff whiskeys.
“Then he started talking, telling me what had happened,” Mark says. “We finished the bottle and had to open another before he was done.” It seems Old Tim had been having a string of bad luck. Someone had been stealing his catches and messing with his traps. To make matters worse, Old Tim had begun to notice a drop in the population of game. That’s when Old Tim realized he had competition on the mountain.
Old Tim had an old shed. It was set a ways up on the mountain, and Tim used it to rest in when he was out hunting. His grandpappy had used it to make moonshine years ago. Tim thought he could beat his rival at his own game and that the shed would make a mighty fine trap. So Old Tim got to work reinforcing the shed and dismembering the old still and setting up enough ropes and pulleys to rig a sailboat. When everything was ready, Tim carefully laid half a deer carcass on the floor of the old shed. He backed slowly away and through the open door. Now all he had to do was wait.
Three days later, his wait was over. Old Tim had checked the shed many times and each time he had found it just as he left it. But this time, as Old Tim trudged through the underbrush in the late afternoon light, he knew his trap was sprung. Even at a distance, Tim could hear the sound of ragged breathing from the clearing where the small shed stood. What ever was in the shed was big – bigger than any mountain bear – and it began to dawn on Tim that he had a tiger by the tail.
“When I was a kid, we called it Monster Eyes,” Mark remembers with a chuckle. “But the old folks called it the Tall Man.” Old Tim knew the Tall Man as much as anyone. Living on the mountain, he knew the legends and, once, he had even heard a sound – a scream – that no known animal could make. Old Tim had never paid no mind to the Tall Man until the Tall Man had paid mind to him. “Old Tim was as crazy as he was ornery,” Mark says.
Feeling the courage that his hunting rifle provided, Old Tim began to quietly make his way toward the shed. The sound of the Tall Man breathing was the only thing Old Tim could hear in the sun-speckled clearing. Tim timed his footsteps to the Tall Man’s exhalations, and one slow step after another, Tim had made his way the the shed. But of course animals can smell as well as they can hear and, as Tim got within a few yards of the shed, the Tall Man sharply inhaled. Old Tim froze as a snort blasted the shed and the creature began a throaty growl.
“Old Tim had his bark on that day,” Mark tells me. As the Tall Man rattled the makeshift cage inside the shed, Old Tim quickly knocked back a large swig of moonshine from the flask in his pocket. His attempt at subterfuge thwarted, Old Tim addressed the matter directly: “Don’t be crying now, I’m coming for ya.” His rifle steady and his flask empty, Old Tim charged forward and flung the shed door wide open.
Back at the bar, Tim reached for the bottle one more time. “His hand was shaking so bad I had to take the bottle before he dropped it,” Mark remembers. After two snorts of whiskey, Old Tim described the scene inside the shed. He opened the door and a great shadow rose up higher than Tim thought possible. The hastily constructed cage was distended and broken; in a matter of moments, it would be useless. The thing that stood before Old Tim, the Tall Man, was trapped in the cage due only to the cage’s small size and the creature’s girth. As the Tall man began to struggle in earnest, Tim could see that the cage was twisted around its body and wedged firmly inside the shed. The shed’s ancient wooden frame began to buckle as Tim leveled his rifle at the hairy arms reaching through the doorway. In the sunlight Tim could see the caked blood from the deer carcass on the Tall Man’s wicked claws. He fired his rifle, and in the smoke and noise, everything exploded.
Old Tim awoke in a pile of debris that was once his old shed. The Tall Man had freed himself, and Old Tim had been buried under the shed’s remains. “Of course, I asked him if he hit the thing or not,” Mark says. Old Tim had fired point blank, but all he could remember was looking into the Tall Man’s burning red eyes. When he awoke, he heard in the distance, high up on the mountain’s peak, a terrible scream like a curse from Hell in some ancient tongue. He didn’t stick around.
In the weeks that followed, Old Tim returned to his hunting and his traps and it seemed that the Tall Man was gone. But a year later, Old Tim up and disappeared and some folks said they had seen him on the road leaving town, that Old Tim had packed up and left the mountain where his fathers were buried. No one knew why, but some said that Old Tim’s bullet had flown true that day on the mountain and the Tall Man had staggered off to die in the untraveled knolls and gullies. They say that things were peaceful for awhile until Tim’s traps began disappearing again and he knew right away that it was no bear, that it was the Tall Man returned and Old Tim, bold and ornery as he was, could devise no trap that could catch a monster’s ghost.
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