Piney Bottom's Headless Hitch Hiker

from Scary Halloween Costumes
Piney Bottom is near Harts, in Lincoln county, West Virginia, a little south of Huntington and located at the mouth of Big Harts Creek.

According to Wikipedia, the town was named for Stephen Hart (Heart), an Indian fighter and early settler who lived at the mouth of the creek. Originally, the town was named "Heart's Creek," then later "Hart" and more recently "Harts."

The Big Harts Creek runs along the Guyandotte River; there's also Little Harts Creek nearby and at least one sizable offshoot, the West Fork. The quiet hollow these streams flow through is known locally as Piney Bottom. And it's home to one of the state's eerier legends.

In the 1800s, there were several sightings of a headless man dressed in black walking the area, especially by the first creek flowing through the bottoms. Another version claims that a ghostly carriage manned by the headless ghost would give people rides.

H&H tends to discount that tale; you have to be awfully tired of traveling via the shoe leather express to jump aboard a spook wagon being driven by a headless apparition.

While a scary sight, the headless dude was harmless. But there's a more chilling second act to the lore.

Folk riding their horses through the hollow reported that a headless black beast, part man, part critter, would jump on the back of their steed to hitch a ride. The monstrosity would wrap its arms around the rider in a death grip (what else?), scaring him and the poor horse witless, hanging on from the first creek to the ford of the next stream.

Now no one knows who or what the creature is, although some suspect that it's just another form of the ghost in black - after all, it's headless, and hops aboard at the same spot that the spirit man haunts. But that link has never been proven.

And it probably never will. With the advent of the auto, the ghost in black reports have dwindled to nothing; maybe cars scare him. But if you're curious, strap a saddle on a horse and take a slow trot through Piney Bottom. Let H&H know how the ride went.

The story is told in "Haunted West Virginia: Ghosts & Strange Phenomena of the Mountain State" by Patty A. Wilson, a noted regional paranormal writer.

Washington Square Park

Hangman's Elm - photo by Srosenstock for Wikipedia Commons
Washington Square Park is among the elite of New York City's 1,900 public greens. The ten-acre site, which also serves as the quad of NYU, is a landmark in the Manhattan neighborhood of Greenwich Village, and a magnet for marchers, the fashionable and the bohemian.

But when the park was dedicated in 1826, its pedigree wasn't all Joe Cool. Its foundations are an old Native American burial grounds, and like many NYC parks, Washington Square was built over a potters field of the graves first of the unwanted and unknown, and later the victims of the yellow fever epidemic of the early 1800s.

It was also the scene of weekend festivities in the mid-eighteenth century, when it was an execution grounds. The crowds would turn out and picnic while the criminals of the era were hung from the elms in the morning and tossed into a common grave in the afternoon.

A legend passed on in many tourist guides says that the large tree at the northwest corner of the park, honored with a plaque specifying it as the "Hangman's Elm," was the old hanging tree.

Unfortunately for the legend, said tree is located on the other side of the now-diverted Minetta Creek, then the dividing line for the execution grounds, and apparently stood in the back garden of a private house during the necktie party days.

Later, it was thought that the park area was used as a formal cemetery, with tombstones and all, for the dearly departed huddled masses. All in all, it's estimated that 15-20,000 bodies lay under the park's greenery and landmark fountain and arch.

So hey, no surprise that the park has become somewhat famous for reports of apparitions walking around the park during the bewitching hours. Some speculate that the spooks are from the poorly buried Potter Field remains, searching for their bones that have been broken and scattered from their shallow graves.

Other stories say that ghostly figures still sway in the breeze from the sturdy branches of the Hangman's Elm late at night (hey, maybe they did hang people in backyards).

The most famous is the ghost of Rose Butler, the last woman hung in Washington Square in 1820. A maid accused of torching her master's house, she was executed for a fire that later investigations showed to be almost surely started accidentally. Her spirit has been seen swinging from the Elm on stormy nights - when else?

Ghost hunters have photos of orbs galore populating the park.

In justice, the karma of the place may be the source of its lore. New York.com says said that “the place just feels haunted.” So one night, after an afternoon of watching street theatre and sipping Starbucks while playing chess, hang out til the midnight hour. Then you'll discover if the spooks are real or not...

Radisson Plaza Lord Baltimore

Radisson Plaza Lord Baltimore Hotel
The Radisson hotel was named after George Calvert, aka Lord Baltimore and the founding father of Maryland. The 23-story hotel, opened in 1928, was built in the Art Deco style popular during the decade and was the largest in the state at the time. It's a historic landmark hotel and a member of the Historic Hotels of America.

How haunted is the old building? Hard to say. It's spooky lore seems to stem from the keyboard of Paul Schroeder, who wrote “A Haunted Hotel in Maryland” for TravelParanormal.com.

