You find yourself in Appalachia for Thanksgiving, because one of your cousins is richer than God and odder than odd, and he decided to buy his fine fool self a house in a holler, one of those real deep dark ones where the sun goes down at noon this time of year, and doesn't bother to creep back up the other side of the sky until half past ten... and then it's overcast, to boot, rendering everything the same ashen grey with a little dejected mud-colour mixed in. Safe to say your Seasonal Affective Disorder is in full swing!
And then your other cousin, spooky scary sister of the aforementioned genius, proposes that this year the family oughtta' have a horror movie marathon instead of the annual viewing of O Brother, Where Art Thou? on the reasoning that there's only one child present this year, and him not a year old yet, so it's probably the only year for a long while that the family will be able to get away with that kind of thing, what with future family events needing to be kid-friendly. Welp, can't contest that logic, and while there's no internet connection to speak of out here, much less one up to the task of streaming movies, your cousins combined have an impressive collection of horror cinema DVDs. You would've been content to sing along with Ulysses Everett McGill, Pete, and Delmar, in tight seven - make that five-part harmony, you remind yourself with an ache, and then pointedly avoid thinking about it again for the rest of the night. Alright, so you get the why of it, because these are still the same kin who carried that casket with you; doubtless it's not far from anyone's mind tonight. Maybe a departure from tradition is what's called for, this time around.
Problem with that is, fast-forward to quarter after two at night, and you are wired, absolutely wide awake with your whole central nervous system electrified and primed to leap out your dang skin at the least provocation. How would she have said it? That's right: You're jumpier 'n a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs.
Well, dearly distressed fictionalised version of Yours Truly, I am here to help you diagnose your haints.
The "Hi" Guy - You hear this haint clear as a bell. Maybe you even heard him while it was still (technically) daytime, as you were toting in your overnight bag, or walking back to the house after figuring out how to park your Corolla on a steep gravel frontage road with no room for two cars to pass abreast. Soft, clear, slightly robotic in timbre, a man's deep voice saying "Hi." You wheeled around, and of course nobody's there. You hear it again easily a dozen times, and others in your group agree they've heard it, too, so you're at least convinced that it's not the solitary sort of hallucination. "Cuz, is your kitchen gas or electric? When's the last time you've had the air quality checked in the basement?" You've all been magnificently trolled by an overly chatty raven. Turns out someone trained at least one raven to say "Hi," and that raven taught other ravens likewise, all of them perhaps aspiring to coax a charitable human into leaving some snacks sitting out for them, and now there are whole flocks of these cheerfully ominous corvids up and down nearly the entire range, Catskills on down to Blue Ridge.
Varmints - A good 80% of haints are fur-covered quadrupeds small enough to fit in a bread box. If it's in the attic,* it's a varmint. If it's anywhere trash, food, or compost of any description is kept, it's certainly a varmint. If there's a cat in the house, that's who's guilty of most of the varmintry being conducted on the premises, and the rest is coons and possums. As long as a haint sounds like it's probably smaller than you are, don't fuss yourself about it.
*Bats are honourary varmints. Barn owls are not, but we'll get to them later.
Zombie Deer - Chronic wasting disease made its way to the hills and hollers these last few years, and it's damn tragic. If you see a deer acting like not-a-deer, find someplace with cellular reception (you might need to head up the hill quite a way to get a signal) and contact the nearest wildlife management authority to report the case, so they can keep track of numbers in the area.
Banshees That Fly At Your Car Windshield - That'll be a barn owl. Yes, that blood-curdling scream is actually what barn owls sound like. They don't hoot. Yes, she flew right at the windscreen and only missed you by an inch. From her perspective, cars don't come this way often, and this is just her favourite hunting spot. Ain't her fault you blinded her with your headlights, you heathen! She probably lives in the attic, or at least the near vicinity, so you'll be hearing that scream a couple more times. Show some sense and drive slower.
Banshees That Don't Fly - Rabbits and foxes are both very competent screamers, and the screaming is often a result of the former being hunted by the latter. Don't be surprised if you hear a "Hi" soon after; ravens don't waste any time at stealing kills from foxes.
The Ones That Sound Bigger Than You Are - Wild hogs are nothing to mess around with. Keep yourself in a man-made enclosure if you see or hear obvious evidence of any hogs nearby. Probably not an issue if you're well removed from the Carolinas, but let's not chance it. Black bears are the other thing that fits this description, and while most of them can be shooed off by presenting yourself as loud and aggressive, you don't especially want to run across a black bear who picked today to be braver than usual.
The Ones That Don't Sound Like Anything - Panthers. Authorities swear up and down that Puma concolor is extinct in this part of the word. Locals consider those authorities to be out of their dang minds, ignoring an abundance of eyewitness testimony, prolific folklore, trail camera documentation, and basic common sense about Appalachia being ideally attractive living conditions for a catamount. In most of Appalachia it is absolutely dumbfounding to be told that it is not ubiquitous common knowledge that mountain lions dwell in these particular mountains. I'm not about to alienate my own kinfolk by suggesting there aren't a thriving population of razor-fanged Wampus cats stalking unwary visiting flatlanders, hither and yon. The good news (?) is that panthers scream like a murdered woman only when they aren't about to jump down on you from above! If you hear one, you know not to wander off alone, but you shoulda' known that anyway, on account of our next entry.
Stranger Danger - Apart from exposure to the elements, other human beings are by far the most dangerous things you're somewhat likely to encounter out this way. Anyone who has any business at all being in sight or earshot of the house, has already turned up and been fed, so anyone else who shows up after mealtime isn't supposed to be here. The Appalachian Trail has through-hikers who disappear without a trace most years, and plenty of people go to these hills with a goal of dropping off the map and living off-grid. The isolation and limited hours of sunlight messes with some people's heads pretty badly, and plenty of folks show up pre-messed in that regard. If someone looks like they've seen the business end of a hairbrush in the last few days, likely they'll be as neighbourly as you please, and if they reek of deer piss and have compound bows or long guns in hand, they're just out hunting, though in light of the date, the location, and their equipment, might be happening less-than-legally, so let your cousin know, in case the neighbours are breaking territorial etiquette as well as the law (you would be right to reckon that the former carries more weight around here). In any case, always stay in sight of the house, and if a stranger wants to talk to you, they can walk up to the property line, instead of you going down to greet them.
These are the haints that ain't anything out of the ordinary, who all have some mundane explanation. What of the ones that aren't accounted for, though?
The Hills Are Never Silent. - You know the old cliche in cinema: "It's quiet. Too quiet." Yeah, well, that doesn't happen in Appalachia. The tree canopy is dense enough that the only predatory birds are raptors small enough to dart between boughs, like a Cooper's Hawk or a Sharp-Shinned Hawk, both of which are small enough to be absolutely demolished by a raven or two - a process which is downright cacophonous with avian wrath. Large beasts moving through, even human hunters, either incite no change at all in the ambient noise level (on account of the local birds not being subject to predation by those beasties), or else they incite a great racket. If there's a subsonic rumble of an impending rockslide or mudslide, the woods get noisy with all the birds taking off at once from the trees. What doesn't happen in response to ordinary sorts of dangers, is a completely silent forest... which means it's more than a bit wiggy and alarming when such a silence occurs. Hell if I know what causes it. Probably nothing pleasant.
If you found some amusement here, and you'd like to populate your sleepless imagination with tales of more haints that are, I suggest having a listen to the podcast Old Gods of Appalachia (2019) by Steve Shell and Cam Collins.
Iron Noder 2023, 17/30