don’t know. I can’t get access to medical files.”
“Children die. It could mean nothing.”
“Or it could mean something.”
“How did you learn about his death?”
“I have my ways.”
“When are you going?”
“Plan to be there by eight A.M. ”
I thought of the reaming I’d get from Larabee. And of the damage Strike might do should additional evidence or remains still lie on that mountain.
Digging a small spiral from my purse. “Give me directions.”
Strike did. I jotted them.
“Do nothing until I arrive,” I said. “And bring the recording.”
“Never hurts to say please.”
The line went dead.
I sat a moment, iPhone warm in my hand. Was Strike onto something? Had one of Teague’s parents harmed Eli? Had one of them killed Cora then tossed her body from the overlook?
Or was I being drawn into a lunacy that existed only in the mind of Hazel Strike?
I didn’t want to go to that mountain.
But something told me that not going would be a big, big mistake.
I made a decision.
Thumbed a button on my mobile and waited.
I n the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, on the border between Burke and Caldwell counties, a hunk of igneous and metamorphic rock buckles up from the lush greenery of the Pisgah National Forest. As summits go, the buckle isn’t all that impressive, 2,600 feet high and a mile and a half long. But the wee peak has inspired Cherokee myths, folk legends, scientific studies, websites, YouTube footage, a modest tourist industry, and at least one popular song. It appears on every list of haunted sites in North America. All because of oddball lights.
For centuries, mysterious illuminations have been observed above and on Brown Mountain. According to eyewitness accounts, the small fiery orbs appear, rise to a fair height, then vanish below the ridgeline. Hundreds have reported seeing the lights, including locals, visitors, and those who have traveled to North Carolina for just that purpose.
Theories abound. The reflection of fires at moonshine stills. Swamp gas. Lantern-bearing Cherokee widows searching for the souls of husbands lost in battle.
The “ghost lights” have merited two investigations by the United States Geological Survey, the first in 1913, another in 1922. Official reports attributed the phenomenon to locomotives, cars, and occasional brush fires. Many folks don’t buy it. Especially the Cherokee.
As I followed my scribbled directions, which were barely legible, I had no idea I was heading to an overlook specifically constructed for viewing Brown Mountain. Nor was I well informed on the marvelous lights. I learned all of that after arriving, reading a sign, and doing a quick Google query while waiting for the rest of the team.
In the predawn hours, traffic was negligible, so I took the scenic route. I-40 to Morganton, then NC 181 north toward Jonas Ridge and Pineola. As I got on the two-lane, there was enough light to enjoy the view. The foothills and mountainsides were still glazed with frost, giving the landscape an ethereal, sugarcoated appearance. As the sun sent out its first tentative feelers, I watched the gaps between elevations ooze from black to gray to pinkish yellow.
Knowing the turnoff was easy to miss, Strike had provided GPS coordinates. The woman was thorough, I had to give her that. And right. I never saw it coming.
Ninety minutes after leaving Charlotte, my iPhone beeped to let me know that I’d arrived at my destination. I braked, cut from the blacktop, and pulled to a stop in a paved parking area. Mine was the only vehicle present.
After killing the engine, I lowered a window. The air smelled strongly of pine and chilled vegetation, faintly of petroleum caught in gravel scattering the shoulder of the road.
Absolute silence reigned in the woods around me. Not a single bird twittered or cawed a welcome or warning. No small creature rustled the undergrowth hurrying home from a night of hunting or setting out for a breakfast
“Children die. It could mean nothing.”
“Or it could mean something.”
“How did you learn about his death?”
“I have my ways.”
“When are you going?”
“Plan to be there by eight A.M. ”
I thought of the reaming I’d get from Larabee. And of the damage Strike might do should additional evidence or remains still lie on that mountain.
Digging a small spiral from my purse. “Give me directions.”
Strike did. I jotted them.
“Do nothing until I arrive,” I said. “And bring the recording.”
“Never hurts to say please.”
The line went dead.
I sat a moment, iPhone warm in my hand. Was Strike onto something? Had one of Teague’s parents harmed Eli? Had one of them killed Cora then tossed her body from the overlook?
Or was I being drawn into a lunacy that existed only in the mind of Hazel Strike?
I didn’t want to go to that mountain.
But something told me that not going would be a big, big mistake.
I made a decision.
Thumbed a button on my mobile and waited.
I n the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, on the border between Burke and Caldwell counties, a hunk of igneous and metamorphic rock buckles up from the lush greenery of the Pisgah National Forest. As summits go, the buckle isn’t all that impressive, 2,600 feet high and a mile and a half long. But the wee peak has inspired Cherokee myths, folk legends, scientific studies, websites, YouTube footage, a modest tourist industry, and at least one popular song. It appears on every list of haunted sites in North America. All because of oddball lights.
For centuries, mysterious illuminations have been observed above and on Brown Mountain. According to eyewitness accounts, the small fiery orbs appear, rise to a fair height, then vanish below the ridgeline. Hundreds have reported seeing the lights, including locals, visitors, and those who have traveled to North Carolina for just that purpose.
Theories abound. The reflection of fires at moonshine stills. Swamp gas. Lantern-bearing Cherokee widows searching for the souls of husbands lost in battle.
The “ghost lights” have merited two investigations by the United States Geological Survey, the first in 1913, another in 1922. Official reports attributed the phenomenon to locomotives, cars, and occasional brush fires. Many folks don’t buy it. Especially the Cherokee.
As I followed my scribbled directions, which were barely legible, I had no idea I was heading to an overlook specifically constructed for viewing Brown Mountain. Nor was I well informed on the marvelous lights. I learned all of that after arriving, reading a sign, and doing a quick Google query while waiting for the rest of the team.
In the predawn hours, traffic was negligible, so I took the scenic route. I-40 to Morganton, then NC 181 north toward Jonas Ridge and Pineola. As I got on the two-lane, there was enough light to enjoy the view. The foothills and mountainsides were still glazed with frost, giving the landscape an ethereal, sugarcoated appearance. As the sun sent out its first tentative feelers, I watched the gaps between elevations ooze from black to gray to pinkish yellow.
Knowing the turnoff was easy to miss, Strike had provided GPS coordinates. The woman was thorough, I had to give her that. And right. I never saw it coming.
Ninety minutes after leaving Charlotte, my iPhone beeped to let me know that I’d arrived at my destination. I braked, cut from the blacktop, and pulled to a stop in a paved parking area. Mine was the only vehicle present.
After killing the engine, I lowered a window. The air smelled strongly of pine and chilled vegetation, faintly of petroleum caught in gravel scattering the shoulder of the road.
Absolute silence reigned in the woods around me. Not a single bird twittered or cawed a welcome or warning. No small creature rustled the undergrowth hurrying home from a night of hunting or setting out for a breakfast
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