One story involved an alleged suicide on the 19th floor, and the elevators’ constant trips up there at night, with no one ever getting in or out of the car.

Another sighting, not reported by Schroeder, is of gangster-type spooks haunting the Lord Baltimore's halls, apparently reliving the high life of their wise guy days.

Guests, particularly those sensitive to the paranormal, have complained of nightmares, touchings, and other signs of presence from the other side.

A long-time employee, Fran Carter, was Schroeder's mother lode of tales. One story is of three people standing in the moonlit ballroom, each positioned in front of a window, gazing at the ceiling.

Carter passed within feet of the trio, even noting the brass buttons and ascot of one of the men. Likely assuming they were checking out the hall for an event, she offered to turn on the lights. As soon as she hit the switch, they disappeared.

She also related that she saw a little girl wearing a long cream colored dress and black shiny shoes run by, bouncing a red ball and going through an open door into the hotel hallway. Carter chased after her, thinking she was lost. The hallway was deserted.

Turning around, she spied a well-dressed older couple in tux and gown. Thinking they were looking for the runaway child, she pointed down the hall. The couple vanished in front of her eyes.

That was on the dreaded nineteenth floor, and that little girl is the star ghostie of the hotel. She's been reported several times as a screaming child in a long gown, crying and rocking herself back and forth. Whether she has a part to play in the suicide tale, no one knows.

If you ever visit Charm City, get a room on the nineteenth floor of the Radisson Plaza Lord Baltimore. You can let us know if Paul Schroeder and Fran Carter are right.

Cliff Park Inn

Cliff Park Inn image from Bestweekends
The Cliff Park Inn, located in Milford, Pike County, dates from a land grant given in 1627 by Charles I when the Buchanan family came to America from Scotland. The one room cabin became the Buchanan Homestead in 1820.

In 1900, Annie Buchanan started the Cliff Park House, named for the 900' cliff vistas the estate offered above the Delaware Gap. During the early days of movies, studios used the Cliff Park as a location because of the stunning view (and the golf course, a popular attraction during non-shooting periods). Many stars such as Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks Jr. graced the resort.

It also has some spooks, many known by name such as Fanny and Big George. People have reported the presence of Walt, the former maintenance man. The "Lady in Brown," supposedly a member of a 1920's film crew, has been spotted gliding down the main staircase, going out the door and across the golf course to the cliff where she was reputed to have leaped to her death.

The Inn's one-time Caribbean chef, Uncle Stew, still holds court in the kitchen. He's been known to throw cans of pineapple juice at cooks he thinks are sous'ing below his demanding standards. In fact, several of the Inn's spooks are associated with the hotel as employees, and seem to aim their otherworldly approbation to current goof-off workers.

The most famous spirit is Sally in Room #10. The stories tell of eerie noises, voices, orbs, seeing her outline lying on the bed and her apparition popping up throughout the Inn. It's said that when you leave the room that Sally will reopen the door if she wants you to stay and slam it shut if she doesn't. So a word to the wise if you're sharing Room 10 with Sally...

The place is locally renown for its paranormal performance, being visited by Penn Valley Paranormal, Paranormal Investigators of the Poconos, and North East PA Paranormal, as well as getting some love in "Pocono Ghost Legends - Book 2" by Charles Adams III and David Siebold.

Another log is tossed on the spooky fire every Halloween with the Inn's "Tales In the Parlor" event, when it hosts stories of local ghosts, legends and lore of the past.

Colonel Taylor's Inn

Colonel Taylor Inn
The Cambridge “House on the Hill” was built in the 1878 by Colonel Joseph D. Taylor, a Congressman, Civil War veteran, teacher, lawyer, bank and newspaper owner, and prosecutor. Taylor was connected enough that his home was visited by Presidents Garfield, Hayes and McKinley.

Now his Victorian mansion, all 9,000 square feet, 21 rooms, 6 baths, 11 fireplaces and three stories of it, is an inn/B&B that's listed on the National Register. The owners rent the four rooms on the second floor; it seems like all the other rooms are already filled - with spooks.

Oh, there's the usual ghostly mischief: people see indistinct shapes, footsteps are caused by unseen entities, voices of little girls and conservations are heard where there are no people, objects are randomly moved around, and beds rock for no reason. But that should be expected; there's a whole family of spirits roaming the manse.

One spirit is that of an impish eight year old boy in a sailor suit who gives the paying guests raspberries and treats the inn's household items like his personal toy box.

The servants quarters on the top floor have their spectral guests, too. The image of a servant girl tripping down the narrow stairs and spilling her tray is often reported. A heavy-set woman has been seen in the old servants sitting room, wearing an apron and tut-tutting; apparently she doesn't approve of the room's transformation into an exercise area.

