Deep in the Smoky Mountains, near the cold slopes of Cold Mountain and the hollows of Haywood County, a name still echoes through the trees. Boojum.

They say he stands taller than any man, covered in shaggy gray hair. His eyes shine like wet stones. His laugh rumbles like distant thunder. And in October, when the leaves fall fast and the woods grow quiet, people tell his story around fires.

This is not a tale of blood or revenge. It is a ghost story wrapped in love, loss, and wildness.

Boojum loved gemstones. He spent his nights digging along riverbanks, stuffing sapphires and rubies into old moonshine jugs. He buried them deep in the forest, far from any trail. Sometimes a hiker would find one. They might take a stone or drink the moonshine. When they woke, Boojum had taken back his treasure. All that remained was a pounding head and a feeling that they’d been watched.

But Boojum didn’t just haunt streams. He watched women too.

He peered through laurel at bathers in high mountain pools. Most ran when they saw him. Some screamed. The men chased him. They never caught him.

One woman stood her ground. Her name was Annie.

She saw something human in his eyes. Not evil. Just alone.

Annie followed him into the forest. She left her family behind. People whispered about her for years. Some said she had vanished. Others claimed she lived somewhere in the ridges with a monster.

But Annie did not fear the Boojum. She called to him with a strange sound—half owl, half holler. He answered. Their hoots echoed through the hills until they met again. That sound spread. Mountain people began calling their rowdy gatherings by that name: hootenannies.

The Boojum gave Annie gifts, gems he had pulled from the earth. She wore them in her hair and kept them in pouches by her side. He trusted her with the only things he loved.

They say she tamed him. He still wandered, but not far. He still watched, but not with hunger. He watched to protect.

When the Eagle Nest Hotel still stood on the mountaintop, guests claimed they heard his heavy steps at night. Sometimes the floorboards creaked. Sometimes a jug clinked in the shadows. Then the fire would flicker low, and silence returned.

That hotel burned in 1918. Boojum did not burn with it.

The story remains.

Some hikers still leave painted rocks along trails, hoping he will pass them by. Others report laughter in the trees and a glimpse of something tall slipping between shadows.

By Halloween, the story takes root again. Children carve their pumpkins. Campfires crackle behind cabins. And someone always says the line: “Beware the Boojum.”

Not because he’s cruel. Because he’s old. Because he still walks.

In Haywood County, the Boojum is not just a myth. He is the spirit of the place. He’s wild and moody. He hoards what shines. He watches from the trees but only comes close if you look him in the eyes and don’t flinch.

He lives where the woods grow thick. Where streams run clear and cold. Where laughter still echoes after dark.

So when the fire dies low and the woods fall quiet, listen.

He might still be out there.