South Knoxville Spooky Tale
The Harp Brothers’ Treasure
by
Terry Lee Caruthers
John Lawhorn’s squint-eyed stare assessed the landscape. He had spent most of the afternoon tromping through the western quadrant of the woods, with nothing to show for his effort. Perhaps it was time to move on to the eastern side. He wiped his brow, picked up the shovel and lantern, and trudged toward the forested slope.
For the last five years the old widower had scoured the countryside, exploring the honeycomb of caves in the area known as Copper Ridge. Many in and around Knoxville thought John Lawhorn crazy, avoiding this mumbling, bent man who navigated the city’s streets with his pushcart, hawking his wares. What everyone failed to realize was that John’s mind was as sharp as a freshly honed razor’s edge. He was merely preoccupied with locating the old Harp Brothers’ treasure.
Micajah and Wiley Harp were notorious outlaws, who had murdered and robbed in the late 1700s. They had briefly lived in Knoxville, Tennessee and were known to frequent the Beaver Creek Valley, later known as Bell’s Campground. According to legend, the brothers had stashed some of their plunder in a cave eight miles north of Copper Ridge, west of the main road that led from Knoxville to Clinton. While most doubted the tale, John was convinced the story was true and had set out to prove it like a bloodhound on a scent.
Every day after plying his trade, the old man explored the woodlands till dusk. He then returned home, grabbed a bite to eat, and locked himself in the attic—away from his family—while he plotted the next day’s search.
One muggy afternoon in late July, John plunged into a small overgrown hollow, where he stumbled onto a long-forgotten and neglected path. The sunlight stole through the forest’s dense foliage, casting a ghostly glimmer on his surroundings. Dizzied and disoriented by the wavering shadows, the old man tripped over an exposed tree root and crashed to the ground. As he caught his breath and rolled over, his eyes locked onto the tree’s faint, aged scar. John’s fingers reached out, tracing the initials carved into its trunk—‘M. H.’ as in Micajah Harp.
With a renewed sense of purpose, the man hauled himself up and scoured the ancient footpath in search of other trail markers the Harp Brothers had left behind. Some were more obscure than others. Each find energized John and spurred him forward—carrying him deeper into the hollow.
While fighting his way through over one hundred years of regrowth, the woods darkened. Its birdsong and rustle of trees were replaced by the haunting, eerie thud of approaching hoofbeats. He stood statue-still as a swirling mist formed and weaved about him. Through it, a raspy voice shouted, “Micajah! Wiley! Wait!” The old man’s skin prickled, the hair on the back of his neck rising at the familiar names. “No!” the voice screamed. Harsh laughter followed the single gunshot. A heartbeat later, the mist dissipated, and the drum of hooves faded. Once the forest lightened, birdsong again filled the air, and the trees rustled. With a whoosh of breath, John shakily stepped forward and pushed aside the spindly limbs of a stand of privet. His jaw dropped. A cave entrance lay before him with the initials ‘M. H’ etched into its stone.
He squatted down and attempted to light his lantern as firework-like tremors of excitement rocketed through his body. After brushing aside the dense layers of cobweb, John headed into the abandoned cave—lantern in one hand and shovel in the other. Inside, the old man struck the blade of his shovel against the hard-earthen floor, trying to determine the best place to dig. Hitting a soft spot, he dug with a fury, sweat beading his brow and his breaths shallow and rapid. When the shovel clanged against metal, John fell to his knees and dug with his hands until he unearthed his find. The old man sank back on his heels, eyes agog at the rectangular box in front of him.
After hefting the small chest out of the hole, he tried to open it, but the lid would not budge. John picked up a fist-sized rock and pounded it against the top of the black container, working to dislodge the ancient rust that held it shut tight.
Once the lid had sufficiently loosened, the old man pulled out his jackknife and pried the chest open. John fell back and gasped at the pile of gold coins glinting and gleaming in the lantern’s glow. When he grasped a handful of them, an invisible force seized his wrist—ever tightening. John gulped, a battle of wills raging inside him. Release the coins and flee? Or turn and run with them?
Before he could decide, a hollowed voice boomed, “A price for your trespass, maggot!”
The old man closed his eyes and repeated to himself, “It’s just your imagination,” while the snow-cold pressure on his wrist intensified, much like a python’s constricting grip.
“Kill him, Micajah!” a thorn-laden voice growled.
John sucked in his breath, nearly choking.
“No, Wiley. A lesson must be taught.” The haint’s gravelly, spine-tingling laugh echoed throughout the cave.
At a metallic clang, John looked up. His eyes popped at the large butcher knife that hovered overhead. When it dipped downward, he reeled back, struggling against the supernatural strength that held him fast.
Another icy, unseen force then gripped his neck. He whimpered at the pressure, the thorny voice ordering, “Cut him.”
The blade fell, the air shivering and splintering with John’s piercing shriek. As a shaft of pain throbbed through him, he fainted.
When John came to, he was covered in blood. While fumbling for the lantern, he noticed the cave floor was undisturbed. All the dirt he had previously removed was back in place, and the chest of gold was gone.
Despite his weakened state, the old man managed to make his way to the main road before he collapsed. Once he was found, John tried to explain what had happened, but no one would listen to him. They attributed his babbling, outlandish tale and his injury to some unfortunate accident. No doubt, the result of an encounter with a bad jug of moonshine from one of the area’s illegal stills. After a couple of days, John began to doubt himself as well.
A week later, he again ventured into the hollow. John painstakingly made his way back through the old growth, following the ancient markers. As he pushed aside the last stand of brush in front of the cave, his breath caught. Where its entrance had once stood lay his blackened-and-withered, severed hand, pinned to the ground by a large, blood-stained butcher knife. Carved into its hilt was the name ‘Micajah Harp.’
South Knoxville writer and Colonial Village resident, Terry Lee Caruthers, wrote this spooky tale. We hope you enjoyed it, and you have a Happy Halloween!