Women dressed in gowns have been seen on the landing of the main stairway and on the first floor, going room to room through the walls. The three woman are perhaps Colonel Taylor's two wives and daughter; other apparitions seen throughout the inn are thought to be of the Colonel's children. It's a long-running family affair.

Of course, the Colonel has free passage; after all, it is his home. The aroma of his pipe tobacco can be easily detected wafting through the air of the non-smoking B&B. His footsteps can be heard plodding up and down the steps. He's been seen in the bedrooms, checking on people. The Colonel seems to like his house being active and is considered a sort of guardian angel for the inn.

And hey, the B&B's shadows aren't even all human. Samantha the ghostly tabby, a dearly departed pet of the current owners, pads along its old haunts on the third floor, flitting through the walls on its way to her earthly hangout, the foot of the bed.

If you want to know more, you have two choices: motor out to Ohio's Guernsey County and get a room, or read all about it in Chris Woodward's "Haunted Ohio V."

The Legend of Silver Run's Lady In White

Silver Run tunnel photo from Legend Tripping
Silver Run Station is a small, sleepy town, located near Cairo in Ritchie County, tucked away in north central West Virginia. But a century ago, the Silver Run route was a heavily traveled line of the B&O railroad, which regularly crossed the Silver Run (#19) tunnel.

Now the line, abandoned in the 1980's, is a rail-to-trails bicycle byway. But back in the day, its tunnel was the heart of railroader legend.

Early in the 20th century, trains used to roll through the tunnel every hour. It wasn't unknown for them to hit someone on the tracks, usually a drunk who veered into the path of a speeding engine or someone committing suicide by train.

One clear night, an engineer approaching the mouth of the Silver Run tunnel noticed a mist, and out of it emerged a young, distracted woman standing on the tracks with black hair and ghostly white skin, wearing a long, shadowy white gown. In a panic, he hit the brakes, but he knew that he couldn't miss the lady in white, who just turned and stared at the approaching engine.

Just before the train reached her, the lady in white floated up and disappeared. The engineer and his crew searched for a corpse, assuming they had hit her and sent her body flying through the air, but none was found. Writing it off to a hallucination caused by tired eyes and dancing headlights, they finished the run.

But in the following weeks, the same event would sporadically play out, usually during a half moon. The engineer passed on his story, and the B&O officials transferred him to a different line. Ghost indeed!

They replaced him with a skeptic of the tale, an engineer named O'Flannery, a veteran railroader who gave no weight to the tale of an eerie woman haunting the tunnel.

Of course, he ran across her apparition the very night he took over the route, and the story spread after the run. The company told him he'd lose his job if he too was going to pass on tales of a spooked-out tunnel, suspecting it was more a case of tipsy engineers than shadows from the other side, neither being good for business.

O'Flannery swore if he saw her again, he'd run the lady in white down rather than be called on the carpet by his bosses and risk his daily bread.

Well, we all know that he had to see her again. And true to his word, when he did, he kept the pedal to the metal and drove his train right through her.

When he ended his run, his nerves jingling over the experience - what if he had actually run someone down in cold blood? - a buzzing crowd surrounded the engine. B&O workers along the way had reported that O'Flannery's cowcatcher had the body of a woman in white plastered to it, clearly illuminated by his train's massive headlight.

But as he entered the station, a fog covered the train, and when he pulled in, there was no body nor blood to be found. When he heard the story from the folks gathered at the depot, the hard-bitten O'Flannery had enough; he too requested a transfer, and got it without any questions asked.

The company began an inquiry into the Silver Run affair. What came out of the investigation was that some 25 years prior, a woman in a white gown had ridden the train to Silver Run to meet her fiancee and get married. She disappeared after leaving the train; no one had ever heard of her whereabouts since. It was widely assumed that she was the lady in white.

No one actually knew, or at least remembered, who she was, but vague recollections of a jilted bride or foul play on the way to her betrothed were stirred once again.

And the assumption seemed to be a good one. In the 1940's, the skeleton of a woman, still dressed in white shreds, was found stuffed in the chimney of a long deserted house on the outskirts of town. She was given a proper church burial, and after that, she seemed at peace and the lady in white faded into legend.

Or did she? Bikers going through the Silver Run tunnel occasionally report hearing a train whistle and seeing white orbs. And some locals say that on a half-moon night, sometimes the filmy figure of a lady in white can be seen gliding along the old railbed by the Silver Run tunnel...

Legend of Big Liz

Image from Foto Search
It seems that Big Liz was quite a woman, so much so that her legend takes on all kinds of twists and turns. It was never exactly the same in any retelling. But here's our version:

Big Liz was a slave woman who was owned by John Rustin, a Confederate fundraiser and owner of a Bucktown tobacco plantation on the Maryland Eastern Shore in southern Dorchester County.

