Centralia's Spirits

Image from Jim at Offroaders - Centralia
We all know the sad history of Centralia, where a work crew set trash on fire in 1962 and accidentally ignited a coal vein. No big deal, they thought then. We'll just dig out the burning coal and everything will return to normal.

Wrong. They couldn't put the fire out, and in fact ended up aerating and spreading it. The feds closed the book on Centralia by buying everyone's property, and for all intents and purposes forced the relocation of the town's 1,100 souls. It was cheaper to move the townsfolk and raze their homes than to extinguish the flames which are expected to continue burning for another century. Fewer than a dozen people remain in Centralia today.

But more than those hardy dozen still call Centralia home. Footsteps, voices, lights and shadows have been heard and seen in completely deserted houses, kept by stay-at-home spooks. The spirits tend to congregate around the cemetery - no surprise there - near where the original fire was set.

One pair of visitors saw a couple of figures wearing miner's hardhats walk out of the large subsidence hole just outside the cemetery. As they approached, both of the men slowly disintegrated into the smoky haze surrounding the town. Even eerier, there's a report of voices from the cemetery saying "Leave here" and "Why did you do that?" Are they spirits still trying to stop the work crew from setting the disastrous fire, or are they just trying to shoo away the curious?

There have been a handful of spots reported in the state that are supposed to be portals to hell, but for my money there's only one. It's Centralia. Old Scratch would feel at right at home in the scarred earth, sulphurous mist and scorching heat of the cursed town. They call the blocked off section of Route 61 leading into Centralia the Highway to Hell. They just may be right.


The Highway to Hell - Image from Sarah at Offroaders - Centralia

Anne Coleman & Ten Cent Jimmy Buchanan

Image from Inn 422
The Inn 422 of Lebanon in Pennsylvania's Dutch Country is built on the foundations of the old Coleman mansion, which was razed for the current building in 1880. And therein lies our spook tale.

The original house was built for Anne Coleman, the daughter of ironmaster Robert and his wife Ann. It was a graduation present to her after earning her sheepskin at Dickinson College in the early 1800s. Her beau was one James "Ten Cent Jimmy" Buchanan.

Her father knew him well, having expelled him from Dickinson while a trustee (although later relenting and allowing him to graduate.) Their love grew while Anne's parents seethed. Marriages were arranged back in the day, and James was no fit match for Anne in her family's eyes. The Colemans were thought to be the richest family in Pennsylvania at the time and they considered Buchanan nothing more than a bald faced fortune hunter.

James went to Philadelphia on business for two weeks, and a distraught Anne received not a single love letter from him while he was away. They had been intercepted by her mother. On the way back home, he stopped at a client's house, and to his surprise an old flame was there.

Though James had no interest whatsoever in her, she made sure to let Anne know that he stopped to see her first in a bit of catty oneupmanship. Worked into a lover's lather, Anne refused to see James when he finally came calling on her and instead went off to her sister's home. She was hysterical, and a doctor prescribed some laudanum, an opiate, to calm her nerves. Anne OD'ed on it and died. No one's sure to this day if she committed suicide or just made an error in the dosage.

James was shattered at her death and remained a bachelor until his dying day. He hung her picture over the mantel of his Wheatland home and it still hangs there today. His last wish was that all his letters from Anne which he had kept for 50 years be destroyed.

But the man her parents thought a neer do well ended up doing OK for himself - he became America's 15th President. As for Anne, she's still at the old Coleman house, now haunting the Inn 422. She's been seen roaming the rooms in the B&B, and still does her house chores - extinguishing candles, opening and closing doors & windows, straightening the beds & fluffing pillows. If not for her meddling parents, she could be haunting the White House instead.

Bloody Mary

Image from Gothic Manor
This is an old folktale retold by S.E. Schlosser in Spooky Pennsylvania. This particular version's setting is mid-state, but it's lore that has its' roots everywhere.

Bloody Mary was an old crone that lived deep in the woods making her living selling herbal cures to the locals. None dared cross her, as she was supposed to be adept at dealing out curses also. The townspeople thought she was a witch.

