The following story or event was told to me by my late father (James Tony Fugate) on several occasions when I was just a lad … Each time he told the story; he insisted that it was a true account of events that he experienced as a teenager.
He was born in 1926 so I expect that this occurred in the very late 30’s or early 40’s. This is not a story that’s so scary it can’t possibly be true, but every time Dad told the story, it scared me just a little, because I could tell that he was sure it was true so I in turn knew it was true!
The event occurred on the water shed of Ball Creek which is in Perry County, Kentucky near the tiny community of Ary. What was called a road “up Ball” during that era was really nothing more than a rugged path that meandered through the rock bars of the creek and up and down the sides of the many hollows and hills. The preferred mode of transportation was still horse or mule but no one was reluctant to head out on foot in the event that they needed to go someplace. There was however, a lucky few who used the bicycle. Automobiles were known by the locals to exist, but the roadway was just too rough for a car to travel upon, so folks had little or no use for them.
Be aware that, since Dad told his story in “first person” I elect to use the same format in re-telling it; simply because I think it sounds better.
“It all begin near the lower end of Ball where a bunch of us boys had a basketball goal up in a wide spot in the Old Ball Creek Road; it was only a few miles below my home place on Ball which was several hundred yards above the “Cow Hollow” of Ball Creek; for those who don’t already know, that’s just above or beyond Booker’s Hollow.
We had developed a tendency to play until well after sundown as three, no four, of us used our bicycles as a quick method for returning home. Well that particular evening we played a little later than usual … In fact it was almost dark when we mounted our bikes and headed home. All of us were a little “put out” with one another because we had lost more games than we had won that evening, which was not the norm (yes, we took our basketball seriously then too).
Regardless, it was dark long before we arrived home that night. Now in those days, the road literally ran through the main creek bed and so as to avoid the deep water holes, it climbed up steep hills and embankments and crossed the small hollows along the way. A few of the hills were so steep that we had to dismount our bicycles and push them to the top.
By the time we got to the ‘Cow Hollow Hill’ (we had to push the bikes here) there were only three of us, as one member of the group lived below me, and yes, two of the guys lived a little ways above me.
About half way up the hill with our bicycles at our sides, we heard a very frightening loud sound! Try to imagine a 25 pound chain being dropped repeatedly upon a tin roof…That’s the only thing I can think of that even comes close to describing it. Keep in mind that we were all young, still a bit peeved over our recent losses, and each of us were quick in an attempt to prove our manly characteristics by demanding, to no one in particular, ‘what in hell that noise’ was. As you can guess the profanity used by all of us heated up a good bit, as it did we couldn’t help but notice that the terrible sound of falling chains upon tin only got louder.
The sound seemed to be coming from the very center of the Cow Hollow some 200 feet ahead. Following a short whisper like discussion between us, we all agreed that we had no alternative but to continue in our effort to reach home which was ahead of us; not behind us. Perhaps because of our whisper like discussion, the sound suddenly stopped; we in kind advanced cautiously forward.
Once we passed the entrance to the Cow Hollow, one of the guys shouted an obscenity that was more of a nervous release than anything else, which was followed almost instantly by the chain to tin noise again but even louder than before. Was I scared? You bet ya!
[Just a little side note here: so you will have a clear picture of the lay of the land; once you crested the Cow Hollow Hill, the road way began a gentle grade drop for about 200 feet before it switched to a very steep decline (practically straight up an down) for another thousand feet or so, which landed in a large sandy like bottom.]
As you can probably guess, each of us was on our bikes almost as quickly as the sound had reoccurred and both my buddies zipped passed me before we reached the bottom of the hill.
Here in this large flat bottom was my home site; perched upon cut sandstone rocks near the upper end. The roadway went up the lower edge of the bottom and right by the kitchen door located in back of the house.
Both of my buddies whisked by my house without slowing down and I don’t blame them even a little bit.
The three of us only mentioned the incident to each other one time (the next day in fact) after that night; more-less I think to reassure each other that it really happened I guess, but I didn’t mention it to anyone until years later, I don’t think they did either.
I’ve never heard that sound again, and I sure don’t want to!”
Source …
Originally told a lot like this by my father, James T. Fugate (Tony) during the 1950’s & 60’s
Post Script: I plan to post this little story on my sister’s blog: http://lindaandthestorytellers.blogspot.com/, where you can write and post your very own story for free!
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