It was obvious why she was called Big Liz - she was a huge, powerful woman, robust and strong from long days of toiling in the fields. And she most certainly did not share the political views of her master.

The boss thought she was a Union spy working with local collaborators, tipping off shipments of gold sent out from the plantation to pay the reb troops and even spilling the beans as to where his treasure trove was, hidden in the barn.

Rustin had to get rid of Big Liz and her big mouth, but he knew he couldn't take her physically mano a mano. Killing two birds with one stone, he had her carry the heavy gold chest to the nearby Greenbriar swamp and bury it. As a weary Big Liz was covering the strong box with a last shovelful of muck, Rustin struck.

He beheaded her with one mighty swipe of a foot-long tobacco knife.

Rustin buried her body in the swamp without her head, which had rolled away in the darkness. Big Liz's vengeance wouldn't wait to be served cold. It's said that he met his fate that same evening, frightened to death in his bedroom by a midnight visit from a zombie-like Liz, head tucked under her arm.

Fitting end, you say? Not quite. It's believed that Big Liz has never left the scene of her murder.

The DeCoursey Bridge crosses the serene Transquaking River as it meanders through the marshes. And if you want to meet the legend, at least in spirit, park on the bridge, turn off your car, honk your horn three times (others say you have to flash your headlights while beeping; apparently it's a pretty ritualized ceremony), and wait.

Big Liz’s presence will manifest itself. Some claim she comes as a glowing orb, or can be heard making a low, moaning sound. But the lore we prefer is that Big Liz will appear holding her head in her hands. If you follow her she will lead you through the trees and mud to where the wealth is hidden.

But no one has had the courage to follow her yet...because another piece of the legend is that Big Liz still haunts the area where the gold was buried. It cost Liz her life, and no one is going to take it from her - ever.

The Legend of Hessian Thal

Camp Security photo by Patrick McIntyre on Preservation Nation
Now partially private property and partially park land in Springettsbury Township, York County, Camp Security was a POW camp during the Revolution. The prisoners were mainly the captured troops of Generals Burgoyne and Cornwallis, taken during the battles of Saratoga and Yorktown.

The camp was loosely guarded by local militiamen, and it's said if you wanted to escape, all you had to do was walk out. But many of the prisoners actually had their families living in the compound in stone huts with them, and several ran cottage industries while imprisoned.

But that doesn't mean life was easy. Although most of the detainees had no desire to escape - they were treated relatively well there and the British Army life wasn't a exactly bed of roses - many perished in camp.

Especially rough was the winter of 1782-83 when fever swept the prison. Many died, and they were buried in a little dale outside Camp Security.

This became the site of its first ghost story, a poem entitled "Hessian Thal" written by Henry L. Fisher that tells of the specters of the dead German and British soldiers arising from the graveyard every Christmas Eve. They come back to mock their commanders for losing the battles that caused them to become prisoners and ultimately meet their death at Camp Security.

The inmates were interned at the camp until the British signed the Treaty of Paris to formally end the war on April 19, 1783. After their release, some of the freed prisoners stayed in America, while the others returned to their former homelands.

But it's said that a select few remained behind - forever. There's a trail that leads through the woods to the small valley graveyard of the soldiers, and several sightings of spook troopers have been reported from there at night, prisoners who can never escape.

Legend of the White Lady

White Lady's Castle - photo from Virtual Tourist by rdywenur (Chris)
At the turn of the century, Dr. Henry S. Durand owned a summer camp in Irondequoit, near Rochester, in New York's Monroe County. He and his friend George Eastman saw a need for a public park in the area and bought a number of farms around the Durand property.

They transferred the property parcel between the Genesee River and Irondequoit Bay to the people, and on May, 22, 1909, Durand Eastman Park was formally dedicated.

The park is a jewel, sporting a Lake Ontario shoreline, a Robert Trent Jones golf course, great trails, beaches, and about everything an urban boy could want to return to his outdoorsy roots - including a legendary "Lady In White."

The White Lady is well-known in local lore. The details of the legend are fuzzy and debated, but the main story is crystal clear - a man kills a girl, the mom searches unsuccessfully for her body, and finally dies, filled with pain. Then she returns from the grave to continue an eternal search, making sure to give any men she runs across a hard time on her daughter's behalf.

The story begins in the early-to-mid 1800s, when the White Lady and her daughter were said to have lived where the Durand Eastman Park now stands.

The mother was abused by her husband and he eventually split the scene, leaving her to raise her daughter alone. It also gave her quite the attitude regarding men, which carried over in her relationship with her girl (and into the afterlife).

At this point, the tale diverges a bit. One version said the teen daughter had a boyfriend that the mom disapproved of, and another claims that a neighboring farmer had been making lustful eyes at her.

