WEBVTT

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Up in the hills of Bath County, there's a ridge

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where the trees lean like they're listening,

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where even the wind don't whisper right. Folks

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around here call it Widow's Ridge, and if you're

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a man walking up there after dark, you best be

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ready for her to find you first. Well, evening,

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y 'all, and welcome back to Kentucky Melody,

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where the past don't stay buried. And some stories

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still walk these ridgelines after dark. It's

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getting close to that time of year again, and

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we're setting our sights on something a little

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darker this season. That's right. From now till

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Halloween, we're dropping a whole spell book's

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worth of tales. Real stories passed down through

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whispers and warnings. About the women they feared.

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The curses they swore were real. and the places

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where the fire still remembers their names. Some

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were healers, some were outcasts, some may have

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never been witches at all, but every one of them

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left a mark that ain't never faded. So light

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your lantern, pull your covers tight and settle

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in, cause tonight we're heading up a lonesome

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trail to a place the locals still won't speak

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of after sundown. This is the story of the Witch

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of Widow's Ridge. In the year 1879, not far from

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the Licking River, there lived a woman by the

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name of Melina Cade. She was quiet, peculiar,

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and too educated for a woman, they said. Knew

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her way around herbs, poultices, and how to ease

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a dying man's pain when no doctor could. She

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lived with her husband, Eli Cade, in a crooked

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little cabin near the edge of a limestone ridge,

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where hawks screamed at sunset and fog rolled

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in like breath from the mouth of the earth. Now,

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Eli was no good, mean when he drank, meaner when

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he didn't. Folks at the grist mill said Molina

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came in once with a bruise like a handprint blooming

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on her neck. Then, one October night, with no

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storm, no sickness, no warnin', Eli was found

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dead in his bed, eyes wide, mouth twisted like

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he'd seen something he shouldn't have, no mark

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on him, no cause anyone could see, and you can

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guess what happened next. They said she killed

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him, not with hands but with witch work, that

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she'd used her herbs and whispers to pull his

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soul straight out of his chest. The preacher

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called it a Jezebel's justice. The town folk

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called it murder without blood, and though there

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was no trial, no proof, they drove her out, forced

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her to pack a sack and walk barefoot and silent

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up the ridge behind her home, the same place

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where Eli liked to chop trees and shout at the

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birds when he was in a rage. No one ever saw

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her again, not alive anyway. It was the winter

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after she vanished that the story started. A

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trapper named Clay Tinsley was the first to speak

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at Plain. Said he was setting steel traps near

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the ridge just as dusk came on. The snow was

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fresh, clean. Then he heard it. Clay, Clay, you

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shouldn't be here. He turned. Nothing. Then again,

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closer this time. Men like you always think they

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own the woods. He ran. Said the whisper followed

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him all the way down the slope till he fell into

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the creek trying to escape it. When he looked

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back he saw a figure in black standing among

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the birch trees. Face pale, mouth twisted like

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Eli's. He never hunted the ridge again. Others

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began to report strange things. Horses refusing

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to ride the ridge trail. Men getting lost on

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paths they knew by heart. Trees bleeding sap

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that smelled like rot. Whispers at night saying

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names that no one had told aloud. But the most

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frightening thing, only men ever heard the whispers.

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Only men saw the figure. Women said the ridge

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was peaceful, almost warm. In 1902, a young schoolteacher

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named Miss Emmalon Waller tried to settle on

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the ridge with her brother. They built a new

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home where Melina's old cabin once stood. The

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morning after the house was finished, her brother

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was found dead on the porch. Eyes wide, tongue

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black, hands clawed like he'd been trying to

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keep something out. Miss Emmaline? She was sitting

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inside, smiling, sipping tea. When the sheriff

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asked what happened, she said she didn't want

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another man here. I suppose she had her reasons.

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Emmeline packed her bags that afternoon and left.

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Never returned. The cabin burned down six days

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later. No lightning, no visitors, just ash and

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a black scorch mark shaped like a woman's bare

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feet walking toward the edge of the ridge. To

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this day, Hunters and hikers still claim the

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ridge holds a presence. They say you can hear

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whispering in the trees if you're alone, especially

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if you're a man, especially if you're angry.

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They say Melina's still up there. Garden her

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ridge. Garden her peace. Garden whatever secret

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she took with her that night. They ran her out.

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And they say if you ever hear her voice calling

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your name, don't answer. Just turn round and

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get off the ridge. Before she makes you a widow,

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too. Now, let me ask you something. Do you believe

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a place can remember? Can the trees hold grudges?

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Can the wind carry a woman's last breath? Or

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maybe... Melina Cade weren't no witch at all.

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Just a soul done wrong. And the land itself rose

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up to keep her memory sharp. Y 'all ever been

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to Widow's Ridge? or someplace like it, where

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the shadows feel like they're listening? Drop

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your thoughts down in the comments, and don't

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hold back none. We read every one, and if you're

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enjoying this journey through Kentucky's witch

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-haunted hollers, hit that like, tap subscribe,

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and ring that bell so you don't miss the next

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tale. We got plenty more brewing in the cauldron,

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and some of them, they get a whole lot darker

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than this. Thanks for listening to Kentucky Melody.

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Where the past ain't never really past, and some

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folks don't take too kindly to being forgotten.

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If you've got your own holler tale, haunted family

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history, or know of a ridge that ain't right,

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send it to us at KentuckyMelody .com. We'll be

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back next time with another tale from deep in

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these mountains. Till then, keep your lantern

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lit. Don't follow no whispers.