They say if you walk the banks of the Roanoke near Salem after sundown, best keep your eyes straight ahead and your feet moving. The river twists through those woods quiet as a whisper, and sometimes the quiet is watching back.

I found it in daylight, a tree with a face carved deep into the trunk. Heavy eyes, a frown that sank down like roots. Looked man-made at first, but the longer I stood there the more it felt alive. The cracks in the wood breathed. The shadows under the eyes shifted with no wind.

Old mountain tales say the Roanoke has its watchers. Spirits bound in bark, listening for names carried on the current. Folks claim if you speak too loud near them, the trees remember your voice, and call it back to you years later when you are alone in the hollow.

I didn’t linger. Just tipped my head in respect, the way you’d nod to a grave or a passing crow, and kept to the trail.

Along the river, even in daylight, you can feel the mountains breathing, and sometimes the trees breathe back.