The girl left the house one evening to take a walk on the beach with maybe her beau, or maybe alone. Either way, she never returned, perhaps killed by her lover boy after a spat (don't you hate it when your mother's right?) or raped and murdered by the jilted local.

The distraught mom reported her missing child to the local gendarmes, who did next to nothing about her claim (although her report is supposedly still on file; talk about your cold cases!). The White Lady took to searching the shoreline herself day after day, accompanied by her two albino German Shepherds, but they had no luck in discovering the girl's body.

Finally, overwhelmed by her grief, the mother threw herself off a cliff into Lake Ontario (or perhaps off a bridge into Durand Lake; other versions say she lived to be an old lady and died a natural death). Her dogs pined away for their mistress and shortly joined her in the netherlands.

A sad story indeed. And it's just beginning.

Legend relates that the White Lady and her two dogs rise from the foggy mists of the lake (Ontario, Durand, a pond, take your pick) at night and together they roam through Durand Eastman park, still searching for her missing daughter or any other woman in trouble.

Some isolate the Lady in White's haunting to a crumbled foundation on Lakeshore Boulevard, with a great view and reached by twenty stone steps leading from the road. The ruins are known as the "White Lady's Castle." They do in fact look like a castle's remains, made of stone with round turrets.

It's said to be the remnants of the White Lady's house or an old hotel, although local historians say that the stonework is what's left of an old Conservatory built over the bones of a former battery guarding Lake Ontario from the Canadians and their Brit buds.

The spirit is said to hateful toward males (little wonder) and pounces on men relentlessly, seeking her vengeance against the guys visiting the park for her daughter, especially when they're with a girl. Mother's instinct, hey?

She actively seeks out guys, supposedly searching vehicles for necking couples. The White Lady picked a good spot for her mission, too - her castle is party central for teens and a popular lover's lane. Many young couples have allegedly been scared witless during their smooch sessions after seeing a white apparition with two spectral dogs drift towards their car. And it doesn't pay to be brave.

There have been many reports of the White Lady chasing men into the lake, shaking their cars, scratching their faces, sending her dogs (oddly, most reports say they're Doberman's) after them, and generally raising havoc until they leave the park. She has reportedly never touched any females, although they've seen her and her dogs. They say she seems very peaceful, yet extremely sad. (The guys may argue the peaceful part).

It's also been claimed that the daughter's muffled cries and sobs can be heard near the Castle. But it's not the only place the White Lady and her pooches visit. The Lady in White has been spotted all over park, even on the golf course. Her misty form has even been allegedly photographed a couple of times.

Many consider her not to be a spiteful spook, but a guardian spirit (well, the girls, anyway).

It is said that if a gal suspects that her guy has been fooling around, one acid test of fidelity is to take him to the park. If he has been untrue, the White Lady will come a callin'. He'll be the only one able to see her, and she'll use her supernatural wiles to compel him to tell all about his cheatin' heart. Hey, who needs a big scene or Sodium Pentothal when the Lady in White is waiting in the wings?

There's an almost entirely different spin thrown on the tale by "Rochester - Off the Beaten Path" on the Virtual Tourist site. It goes like this:

In an age when the mentally ill were hidden away, she, the insane wife of the influential Dr. Durand, was cloistered in their vacation home on the lake. Abandoned and embarrassed by a philandering husband, she torched the house. The charred bodies of her nurse and orderly were found in the rubble (now known as The White Lady Castle) but Mrs. Durand had disappeared. Lady Durand roams the park, hunting unwitting young men who, she believes, take advantage of the young women who accompany them.

While there are multiple versions of the White lady legend, how many ghosts can claim to be the inspiration for a movie? Writer/director Frank LaLoggia is said to have created his 1988 supernatural thriller "The Lady in White' based on her lore.

Her legend is featured in many books, including Weird New York by Chris Gethard and Spooky New York by folklorist S.E. Schlosser.

The locals even get into the act, hosting a "Lady in White" candlelight Halloween Ghost Walk.

(While researching this post, H&H ran across nine other "Lady In White" legends based in New York alone. Geez, aren't there any ladies in black or red?)

Leigh Master - The Ghost Of Furnace Hill

Sam's view of the inside of an old iron furnace
(image from Rabbityama of Virtual Tourist)
Leigh Master was born in Stockport in Lancashire, England in 1717. After his wife, Katherine Hoskins, died, he left Albion and set up shop near Westminster, in Maryland's Carroll County in 1765. Master had told his buds that he was coming "to the new country to make his fortune," and boy, was he right.

He put together an iron business at Furnace Hill, and soon became a big-shot mine operator, foundry master, and property owner, with 6,000 acres of land holdings, running the eighteenth century equivalent of an integrated steel mill. At first, he had the locals do the backbreaking work, but quickly switched over to cheaper slave labor.

