In the hills above Pikeville, where the fog drifts slow,
And the river bends quiet through the valley below,
There stands a stone lady with eyes turned to town,
Watching the streets as the daylight falls down.

Her name was Octavia Hatcher, young, gentle, and fair,
With dreams of a family and ribbons in her hair.
She married young James when the mountains were green,
And built a small life where the Big Sandy gleamed.

Then winter brought sorrow no mother should know,
When her infant son Jacob was taken below.
The cradle sat silent, the nursery still,
And grief settled deep in her heart on the hill.

The spring came in warmth, but no comfort it gave,
For Octavia drifted toward what seemed like a grave.
She fell into silence, so still and so pale,
While family and doctors stood helpless and frail.

“She’s gone,” came the whisper.
The church bells were rung.
The hymns filled the hollow.
The mourning begun.

And because of the heat of that early May day,
They carried her quickly and laid her away.
The earth closed above her, the prayers all were said,
And Pikeville believed she was peacefully dead.

But days later, strange sickness swept through the town.
Others fell sleeping, then woke and came round.
A terrible question spread fear through the air:

What if Octavia still lay living in there?

So James climbed the hillside with dread in his chest,
To disturb the young woman he’d laid there to rest.
They opened the coffin beneath darkened skies,
And horror was waiting before their eyes.

The satin was shredded.
The wood scarred and torn.
Her fingers were bloodied.
Her face marked by scorn.

She had awakened in darkness alone,
With mountains above and no path to home.
She fought against silence, against earth and despair,
But no one could hear her deep under there.

The town carried sorrow for many long years.
Her story passed down through whispers and tears.
James raised her a monument high on the crest,
A marble remembrance where she could still rest.

And some say on evenings when spring winds arrive,
When dogwoods are blooming and memories thrive,
The statue turns slowly away from the town,
As though she remembers being lowered down.

Whether truth or legend, the mountains still keep
The tale of the woman denied peaceful sleep.
And above old Pikeville, through sunshine and rain,
Octavia watches the valley again.

Her voice is the wind through the sycamore trees,
Her grief rides the river and drifts on the breeze.
A warning. A memory. A sorrowful prayer.

To listen more closely.
To make certain we’re there.