High above the hollers deep,
Where the laurel shadows creep,
Past the creek and through the pine,
Stands a cabin lost to time.
Folks say lightning split the sky
The night they heard her newborn cry,
And the owls all ceased their song
Like they knew she’d not belong.
She grew up wild on Blackthorn Ridge,
Beyond the river’s narrow bridge,
With raven hair and eyes of gray,
Like storm clouds on a winter day.
The old wives whispered at the store,
“That girl’s touched by something more.”
When crops would fail or cows go lame,
The mountain witch would get the blame.
Yet when fevers burned a child,
Or winter storms grew fierce and wild,
Those same folks climbed the ridge at night
Seeking help by lantern light.
She knew the roots beneath the stone,
Every herb the woods had grown.
She’d brew her teas and speak no word,
While outside foxes gathered, stirred.
The wind obeyed her, so they swore,
And black bears slept beside her door.
Even copperheads would slide away
When she’d walk the creek at break of day.
One autumn evening, cold and still,
A miner vanished near the hill.
Searchers combed the forest floor
Till they could search the woods no more.
Three days passed beneath gray rain,
And hope had nearly slipped its chain.
Then down she came from Blackthorn Ridge
And crossed the river’s crooked bridge.
She said, “He’s trapped beneath a seam
Where water runs beneath the stream.”
The men just stared, but followed through,
And found the miner where she knew.
Still they feared her all the same,
For mountain hearts are slow to change.
They thanked her once, then shut their doors,
And spoke her name in hushed folklore.
Years rolled by like creek-swept leaves,
And frost grew white among the trees.
One winter morn she disappeared
Without a trace, as some had feared.
The cabin stood another year,
Silent now and dark and drear.
Then one night a fire’s glow
Lit Blackthorn Ridge beneath the snow.
By dawn the cabin had turned to ash,
Gone as quick as lightning’s flash.
Yet travelers say on moonlit nights
They see a lantern’s distant light.
And if you’re lost in mountain fog,
Or hear strange footsteps through the bog,
A woman’s voice may call your name
Soft as smoke and bright as flame.
She’ll guide you home through storm and pine,
Then vanish with the morning shine.
And old folks smile and softly say,
“The Witch still walks these hills today.”