Master worked his slaves hard and was swift to punish those he considered slackers, delivering beatings to them in the basement of his mansion. Some of the unfortunates didn't survive his not-so-tender ministrations, and their bodies were said to be buried in the cellar.

He became a rich dude - his furnaces produced quite high quality iron - but to the locals, Master was not a man they respected, but feared. He was also a bit eccentric (some say bonkers); it was claimed that he would ride in the woods around Furnace Hill at night wrapped in a white sheet and yelling gibberish, scaring the bejabbers out of the poor souls who ran across him during his evening jaunts.

In 1786, he ran for the Maryland legislature. But it's hard to convince people who are afraid of you to cast their vote in your favor; he was thumped and never ran for office again. The fact that he was a suspected Loyalist during the Revolution didn't earn him many points, either. Master was tried for high treason in 1781, but apparently beat the rap.

He died at the age of 80 in 1796. And then the spook stories began, spread through the region by generations of word-of-mouth folk tales.

Legend has it that he fell for his Black servant girl, but another slave, Sam, owned her heart. The lore continues that the outraged Master had Sam killed and thrown into the fiery iron furnace to cover the dastardly deed (other versions say he had Sam bound and tossed into the flames alive), and then bricked up the woman in a fireplace while she was still alive. His Green-Eyed Monster was a particularly horrific beast.

During 1930 renovations of his old home, called Avondale, a downstairs furnace was opened and a skeleton was discovered. Some unverified reports even say that a baby's bones were found, supposedly of Master's child, which would put another truly ugly twist on the tale. While it didn't absolutely prove the crime, try telling that to the locals.

There are stories of the house being haunted by both Master and the slaves he dispatched in the basement. The manse became an inn, the Avonlea Bed and Breakfast, but the spirits apparently remained. One of our readers wrote in to say that the legends are more than just old tales:

"I have personally witnessed haunting in the home, as well as heard the chilling accounts of haunting by the family. The daughter (of the B&B owners) would see Leigh Master before she would go to bed, her mother saw a young girl playing upstairs, and everyone who lived or stayed there has witnessed unexplainable noises. Lights would go off in the main house in rooms in which no electricity is ran. All the tools that were hung on the walls of the barn would be removed and laying all over the grounds. Another fun fact for Master's home, is that later, well after his death, a train derailed and the car went into a pond on the property. The people that were in the RR car were trapped and died. So Avonlea is haunted not only by Leigh Master himself, but his murdered slaves and possibly by those that drowned in the RR accident."

And the manse isn't the spookiest spot. Master is better known for haunting the woodlands around Furnace Hill. The are tales of his spirit walking through the arbor towards his old mansion, but the best stories concern Master a'gallop through the trees.

Shortly after his death, neighbors reported seeing Master riding on a fire-snorting gray steed, seeking penance and crying for mercy while accompanied by the sound of rattling chains.

Sometimes, he was spotted on his stallion alone, and at other times pursued by three glowing imp-like figures carrying lanterns. Either way, the woods quickly gained a ghostly reputation and by nightfall became empty of people (living ones, anyway), who had no intention of meeting up with "The Ghost of Furnace Hill."

Hey, even his final rest was eerie. When Master died, he was buried on his property. It was said that Mother Earth herself didn't want him, and his body rose to the surface three times over the intervening decades.

His remains were transferred to consecrated ground at the Church of the Ascension Burial Grounds in 1876, and placed in a stone box under a tree. But he still doesn't rest easily; the top slab cracked, as if the earth was still trying to reject him, and legend has it that when it was replaced, it cracked again.

After his death, Master's heirs sold the property; his home and the ruins of his furnace are all that remain...oh, and a spook or two, just to remind us of the bad ol' days of yore.

Woods House

Andrew Woods House
The Woods house at 271 Baltimore Street in Gettysburg was built in the early-to-late 1830s, and was the home and workshop of carriage builder/repairman Andrew Woods.

In 1997, Mark Nesbitt's Ghosts of Gettysburg Tour gang bought it to use as its HQ. So it must have some spooks, right?

Yep, it does, though oddly there are no overt Civil War manifestations, other than a voice or two in the attic and some residual energy in the cellar. It's thought that it served, as did most of the town's buildings, as a field hospital and snipers nest. There are the customary orbs, shapeless blobs, and doors that open or shut for no good reason.

Namesake Andrew Woods is still around, and is said to have helped workmen who were renovating the building by opening doors for them when their hands were full. (Must be part of the union contract.)

Psychic Karyol Kirkpatrick found some other former residents' spirits in the house, too. Research seems to point to James Dobbins as one of the spooks. The son of a preacher, he still talks a good religious game from the afterlife and likes to slam doors.

