Haint Holler, Horsepen
My grandfather grew up in the small coal mining town of Horsepen. In that town there were a few hollars, little valleys where families could settle down. These people protected their land, but one hollar on coal company land seemed to be protected by something else.
It was named Haint Holler because of the odd noises that echoed through its hills. Even during the day the place seemed darker than it ought to be, the trees thick and close together. A groaning noise that could only be heard in the quiet hours of night. When no work was being done, and when one was all alone. Everyone in the valley would quicken as they crossed by the mouth of that hollar, and horses seemed to take notice as well. Many stories were told of them throwing their riders while going past.
One night my grandad found himself in one of those stories. His aunt had been sick for some time, it took a turn then, and he was sent out to get the town's doctor. With only the pale light of a half moon he navigated the empty town, taking the fastest route without thought. Until he came to the maw of Haint hollar. He slowed even then, questioning if he should go around. His aunt needed care though, so he continued. The thick trees took his only light, and between them he hard that mournful groan. The air seemed to stand still. When he was to the side of Haint hollar's deepest part, the sound faded, and he stopped.
A crunch rang out beside him, and through the pitch black he looked. He saw nothing there, the trees and the rocks sat just behind the veil of night. Slowly he went on, all too aware of how much noise he was making. Then in between the sound of his own, two more footfalls came from the woods. There was still nothing, no evidence the noise had happened at all. He quickened his pace, running away from the hollar, but once he was out he looked back.
The light of the moon gave him a new confidence, but there in his path where he had been was the eye shine of a tall figure, lost to the darkness behind it. And the footsteps didn't stop. Now he ran, and anytime he slowed he heard its steps over his own, and the groan that belonged in the dark recesses of Haint hollar.
My grandfather did not dare look behind him then, but he feared the doctors house was too far away. Closer to him was the property of his kin, a familiar place to retreat to, but not a safe one. Resting in the flat part of another hollar was the shack of a man he called his uncle. My grandfather was used to working for him for some spare change, but he knew his habit was to fire his gun blindly out of his one window at any noise he heard in the night. But the noise, was steady, the footsteps were bearing down on him, so he ran towards what he knew.
The moment he saw the house a shot cracked through the air, shattering the quiet of the night. My grandfather ducked, and called out that it was him. After the shot he no longer heard his pursuer, but he knew it could have waited in the hills around the house. The door opened, just a crack at first, but fully when my grandad jumped onto his porch.
The man had some words for my grandad, until he heard his story. He was reluctant, but eventually accompanied him to the doctors house. As they were leaving his uncles holler my grandad looked back just once, and there in the hills was the same eye shine, watching, waiting.
After they got the doctor, they took the long way around to avoid Haint hollar.