The village's young girls began to disappear, one at a time. The folk searched the woods, the buildings, the streams and everywhere they could think of with no luck. They even screwed up the courage to see if Bloody Mary knew what happened to children. She denied any knowledge of the missing girls, but the villagers were suspicious. Bloody Mary looked younger to them.

One night, the miller's daughter got up from bed and left the house. Her mother and father tried to stop her, but she tore out of their grasp and headed into the woods. Their struggle awoke the town, and the people all followed the girl.

She made a beeline towards a light in the forest. At the end of the light was Bloody Mary, pointing a bright wand towards the girl to draw her to the spot. The townsfolk set on her, and one farmer had a gun loaded with silver bullets. (Farmers were ready for anything back in the day.) He fired one into the witch and they carried her back to town, where they put up a stake and burned her.

As she sizzled, she spat out a curse. If anyone mentioned her name while looking in a mirror, she would come back and claim their soul. Wouldn't you know that some people actually tried that? And true to her word, Bloody Mary sprang from the mirror, tore their bodies apart and laid claim to their souls - forever. They are trapped in the mirror for the rest of eternity with her.

Troy Hill Firehouse

Image from Troy Hill Citizen's Council
Engine House #39 was built in 1901 and dates back to the days of old Allegheny City. The firefighters stationed there served the residents of Troy Hill and their homes, nestled among the slopes and twisting roads of North Side.

It was the last station to use horse-drawn fire carriages and the only one left with an old time fire bell, named Die Glocke Sarah. It even sported a pole for firemen to shimmy down to reach their engines. It was named a historic structure by the Pittsburgh History & Landmarks Foundation in 2001.

But no one told fire captain Don Dorsey that the building was haunted when he took command. He found out the hard way. Blankets were pulled off sleeping firefighters. Window shades went up and down for no reason. The dorm trap door closed on its' own. Footsteps were heard upstairs and on the stairway. Closed doors creaked open. Whenever the firemen went to check on the phenomena, they found nothing.

Spectral firefighters have been briefly spotted sitting around a table playing cards in the basement, whiling away the hours as they did in life. The only identifiable spirit is that of Queenie, an old firehouse dog that still enjoys jumping up and down on a second floor bed.

A psychic that visited the engine house told the firemen not to worry. The spirits – 8 firefighters, 3 chaplains, and Queenie by his count - were there to protect the flesh and blood crew of firefighters and even went out on calls with them.

The station was closed in a round of city budget cuts in 2005. But after all these years, it's a pretty safe bet that the phantom firefighters of Engine House #39 are still on call in Troy Hill. This is another four alarm tale told in Ghost Stories of Pittsburgh and Allegheny County by Beth Trapani & Charles Adams III.

Phillip's Rangers

Image from Mother Bedford
This is a bit of lore from Bedford County from back in the day when we were the wild frontier. Captain William Phillips and a small band of militia numbering a dozen in all were sent to Bedford County to quell an Indian uprising.

They marched on July 15, 1780, over Tussey Mountain and into into Woodcock Valley, finding nothing but deserted cabins. The settlers had already fled for safer ground. They chose one of the empty cabins to stay in overnight. Imagine their shock when they discovered in the morning that they were surrounded by a large band of warriors.

They didn't seem to know the Rangers were there at first, but eventually a shot rang out and the battle was joined. It was a fight the Rangers couldn't win, and Phillips went out to surrender after the cabin was set ablaze by flaming arrows. The deal was that they would lay down their arms if their lives were spared. But the Indians welshed on the bargain.

They separated Phillips and his son – they would be worth something in a trade – and a small party took them away. They eventually ended up as British POWs for the next two years. The Rangers, though, were tied to trees, cut open and tortured, and finally put to rest with arrows. It was a slow and savage way to die. A relief column led by Colonel John Piper cut the bodies down and buried them at the spot.

While building a monument in the 1930s for the men at the site of the massacre, 9 of the 10 bodies were found and interred in a common grave that was incorporated into the parklet dedicated to their memory.

It's said that they relive the anniversary of the slaughter, and the Rangers and Indians show up every year late at night on July 16 to continue their battle. There's also supposed to be a solitary black shadow that watches over the grave whose presence can be felt and sometimes seen. Is it Phillips? Is it the Ranger whose body they didn't find? No one knows for sure.