The following story or event was told by my late father (James Tony Fugate) on numerous occasions when I was just a lad … Each time he told the story; he insisted that it was a true account of events that he experienced as a teenager.

He was born in March of 1926 so I expect that this occurred in 1940 or so, a few months after his 14^th birthday.  This is not a story that’s so scary it can’t possibly be true, but every time Dad told the story, it scared me just a little, because I could tell that he was sure it was true, so, I in turn, knew it was factual!  

The event occurred on the water shed of Ball Creek which is in Perry & Knott County, Kentucky ending near the tiny remote community of Ary.  The trail that was called the road “up Ball” during that era was really nothing more than a rugged path that meandered through the rock bars of the creek and up and down the sides of the many hollows and hills. 

The preferred mode of transportation was still horse or mule but no one was reluctant to head out on foot in the event that they needed to go anyplace within 5 or 6 miles. There was however, a lucky few, who used the bicycle.  Automobiles were known by the locals to exist, but the roadway was just too rough for a car to travel upon, so folks had little or no use for them.

Be aware that, since Dad told this story in “first person”, consequently, I have elected to use the same format in re-telling it; simply because I think it is conveyed better:

“It all begin near the lower end of Ball where a bunch of us boys had a basketball goal set up in a wide spot in the Old Ball Creek Roadway at the mouth of Lick Branch; it was only a few miles below my home place on Ball which was a hundred yards or so above the ‘Cow Hollow”’ of Ball Creek; for those who don’t already know, that’s just above or beyond ole man Booker’s Place by less than a quarter mile.

My teammates and I had developed a tendency to play ball until well after sundown as the three, no four, of us used our bicycles as a quick method for returning home.  Well that particular evening we played a little later than usual … In fact it was almost dark when we mounted our bikes and headed home.  All of us were a little “put out” with one another because we had lost more games than we had won that evening, which was not the norm. And yes, like any Kentuckian, we took our basketball seriously back then too.

Regardless, it was pitch dark long before either of us arrived home that night.  Now in those days, the road literally ran through the main creek bed and so as to avoid the deep water holes, it often climbed up steep hills and embankments and crossed the small hollows along the way.  

A few of the hills were so steep that we had to dismount our bicycles and push them to the top.

By the time we got to the ‘Cow Hollow Hill’ (here, we had to push our bikes) there was only three of us, as one member of the group lived below me, so yes, two of the guys lived a little ways up the creek beyond my home place.

About halfway up the hill with our bicycles at our sides, we heard a sound so loud it was terrifying! Try to imagine a 25-pound tow chain being dropped repeatedly upon a tin roof . . . That’s the only thing I can think of that even comes close to describing it.  Keep in mind that it was a moonless night in the middle of one of southeast Kentucky’s most remote areas; couple that with the fact that we were all in our early teens and still a bit peeved over our recent ball game losses. So, each of us was quick in an attempt to prove our manly characteristics by demanding, to no one in particular, ‘what in hell is that noise’!   As you might guess the profanity used by all of us heated up a good bit too; as it did, we couldn’t help but notice that the terrible sound of falling chains upon tin grew much, much louder.

The sound seemed to be coming from the very center of the Cow Hollow some 200 feet ahead.  Following a short whisper like chat between us, we all agreed that we had no alternative but to continue in our effort to reach our homes which were ahead of us; not behind us. Perhaps because of our pause for quite discussion, the sound suddenly stopped; we in kind, halfheartedly advanced forward ever so cautiously.”

“Just a little side note here — so you will have a clear picture of the lay of the land in those days.  Once you crested the Cow Hollow Hill, the roadway began a gentle grade drop of about 3° for about 300 feet or so before it switched to a very steep decent (practically straight up and down) for another thousand feet I’d guess, which landed in a large sandy like bottom”.

“Anyway, once we passed the entrance to the Cow Hollow, one of the guys shouted an obscenity that was more of a nervous energy release than anything else, which was followed instantly by the chain-to-tin noise again but frightfully louder than before! Was I scared? You bet ya”!

“As you can probably guess, each of us was on our bikes almost as quickly as the sound had reoccurred and both my buddies zipped passed me before we reached the bottom of the steep hill.

“Here, in this large flat ‘bottom’ housing the barn, a corn field & garden plot, we all stopped briefly to regroup I guess, as my home site was also just around 500 feet ahead, perched upon cut sandstone rocks near the upper end of the bottom.  We headed up the roadway which meandered by my older brother’s ‘Little House’ and the barn yard; then continued along the lower edge of the garden plot overlooking the creek and right by the kitchen door located in back of the house”.

“Both of my buddies whisked by my house without slowing down and I don’t blame them even a little bit”.

“The three of us only mentioned the incident to each other one time (the next day in fact) after that night; more-less I think to reassure each other that it really happened, but I didn’t mention it to anyone again until years later, I don’t think they did either”.

“I’ve never heard that sound again, and I sure don’t want to!”

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