Old Woolly quit patrolling Wolf Hill on Redbone Road almost 75 years ago, which is about the same time James Muirhead was born in a house almost within sight of where he now lives.

From the time he was a child, he heard stories about the supernatural beast that many swore was real and others thought was just a tall tale, but there were those living along the route and nearby who would insist they had personal encounters with him.

So when James needed a name for the private road that goes not only to his house but also to the homes of his son and granddaughter, he had the idea of naming it for the legendary animal.

“Somebody suggested Memory Lane,” James said, but he took one of his favorite memories and gave it a permanent place in the community’s history. Four generations of his family now live on the ridge that is part of Old Woolly’s domain, and they’ve all heard the stories.

Thus the name “Old Woolly Ridge.”

Legend says he was seen only on the east side of the road, starting at the bottom of the hill about where Mary Jo Blackwell lives, and going to the top about at the home of C.J. and Lula Cogan. In the early 1900s the road was narrow, between deep banks, the limbs from the treelined banks making it almost a tunnel, sunlight breaking through only where a lane led to a house.

Though Old Woolly was more like a big black shaggy dog, the incline was always known as Wolf Hill. And whether anyone thought Old Woolly was real or not, many who grew up in the community, such as Mr. Romey Hullum and Aunt Malena Foster, agreed that something on the hill always spooked the horses. Even B.L.C. Wailes, an internationally known scientist who lived in the community, wrote in his diary in the 1850s, “After passing Redbone in going up the hill one of the horses balked ….”

Was it because of Old Woolly?

Possibly. There was definitely something that lurked in the shadows that spooked both man and beast and made mean dogs whimper. It was said that the furry animal loped alongside horses or wagons on a moonlight night, but the only distinct features you could make out were his eyes. Some said they looked like coals of fire.

There’s probably no one today who remembers seeing Old Woolly, and the late Mrs. Elnora Friar said he hadn’t made an appearance since about 1940, but his memory to her in an interview 40 years later was still very, very vivid.

She grew up at the bottom of Wolf Hill, married Leslie Friar and spent most of her life in a home on a ridge that ran parallel to the hill. The Friars owned most of the land in the area, and Mrs. Friar recalled that her husband’s aunts Miss Liz and Miss Ann had a pack of dogs that “would eat you up. Before anybody started down to the house, they had better stop at the road and call” for someone to come out and control the hounds.

One night Miss Ann was walking home with another sister, Rachael, whom she called Bike, after visiting a neighbor. Miss Ann saw Old Woolly and walked a little faster to catch up with Bike. Both saw the mysterious creature and tried to sic the dogs on him, but the normally ferocious animals just tucked their tails between their legs, ran under the house and whimpered as if they had been whipped.

On another occasion the Friars’ brother-in-law, Andrew Acuff, was riding his horse up to Miss Liz’s when Old Woolly chased him all the way from the bottom of the hill. When Acuff got to the yard fence, he left his horse unattended, jumped the gate and yelled, “Open the door, Miss Liz, I’m coming in” Acuff said he had run the horse as fast as he could, but Old Woolly stayed right alongside without any apparent effort.

Once, Mrs. Friar said, Lawrence Rollison shot at Old Woolly point blank from his horse while the animal was practically beneath his feet — but no bullet fazed Old Woolly,

Aunt Nubby Acuff, Mrs. Friar said, often heard Old Woolly on her porch at night, but he was never seen in the daytime, and he never harmed anyone — though he might make one hurt himself. Hunting dogs were known to yelp as if they were in pain, turn tail and run home while in the middle of a hunt.

Gordon Cotton is an author and historian who lives in Vicksburg.

Speed supposedly meant nothing to the critter. It seemed to run effortlessly and then just disappear near the top of the hill. He was never seen going back down the hill, only making the ascent.

Mrs. Friar, who saw Old Woolly several times as a girl and as a young lady, said he made no sound, such as barking. One time they saw him while opening the gate to the house, and later Miss Ann asked Leslie Friar what he would have done had they encountered him along the road.

“I’d have just left Elnora right there,” he laughed, but his wife interrupted, “I don’t know about that. I’m pretty good at running, too.”

Some had the idea you could get rid of Old Woolly, Mrs. Friar said, through a sort of “exorcism.”

“If you had the nerve, all you had to do was ask him what he wanted, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. But I never heard of anyone who had the nerve.”

There were other stories, tales of Old Woolly jumping into a wagon and taking a ride and running alongside a horse or wagon with no effort or getting tired or panting.

Mrs. Friar said stories of Old Woolly kept her children and grandchildren good when they were small, but he seems to have abandoned his watch years ago.

James Muirhead, who knew Mrs. Friar and heard the stories she told and those recounted by others, said the last appearance he has heard of was one of terrified hunting dogs. It happened when he was a child.

“I’ve been told that my daddy (Ed Muirhead) and some others heard the dogs barking, thought they had treed something and went to see, only to meet the dogs running back up the hill to the house.”

Though Old Woolly hasn’t been seen since, one never can tell when he might come back.

What would James do if he did?

“Probably run.”

And if he should return, Old Woolly has his very own address Old Woolly Ridge.

There’s probably not another one anywhere else.