This is a free retelling of a reasonably well-known Appalachian folktale.
Content warnings: nonhuman, noncon, m/m
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Once, many years ago, in the hills of eastern Tennessee, there lived a young woodsman named Billy Stewart. Billy had never gotten much attention from the pretty girls back home near Great Tellico. His family was poor, first of all, even by local standards. That hadn't stopped his elder brothers, though, or even his younger brother, Hezekiah. Maybe it was the short stature, or the beardless chin, or the long, wispy blond hair, or the girlish figure that did him in. Some of the taller boys didn't mind those things so much, but then Mr. Stewart had caught wind of that and Billy found himself without a place to stay.
So he'd made his way gradually east and up. He had a way with hounds and a knack for shooting, his only masculine features, and so he'd supported himself by hunting and trapping. In the end, he wandered up into the Blue Ridge Mountains, where he built a timber cabin and settled down with his three dogs, Uno, Ino, and Calico.
About once a year, during a lull in the farmwork, Mrs. Stewart would strong-arm Hezekiah into bringing him news, needlework, and dried produce. Every once in a while, another trapper would come by and Billy would provide hospitality according to the visitor's tastes. Aside from that, his only human contact came during rare trips to town to sell his skins, buy supplies, and send letters to his mother.
Many years had passed in this fashion. Billy was almost thirty, though no one could have guessed that from his appearance. Though he had finally managed to sprout a remarkably thin beard a couple of years ago, his aspect remained deceptively feminine and soft. Time had been less kind to the hounds, who were starting to go gray and weren't as spry as they used to be.
The approaching winter was not shaping up well. It had been unseasonably cold, and game had been scarce, leaving him short of both money and food. His stores had been reduced to miserable scraps of salt pork, roots, acorns, a small half-empty sack of potatoes rather past their prime, and the last of the dried beans. The hares and possums they'd been catching wouldn't be enough to make up the deficit.
On this particular day, Billy and the hounds had been working fruitlessly since dawn with not one thing to show for it. None of the traps they'd visited had been triggered and they'd come across no game. Not even any edible roots or mushrooms were to be found, even as they wandered beyond their accustomed routes. So when they accidentally startled a hare into flight, there was no question of turning back, even though it was twilight and the poor creature itself was skin and bones.
Billy took aim as soon as it fled, but his hands were shaking with hunger and his shot went wide. The dogs were off in a flash and were soon lost to sight. He followed their baying as quickly as he could, down and down until firm ground gave way to the wooded rim of an unfamiliar bog pierced by pitch pines and adorned with scarlet tupelos and red maples set alight by the setting sun.
Here he saw a curious sight. The hare stood still on an up-swelling of firm, rocky ground midway between the hounds and an ancient, hollow oak. The hare should have bolted for shelter, or the dogs should have taken it down. But all four animals stood still, the hounds growling softly but refusing to advance.
Not one to look gift horse in the mouth, Billy took careful aim and waited for his tremors to fall still. His shot took the hare in the eye. Even with their quarry down the dogs refused to retrieve it, even with direct orders. His dogs had always been sober and obedient, and he'd trained them himself since they were pups. Perhaps they knew something he didn't. He scanned the ground and the surrounding bog, but for the life of him couldn't find a reason for alarm. But then it was getting dark. Best not to take unnecessary risks with the animals feeling skittish.
He stepped forward cautiously and retrieved the hare. Acorns lay scattered about in abundance, but he noted they were interspersed with sun-bleached bones. Most were small, probably from birds and rodents. But some looked large enough to be from boar or even deer or elk. He felt a twinge of fear. His Kentucky rifle was still unloaded, and he didn't relish the prospect of encountering a starving black bear with only a flintlock pistol and a hatchet for defense.
The hounds were snarling now, and in his heightened state the sound filled him with terror. He turned to see them crouching with bared teeth, ears flat, and hackles raised. From the corner of his eye, he caught a blur of movement just to his side. Unthinkingly, he drew his pistol and fired, provoking a yowl of pain and spattering himself with dark blood. With preternatural speed the creature was gone, leaving only a vague impression of black-tufted ears, yellow eyes, and the severed stump of a long, bushy gray tail with black-speckled fur.
The dogs were in a frenzy, but still hadn't advanced. Billy scooped up the trophy and stumbled back behind the defensive semicircle of fiercely barking hounds. No further alarming sight or sound presented itself, and he called off the dogs, retreating the way they came. Normally this late in the day he would have set up camp as soon as they reached high ground, but his gut warned him off.
The return journey to the cabin was troubled by nothing but the moaning of the wind, which from time to time seemed almost to voice an indistinct lament. Even so, it was long past midnight when they stumbled exhausted back into the cabin. His rifle shot hadn't left much hare's head to cut off, so he simply hung it upside down next to the bushy tail without further ado. He threw himself onto his straw mattress and covered himself with the quilts his mama'd made him, letting the hounds huddle in for warmth.
