Appalachia Unwritten

There are rules in Appalachia that nobody writes down.

No book keeps them. No preacher reads them from a pulpit.

No sign stands at the edge of the holler

to warn strangers they've crossed into older country.

Yet everybody knows them. The mountains teach them.

The dead remember them. And the living pass them on.

If you hear your name floating from the woods after dark,

do not answer. Especially if the voice is familiar.

Especially if it sounds like someone you love.

The mountains know your mother's voice.

They know your brother's laugh. They know the sound

of grief. Some things learn by listening. Let them listen.

Do not answer.

Do not whistle in the woods at night. Do not whistle after sundown.

And if a whistle drifts back through the trees, cold as moonlight,

sharp as a knife, do not whistle again.

You do not know what heard you.

You do not know what answered.

If you hear a baby crying deep among the ridges,

leave it be. The mountains have buried children.

The mountains remember sorrow. If something sounds human,

that does not mean it is and it can steal any voice.

There are older things that can steal much more.

Pay attention when the woods go silent.

When the birds stop singing.

When even the wind seems afraid to move.

Silence is not empty. Silence is a warning.

Every creature around you knows something

you have not learned yet.

Do not follow lights wandering where no road runs.

Do not chase lanterns through fog-filled hollers.

Do not call out to things you cannot see.

The dark has ears. And some listeners are patient.

If there's a knock at your door long after midnight,

don't rush to answer. Look first.

Look carefully. Count the eyes. Look at the face.

Count the shadows. Listen to the voice.

Does something seem off? Is something not right?

Ask yourself why anyone would be standing outside

at that hour. Not everything seeking entrance

belongs inside. Mimics want to be inside with you.

Close your curtains. Lock your doors. Keep the

porch light burning. A little faith never hurts.

A little caution never hurts more.

Don't enter abandoned houses. And if you do,

take nothing. Leave everything where you found it.

Dust remembers. Wood remembers.

Old places hold grief the way churches hold hymns.

Some belongings would rather stay buried.

If you find stacked stones in the woods, leave them.

If you find bundles, leave them. If you find bottles,

altars, charms, or strange things hanging from trees,

leave them. Not everything is meant for you.

Not every trail is yours to walk.

Not every message is yours to read.

Remember this: people have lived in these mountains

for fifteen thousand years. Or longer. Long enough to learn respect.

Long enough to learn fear. Long enough to understand

that the world is wider and stranger than most folks care to admit.

There were people here before your family came.

Before the roads. Before the mines.

Before the churches. Before the names on the maps.

And there were other things too. Watching. Waiting.

Keeping to the deep places. Respect them.

Hold them at bay. Do not invite them closer.

Do not trust them. And never mistake their silence

for kindness. Because these mountains are older

than memory, older than language, older than the stories

we tell to make sense of the dark. They stood before us.

They will stand after us. And on certain nights,

when the fog settles low and the forests breathe

like sleeping ancients, you may feel a pair of unseen eyes

following you home. When that happens, walk faster.

Don't look back.

Don't answer when your name is called. Lock the door.

Draw the curtains.

Say your prayers.

And remember the oldest rule of Appalachia unwritten:

Out there, beyond the porch light, beyond the last fence post,

beyond the sound of human voices, you are not the hunter.

You are not the master. You are not even a guest.

You are prey.