Talking crow Black Mountain: A few weeks ago, I had an experience near Black Mountain, North Carolina, that I can’t quite explain, one that feels like it belongs in the pages of an Appalachian ghost story. I was driving to work along a desolate, winding road, the kind where the dense forest seems to swallow the light, and the mountains loom like silent watchers. The air was crisp, the evening settling in, when—pop! my tire blew out, jolting my car to a stop. I pulled over, heart sinking as I stepped out to inspect the damage. The tire was shredded, a hopeless mess. I’m a small woman, not exactly equipped for roadside mechanics, and I let out a string of curses, frustration mixing with the growing unease of being alone out here.
The road was eerily quiet, no hum of engines or signs of life, just the faint rustle of leaves in the autumn breeze. Then, I heard a strange, gargled sound, like a voice struggling to form words. “Heh-llo? Heh-llo?” it repeated, over and over, echoing through the trees. My skin prickled as I scanned the surroundings, expecting to see someone, anyone. Nothing. The woods were empty, the road deserted. The sound persisted, growing clearer, more insistent. Finally, my eyes caught a flicker of movement, a lone crow, perched on a twisted branch, its obsidian eyes locked on me.
I stared, half-convinced I was imagining things, when the crow’s beak moved, and I swear it croaked, “Need help? Need help?” in a raspy, unnatural cadence. My mind reeled. Crows don’t talk. They mimic, sure, but this felt different, too deliberate, too aware. I stood frozen, the weight of the moment pressing down, the crow’s gaze unyielding. Exhausted, rattled, and desperate, I muttered, “Yes,” more to myself than the bird. To my shock, it let out a sharp caw, spread its dark wings, and flew off, vanishing into the twilight.
Barely a minute later, I heard the low rumble of an engine. A battered pickup truck pulled up, and out stepped an older man, his flannel shirt and weathered face giving him the look of someone who’d spent decades in these mountains. He introduced himself as Tom, his voice calm and steady, and offered to help. As he knelt to change the tire, he mentioned he didn’t usually take this road—only a detour from his normal route had brought him here. His hands worked quickly, practiced, and soon my car was ready to go. I thanked him profusely, but he just smiled, tipped his hat, and drove off into the gathering dusk.
Driving away, my mind churned. Was that crow just a bird, or something more? In Appalachian lore, crows are often harbingers, spirits, or guides, tied to the mysteries of the land. Had it sensed my distress, somehow summoning help? And Tom, his timely arrival, his cryptic detour—felt too perfect, like the mountains themselves had intervened. Black Mountain is steeped in such stories, a place where the veil between worlds feels thin, where the woods whisper of spirits and strange forces. I don’t know what happened that night, but I can’t shake the feeling that something ancient and unseen was watching, guiding me through the dark.
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