10/04/2026
Benjamins Tale. Pick him up at MorganPipes.com! 👀
Benjamin was 8, the oldest of three, and his family was moving cross-country in a covered wagon when they stopped for the night. He was a good kid — the kind who waved at strangers and shared his lunch with anyone who asked. He fell asleep by the fire one night, and when he woke it was dark. He heard a whistle in the trees and whistled back. He heard another whistle. He followed it. Then another, and another, each one a little farther from camp, until the ground gave out beneath him — a sinkhole, the kind the mountains swallow people into without a sound. His family searched for a week. They found a scrap of his striped shirt at the rim, and a trail of footprints that stopped there and never came out.
He never came back. Not all of him, anyway. What’s left of him still wanders the Smokies.
If you hike at night you can hear him behind you. Footsteps, soft and patient, matching your pace. A little giggle, now and then. You catch him in your periphery — a flash of stripes between the trees, sometimes those glowing eyes, but when you turn, there’s nothing. He never hurts anyone. He never takes anything. He’s just there, following you, waiting for you to whistle back.
