Introduction: My grandmother, Leona Green, loved sharing stories, tall tales, history, and folklore from the Mountains of Tennessee, where she grew up. Whenever we visited her, she would captivate us with her storytelling. She was a master at spinning tales. Below is one of my favorites, based on a true story. –JC Bowman

In the heart of what we now revere as the Cherokee National Forest, where gnarled trees twist like the fingers of specters and the hills loom with an air of forgotten tales, there exists a place known as Big Frog Mountain. Here, it is said, a witch holds dominion over the shadows. As dusk descends, the haunting apparition of a girl emerges, beckoning the audacious to a cabin that flickers into existence only beneath the cloak of night, disappearing as the first light of dawn breaks.

This haunting narrative stretches back to the mid-1800s, when a woman named Narcissus lived in seclusion at the edge of town, shunned and feared. A hermit enshrouded in mystery, she became the focus of dark suspicions as a series of infant deaths cast a pall over the nearby communities. Whispers of witchcraft and sinister forces coiled around her like the tendrils of fog that creep through the woods, feeding the townsfolk’s paranoia.

One fateful night, spurred by a tempest of fear and rage, the villagers descended upon her modest cabin. They dragged her from her sanctuary, an inferno igniting around her, and as the flames clawed at the sky, her anguished cries pierced the stillness of the night. Her last words, a curse upon the mountain, entwined her spirit with the land forevermore.

Now, on nights when the moon hangs heavy and luminous, intrepid hikers speak of flickering lights dancing among the trees. Those who dare to follow these ethereal beacons find themselves drawn to the cabin, aglow with an uncanny luminescence. Yet, as they step closer, the cabin dissolves into the night, leaving only the chilling echoes of Narcissus’s laughter to linger in the air.

Some assert that the spectral girl who lures the unwary is none other than Narcissus herself, cloaked in childhood guise, seeking companionship and ensnaring those who trespass upon her cursed domain. Skeptics, however, dismiss the tale as mere folklore—an amalgamation of regional whispers, perhaps inspired by an old farmhouse long since surrendered to time and memory.

Yet Big Frog Mountain endures as a beacon for ghost hunters and thrill-seekers alike. As twilight descends, the modern homes encircling the mountain fade into obscurity, and the land reclaims its ancient essence. Those who venture into the woods often find themselves disoriented, wandering among trees that seem to shift and sway, guiding them ever closer to the accursed cabin. Locals recount chilling tales of those who entered the woods, never to return, their fates woven into the fabric of the mountain’s dark history.

On one fateful night, a group of friends, emboldened by the legend, set forth to unravel its mysteries. Armed with flashlights and a reckless bravado, they traversed the darkness, convinced they would unveil the truth lurking in the shadows.

As they approached Big Frog Mountain, the air thickened, the temperature plummeting as if the very essence of the mountain breathed upon them. Suddenly, flickering lights materialized in the distance, dancing like will-o’-the-wisps. Giddy with excitement, they followed the lights, their laughter ringing out into the stillness.

But as they pressed deeper into the woods, their mirth faded into an oppressive silence. The lights flickered and vanished, plunging them into an abyss of darkness. Panic seized them as they scrambled for a way back, the trees closing in, whispering secrets of ages past. A child’s voice, soft yet commanding, drifted through the hollows, calling them, promising warmth and solace.

In a desperate bid, they moved toward the sound, their flashlights sputtering, fading like their hope. At last, they stumbled upon what they believed to be the cabin, a spectral figure emerging from the shadows—a girl with hollow, sorrowful eyes. Narcissus’s spirit stood before them, her curse alive and potent, ensnaring the unwary souls.

Realization dawned too late; they had become part of her legend. The lights extinguished, the girl smiled — a haunting, ethereal grin—and the cabin melted into the night, leaving only the chilling wind and the heavy silence of Big Frog Mountain. As dawn broke, the mountain stood resolute and silent, a guardian of its secrets and an eternal keeper of the souls lost to its shadowy embrace.

JC Bowman is the Executive Director of Professional Educators of Tennessee and the Contributing Editor of TriStar Daily.