Another pair are thought to be Mary Kitzmiller and her son William, who died at an early age in the house. It's said that Mary calls out for her surviving son, Charles, and that young William can be heard shooting marbles upstairs.

There's a woman spook in dark clothing who seems loco, but was actually as crazy as a fox. She had a mission as a secret courier, and acted loony so that no one paid her any mind, allowing her to pull off her double-agent act.

The wraiths of two little girls, Emily and her friend, play tag in the attic, and you can hear their voices. There's enough going on that the staff has taken to calling it the "Ghost House." The Ghost gang has closed off the upper floors, but claim there's enough active spookiness on the ground level to keep the customers happy.

Mark Nesbitt gave away the building's secrets in his book Ghosts of Gettysburg IV, and the Woods house is a stop on a couple of the local Gettysburg ghost tours.

Bake Oven Knob

Bake Oven Knob Shelter image from Travelblog
A couple of readers wanted to know why we were holding out on the Bake Oven Knob tale mentioned last week, so for you guys, here it is...

The Bake Oven Knob Shelter in the Lehigh Valley, about 20 miles from Allentown, can best be described as a log version of a bus shelter. It's meant to provide a sleepover spot for bird watchers or a few campers as they hike the Appalachian Trail.

It's not a place for the faint of heart. You have to clamber uphill over a boulder field to get to the site. Once you're there, don't count on getting a good night's rest.

Very weird things happen around the Knob. The forest can turn from bright sunlight to complete darkness within a couple of steps. And at night, you can hear eerie murmurs and whispers in the woods, often followed by the Bake Knob beast.

One group saw a huge, shadowy entity 500 feet away from the shelter coming up Kittatinny Ridge in the middle of the night. It frightened them so much that they rolled up their sleeping bags, stuffed their gear into their rucksacks, and stumbled up the trail in the darkness rather than wait to get close up and personal with their visitor.

No one knows for sure if there's a spirit that haunts the Kittatinny ridge, but a frightful creature has been associated with the area since the days of the Delaware Indians.

It could be a misty spook; no one has ever been able to describe it with any more detail than as a glowing, red-eyed blob. Some speculate that it's a Blue Mountain Bigfoot, or maybe just a noisy feral woodland critter.

In addition, there's a local legend of a ghostly hiker, the shade of an outdoor enthusiast who fell to his death from Bake Knob's outlook and still walks the trails.

So hey, spend the day spook-hunting at the sanctuary, then cross the Kittatinny ridge and spend the night at the shelter. See what trick or treats this Halloween holds...

Hawk Mountain

Kittatinny Ridge image from Audubon Pennsylvania
What could be more peaceful than a bird watcher's perch? Well, Hawk Mountain sanctuary, in Albany Township, Bucks County, is a fine place to observe our feathered friends but also a haunt of great local renown.

The sanctuary is built on Kittatinny Ridge (also home to the Bake Oven Knob, located on the other side of the ridge and a story all of its own) which was sacred grounds for the Lenni-Lenape Indians of the area. In 1756, spurred on by the French, they massacred the Gerhardt family, who lived in a cabin on the hill.

Their ghosts have been reportedly seen roaming the area at night. The only survivor was 11 year old Matthias, who showed true pluck by eventually returning to build a new home where his family house had been. In the 1800s, Matthias Schambacher and his wife bought the place and opened a tavern and inn in the old Gerhardt house.

They didn't associate with the locals, many of whom swore they would never return to the inn after their initial visit, as also did many of the out of town guests, spooked out by the happenings at the Schambacher spread.

Footsteps could be heard coming up to the door and stopping, as if someone was eavesdropping on the occupants. Strange sounds could be heard coming from the barn. Horses would bolt as they approached the house. Bright, flashing lights and wailing sounds were reported from the surrounding hillside.

More scarily, some of the guests never traveled beyond the inn. People said you could see Matthias scrubbing blood off of the barn walls. On his deathbed, Schambacher confessed to killing at least 11 of the wayfarers that stopped at his inn, robbing them and then burying them in the woods.

But he had an excuse. He claimed that he was driven to the acts by a voice whispering in his ear, and that the area was home to great evil. He was buried in New Bethel Cemetery in an unmarked grave, and his ghost is said to be seen walking along the cemetery road. The story goes that lightning struck his grave as he was being buried, and a glowing light has been seen at the spot ever since.

After his death, another Matthias, this one a devout Catholic known for his good works, bought the house and fought the alleged evil to a standstill. Or so the locals thought.

One day, they went to his home and found the door torn off the hinges and the rooms in a shamble. There was no sign of Matthias. His mangled body was discovered a few days later, and the killer was never found.

In 1938, the property became a bird sanctuary and the building its' headquarters. From the start, odd things happened.