The midday sun shone hot overhead before he awoke. The dogs had gotten into the last scraps of salt pork while he'd slept, but he couldn't find it in his heart to blame them. He made short work of flaying the hare and the tail, turning the skins inside out, and cleaning them. Initially, he hoped the hounds could be bought off with some tail meat, but they refused to so much as sniff at it. He found himself giving each dog a raw quarter with divided offal and roasted the remainder from himself.
He suspected the tail would prove rather gamey, so he chopped it up and threw it in a pot with some dried beans and roots and let it boil throughout the afternoon. By dinner time the meat was, if not good, at least edible. It was stringy and greasy, a bit like cat, as he had the misfortune to know from experience. Hungry as he was, he ate the soup up, even picking the bones clean.
As evening wore on the wind again began to howl and moan through the trees. As the sun began to set, blood red on the horizon, the hounds became agitated, drawing close and keeping together. The indistinct whisper from last night seemed to return to the wind, and Billy felt his hairs stand on end like he was being watched. The whisper grew louder and more distinct until with horrible suddenness he could understand the voice.
"My tail, my tail, my tailypo."
For just a moment he thought he could see a pair of shining golden eyes in the undergrowth, but then they were gone.
"Where have you got my tailypo?"
The hounds circled around him, looking out with low growls. He felt like he were in a dream. Within a few minutes, he couldn't fully persuade himself any of it had really happened. He called the dogs in and bolted the door and windows shut and threw a few extra logs on the fire. He brought his guns and hatchet with him into bed and lay down next to the hounds. Even with the fear and paranoia and the feeling of being watched, his eyes grew heavy and his head nodded and at last he fell asleep.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
He awoke to the sound of nails scraping on his door. His hounds, already awake, were snarling.
"My tail, my tail, my tailypo. Where have you got my tailypo?"
"Ino! Uno! Calico!" He unbolted the door and the hounds leapt out, driving the creature before them. Deep gouges ran through the planks of his door. The drying hare skin was torn to shreds, and the inverted tail skin was nowhere to be seen. He had the presence of mind to grab a few fresh logs for the fire and rebolted the door. He carefully checked his guns and waited until the dogs returned, letting them back in when he heard their familiar whines. Uno and Calico seemed none the worse for wear, but Ino was missing. He wasn't too worried about Ino. The dogs didn't always come back right away after a chase, and Ino was a tough old bitch.
He resolved to hold vigil the rest of the night, but gradually his lids grew heavy and he nodded off.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The sound was coming from his window, the boards creaking with each stroke. Uno and Calico stood on either side, growling low but with tails between their legs.
"My tail, my tail, my tailypo. Give me back my tailypo."
"Uno! Calico!" The hounds leapt out as he opened the door, pursuing a low bluish-gray blur in the moonlight that slipped through the fence.
The fire was burning low again by the time Calico came back, limping and alone, but Billy couldn't bring himself to risk fetching more wood. He inspected Calico's leg and removed the offending thorns.
Hopefully, Uno was just finding his way through some thorn bushes as well. With the evidence of his lying ears receding into the past, he could almost convince himself he'd been hallucinating earlier.
Billy huddled under the quilts while Calico lay by his side. A brief struggle ensued, but soon he was fast asleep again.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The nails clawed at a warped-wood gap he'd patched with ash and clay. Calico stood by him in a defensive posture, lips drawn back a mind growling.
"My tail, my tail, my tailypo," the voice sighed through the unsealed crack, "I'm coming to get my tailypo." Immediately Calico was off the bed, barking and snapping at the hole.
"Heel!" Billy said. He couldn't lose another hound to who knows what fate. Whatever it was, they needed to face it together. Calico fell back to his side as he stepped from the bed. Together they listened as the nails ran slowly around the side of the cabin. Billy crept toward the door, step by careful unshod step, silently withdrew the bolt, and leveled his rifle. When the dragging nails were close enough he jerked the door open. Slitted yellow orbs looked up from the darkness, but before even he could pull the trigger Calico flew past him.
"No! Calico! Heel!" But the eyes were gone, pursued by the hound despite his pleas. In terror, Billy barred the door and blocked the gap in the wall with a heavy chest. He put on his boots, and gathered together his hatchet, hunting knife, and hammer. He checked and rechecked his guns. Dawn couldn't be far off. He prayed unceasingly for it to come. He would find his dogs and carry what he could and he would leave and never come back.
He was only half-asleep when the powdery sound of water on dying embers jerked him awake. The last, faint red glow of the fire was out in the twinkle of an eye and the room was plunged into pitch darkness. His palms were slick with sweat and he could feel his heart beating fast in his chest. His eyes flicked impotently from side to side, searching for light or movement.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
