The Mountain That Keeps

(A Brush Mountain Tale)

There’s a ridge above Catawba folks don’t linger on. Brush Mountain, long and dark, the kind of rise that carries a weight in its bones. The old timers say a mountain is like a hound… feed it once, and it’ll never stop coming back. But when you feed it blood, you’ve made a pact you can’t unmake.

In May of 1971, a small plane cut through the clouds over that ridge. In it was Audie Murphy, soldier, actor, hero; a man who carried more medals than his coat could bear, a man who walked through fire overseas and came out breathing when others did not. Folks liked to say he had death by the collar. But on that fog-thick morning, Brush Mountain decided otherwise. The plane hit the slope hard, tore open trees, and burned hot enough to scorch the stones. All aboard were gone in a heartbeat.

The sheriff’s men hauled what they could out, but the mountain kept the rest. Kept the smoke, kept the screams, kept the shadow of it all.

—

Porch Talk

Years later, if you sat on Cal Dempsey’s porch of an evening, he’d tell it plain.

“Brush Mountain ain’t right,” he’d say, rocking slow, his lantern throwing shadows across the boards. “That ridge pulled Murphy down same as a snapping turtle pulls under a duck. Weren’t no accident. Mountain drew in breath, filled the air with fog, and swallowed him whole.”

Somebody would laugh, usually a young’un visiting from town. Cal would just spit and shake his head. “You think I’m telling jokes? Ask the hunter heard an engine coughin’ overhead on a clear night, no plane in sight. Ask the woman seen a row of soldiers in the mist, marchin’ quiet along the slope, uniforms gray as ashes, and then*poof* gone into the brush. Ask the boys who dared each other to sleep by the memorial stone. Not one lasted till midnight. Said the ground was too restless, like it wanted to roll over under ‘em.”

—

The Memorial

They put up a granite block where the plane went down, carved a bronze plaque on it so strangers would know the tale. But the locals will tell you the real memorial is the hush in the clearing. Birds fall silent, cicadas choke off mid-song, even the trees stop creaking. Step into that stillness, and you’ll feel the mountain watching.

Coins and trinkets gather at the base of the stone. Pennies, nickels, army patches, toy soldiers, even a faded pack of Lucky Strikes once. They aren’t offerings to Audie Murphy himself. No, those are gifts to the mountain, bargains struck so you’ll walk back down safe.

There’s a saying in the Blue Ridge: A sudden death makes a shadow that never fades. Brush Mountain is fat with such shadows, and Murphy’s is the heaviest.

—

My Walk

I climbed it once, curious or foolish. The trail was quiet, gravel underfoot, trees crowding close. When I reached the stone, the air thickened like syrup. No birds. No insects. Just a silence heavy enough to press against my chest.

I set a coin down. My hand shook doing it. And I swear before heaven that a figure stood just beyond the tree line… cap low, hand resting on the granite. His outline wavered, like smoke. His eyes were hollows, watching. Then the wind moved and he was gone, or folded deeper into the mountain’s skin.

The silence broke in a rush. Cicadas screamed. A crow barked. I turned and left fast as I dared, not looking back until the trail bent away.

—

The Warning

Cal told it best the last time I saw him, pipe glowing in his teeth.

“Folks think that memorial’s a monument. But what it really is, is a doorstop. Keeps the mountain from swallowin’ the rest of us whole. You don’t mock it. You don’t linger after dark. And you sure as hell don’t walk up there without bringin’ payment. Remember; what the mountain takes, it never gives back. Not in this world, nor the next.”

And the lantern would flicker, and the shadows would stretch long, and you’d know in your bones that every word he spoke was true.