VALLEY OF THE CROSS

I was on the rocking chair porch talking with one of the guests, Robert Joyce, a retired banker from West Haven, Connecticut. We had been discussing some of my Stories from Applewood Manor, when Alex Lander said, “Yes, sir, there is some very weird stuff in these mountains.” Alex is an artisan carpenter—one of the men who had been touching up Applewood Manor’s hundred-year-old porches. He was there checking on some of the work done by his crew and had overheard our conversation. When we stopped talking and looked in his direction, Alex continued.

“You ever heard of Valle Crucis? Well, it is a strange little town about an hour or so from here. The name is Latin for ‘Valley of the Cross’. It is where three mountain streams come together to form the shape of a Patriarchal cross.”

Mr. Joyce asked, “What kind of cross is that?”

“A Patriarchal cross is a version of the Christian cross. Some people call it the archbishop's cross. It is like the cross you see at church or in a cemetery except instead of just one cross bar, it adds a smaller one placed above the regular cross bar. Some people say that second bar represents the resurrection.”

That’s when I asked Alex what makes this town named after a Christian symbol so strange?

“There is something about it, Mr. Collins---it has a quietness that just seems to set it apart from the rest of the world. The morning mist lingers longer in Valle Crucis than elsewhere in the mountains. But it is at night when the strangeness is strongest—supernatural even. There is an old stone church along Highway 194 just on the edge of town where they say something that could not possibly be from this world has been seen stepping in and out of the shadows of tombs in the church cemetery.”

“Now, I am not going to say it’s true, but I can tell you a story a guy I know told me. His name is Sonny, and he lives up around Blowing Rock. I have never known him to lie. As he tells it, about ten years ago, he and an army buddy were out fooling around in his truck late one night. They got to talking about ghosts and the army buddy swore he was not afraid of any dead person. Well, sir, Sonny decided to put him to the test. So, he says, ‘I got a cemetery that I dare you to walk through. I heard its full of ghosts.’”

“For honesty, Mr. Collins, I should tell you that the two fellows were sharing a jug of white lightning, but Sonny swears he was sober as a judge.”

I said, “Alex, I’ve known a few judges and drawing from personal experience, I’m not sure that your friend’s comment is all that reassuring.”

“Well, I know Sonny,” Alex responded. “And he can put away some hard liquor and stay on his feet. Anyway, let me get back to my story. The army buddy was up to the challenge because he didn’t believe in spirits. As he said, when your time’s up, it's up and that is all there is to it.”

“So, Sonny and his buddy headed for Valle Crucis and that old church I told you about. When they crossed the bridge over the main mountain stream, things changed—there was a light fog, and the full moon was so bright that it washed all the colors away. It was like being in a black and white movie. Eventually, they came to the church. Its cemetery was bathed in an eerie white glow of moonlight, so the tombs had these long shadows. Just as the boys started to get out of their truck, something made them both stop. Neither one knew what had stopped them at first. They just kind of looked at each other. Then they saw it.”

Mr. Joyce was all ears. “What? What did they see?”

“It was dark, and it was big. It came out of the shadows and was running toward the road. The thing jumped the wall around the cemetery landing in the middle of the road facing their truck. Sonny said it was a demon, a snarling devil dog-like thing as big as a horse, with long yellow teeth. And he swears that the demon’s eyes were flaming with red fire from Hell! And the smell—it smelled of death and filth that spilled into their truck. Well, the boys were paralyzed with fear. Then it started coming toward their truck. That got Sonny moving! He threw that old truck in reverse and spun it around to hightail it home. Only, the demon kept coming. And the faster they drove, the faster it ran! Sonny said it was gaining on them and both men thought it was going to get them for sure!”

I interrupted. “They must have gotten away, since you’re telling their story.”

“It seems that just as that devil was about to catch them, they got to the bridge. Whatever the thing was, it stopped right there. It let them go. It stopped at the bridge, on its side of the little river.”

Joyce asked, “What made it stop?”

“I’ve thought about it a lot. Those three mountain streams that form the image of the Patriarchal cross kept that demon from spreading its evil beyond the valley. The demon cannot cross those Holy Waters.”

Mr. Joyce seemed to be entranced by Alex’s story, but I had my doubts. “Alex, that is a good tale, but are you sure your friend didn’t just come across a very irritable black bear?”

“I don’t know any black bears with the fire of Hell coming out of their eyes! All I can tell you Mr. Collins is that I am not going to be getting close to that church graveyard at night any time soon—not now, not ever!”

Author’s note: A few months after hearing Alex’s story I had the opportunity to visit Valle Crucis. The bridge, the three mountain streams, the old church, they were all there exactly as Alex described them, but there were also friendly people, a general store, and a nice winery. It appeared to be a nice quiet little community. Nevertheless, I would never discount Alex’s story completely. These mountains are full of strange things—some hard to believe and some that seem beyond this world.