Memory has its own way of telling a story. Some parts fade, others sharpen—especially the ones wrapped in mystery. This is how I remember one cold winter night in Stokes County, North Carolina. I was seven years old, and what happened has never left me.
We lived on our family land deep in rural Stokes County, along a stretch of dirt that didn’t even have a name back then. Today, they call it Preacher Scales Road, named after my grandfather, Elder Levi Scales—a man of the Word long before my daddy, Joe, and my uncles Obie and Walter followed him into the ministry.
Back then, you reached us by taking Ralph Joyce Road, a dusty backroad in those days, then turning off onto our own carved-out track that wound through the trees. It was all family land—grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. Folks might call it a compound now. Back then, it was just home, where everyone looked out for one another.
That night, sometime in the late ’60s or early ’70s, I was lying in bed beside my younger brother Reginald. We were half-asleep when I heard the low rumble of a truck slowing down out front. Daddy and Uncle Obie worked the same shift at the plant, and they usually got home around 11:30 p.m.
Uncle Obie never pulled into the yard. He would just stop in the road, Daddy would hop out, and Uncle Obie would go on down to his house.
But something felt different this time.
Daddy came inside a moment later. His voice traveled in from the living room—deep and steady, the kind of voice that didn’t want to scare anybody, but carried weight just the same. He’s always had a deep baritone, the kind that sounds like it was made for telling the truth, or warning you of something bigger than words.
“We saw something up the road,” he said. “It stood on two legs like a man—but it was an animal. It wasn’t afraid. It looked right at us. Like it was waiting.”
That part still echoes in my mind. Not just that they saw something strange—but that it looked at them, calm and certain, like it already knew they were coming.
Then it crossed the road—slow, like it had all the time in the world. And after it stepped into the woods on the other side, its long tail dragged across the road behind it, sweeping the dirt like a curtain falling.
Daddy didn’t hesitate. He loaded his shotgun and sidearm. Uncle Obie came back shortly after, also armed, and the two of them headed out again—into the cold dark night—looking for whatever it was they’d seen. Whatever might be a threat to the family.
They were gone about an hour.
I didn’t sleep. I lay beside Reginald, staring up at the ceiling, listening for anything that didn’t sound like trees or wind. My mind kept turning back to that road, to that creature.
When Daddy returned, he came in quiet. Said they didn’t find anything. No tracks. No sign. No animal. Just empty woods and quiet trees.
He never spoke of it again.
But I’ve hunted those hollers all my life—deer, squirrels, rabbits. I know the land like I know my own breathing. And even now, when I walk those trails alone, I keep a sharp eye and a side piece close.
Because I remember what Daddy said.
And I remember how that thing watched them.
I was back home recently and asked Mama if she remembered that night. She just smiled and said, “Awe, they just came in and scared us, that’s all,” like being scared stiff by a two-legged, tail-dragging creature was no more than a knock at the door.
I asked my brother Phil if he’d heard the story. He said he did remember Daddy and Uncle Obie coming back from Uncle Walter’s house one night and seeing some kind of disfigured woman down by the bridge—not quite the same night, but close enough to give you chills.
That, of course, is a story for another day—and probably one best told with the lights on.
I thought about asking Daddy. He’s the oldest and still has the sharpest mind in the bunch. If anybody would know for sure, it’d be him.
But I didn’t ask.
Maybe I didn’t want to hear him say it never happened. Maybe I’d rather let it live the way I remember it: cold night, quiet woods, something big with eyes that didn’t flinch.
I don’t know what Daddy and Uncle Obie saw that night. I only know they came home with their guns and without answers.
And every now and then, when I’m walking those woods alone, I still glance over my shoulder and think—
If that thing is still out there…
I hope it remembers Mama said it wasn’t a big deal.
Joel Keith Scales is a native of Sandy Ridge and now lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. His work is rooted in memory, mystery, and the red clay roads that raised him.
Leave a Reply