The Hand in the Wall
Some things don’t leave tracks—but they still come.
The Hand in the Wall
A Bear Branch Memory, 1947
October Bonus Short Story by Misty Hamilton Smith
Mama told this one more than once. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the way she remembered it—quiet and sharp, like a splinter under the skin.
She was six years old, living in a two-room homestead up on a ridge in Bear Branch, Kentucky. Her parents were Ray and Orphie. Poor mountain folk, but proud. Ray was mean as all get out. Orphie knew things she didn’t say out loud.
One night, the kids weren’t listening. They were playing rough, hollering after dark, ignoring Orphie’s warnings. And then something reached through the wall.
This story is true. It’s been passed down to me by momma herself. I’ve shaped it here into a short story—layered with memory, mountain rhythm, and the kind of fear that settles in the bones. It’s not just a ghost tale. It’s a piece of who we are.
If you’re drawn to stories like this—where genealogy meets folklore and the land remembers—head over to my other blog, Appalachian Genealogy. That’s where I track ancestors through petitions, land records, and the stories that cling to creek beds and cabin walls.