Wails are still heard during the night, and the floating hillside lights are still reported. Some credit the sounds to wild animals, while others believe it's the sound of the old travelers reliving their murder. Faces have been seen in the windows. Hey, on occasion the remains of one of Schambacher's victims is even unearthed around the property.

The ghost of a young girl has been reported, floating 18 inches off of the floor - the exact height that the floors were lowered when the building was renovated. She was supposed to have met her fate from a tumble down the stairs.

It's also spooked by a little German girl tooting on her penny whistle. She died falling down the steps (apparently they were pretty steep stairs!), and her parents, speaking in Deutsche, can be heard talking in the building. It's alleged that the trio were released in the structure after being disturbed during its remodeling.

The most famous spook is the 10 foot glowing man, supposedly a remnant of the sacred Indian grounds and dating back to the days of the Delawares. He's been seen throughout the area by drivers on the two-lane Hawk Mountain road and also been reported many times by people on Kittatinny Ridge. It radiates evil so powerfully that it's supposed to frighten the strongest of observers with just its presence.

One reader, Clint, dropped us a note with some local knowledge: "The historic inn and place of the murders, however, isn't at the sanctuary HQ. It is a small white building just past the sanctuary when you begin to descend the mountain. It is on the left when you are going south, and is easy to pass by without noticing. There are also rumors of a white owl spirit being spotted somewhere on the mountain. Also, there's a lower road beneath the sanctuary, at the end of this road is a very old residence where the owners have reported hearing a piano playing eerily."

So if you're looking for a haunted thrill on Halloween, save a few bucks and pay Hawk Mountain a visit. You'll be killing two birds...

History Haunts Old St. Patrick's Cathedral

Image of Old Saint Patrick's Cathedral
The corner stone of Old St. Patrick's, on 263 Mulberry Street in Soho, was laid on June 8, 1809. The cathedral was dedicated on May 14, 1815, and served as the seat of New York City's diocese until 1879.

Beneath the church lies a catacomb of mortuary vaults, opened only once a year, the resting place of many former St. Patrick's Cathedral bishops and Tammany Hall politicians. Buried underneath the front entrance way is Bishop John DuBois.

He was forced to leave France by the French Revolution in May, 1791, and fled in disguise to America. He opened a school on the mountain in Emmittsburg, Maryland, founding the present Mt. St. Mary's College. Father DuBois became bishop in 1825, and served until 1839, passing away at the age of 84 in 1842.

And if you ever want to talk over the early days of Catholcism, stop by. His spirit is said to remain in the church, and he's been spotted often by visitors to the Cathedral. But he's one-upped in rank by an almost-saintly spook.

Outside is a cemetery containing many old graves and tombstones, hidden from Mulberry Street view by a tall brick wall built in the 1800's to ward off rock-throwing Protestants during New York's gang wars. Its most famous guest was Pierre Toussaint, a Black New Yorker, born a slave in Haiti, and originally buried there, although he now rests at the new St. Patrick's.

In 1995, then Archbishop of New York, John Cardinal O’Connor, ordered his remains to the crypt for the archbishops of New York that lie beneath the main altar of the cathedral. Toussaint is the only layman in their company.

Toussaint attended daily Mass at 6 a.m. for 60 years while operating a high-class hairdressing salon after being freed as a slave. He founded, with St. Elizabeth Ann Seton, one of New York City's first orphanages, and helped raise funds for the city's first cathedral in the 19th century - Old St. Patricks.

Oh, and the Church has beatified him after accepting a miracle, one step from being declared a saint. His intercession cured a five-year-old little Irish boy of advanced scoliosis, with spinal X-Rays as the proof. Now he's Blessed Pierre Toussaint.

And though his bones were transplanted - the Church actually had his body exhumed in 1990 as part of the sainthood process - he never left his his old stomping grounds. Toussaint's spook is regularly sighted roaming the Old St. Patrick's cemetery, on the grounds he helped to build.

Who sez all ghosts are evil?

BTW, Old St. Patrick's is the starting point for Marilyn Stoat's "Street Smarts" tour called "Soho Ghosts." So if you're ever curious...

Ford City Folklore

Hanging Tree image from Vicious Venues
In Shott's cemetery once was a stone that read in part "Reuben, Son of Daniel and Mary A. Briney Died June 2, 1863, Aged 17.Y 17.D - As you are now so once was I, As I am now so you will be; Remember me as you pass by, Prepare to die and follow me."

Pretty spooky all by itself, hey? It gets weirder.

Reuben was a broken hearted teen, and in his pain caused by love gone bad, he rode to a tree near the cemetery on his white steed. He put a noose around his neck, tossed and looped the other end of the rope around a branch, and spurred his horse forward. (Some say he met his fate accidentally, but what kind of spook story would that make?) Goodbye, vale of tears, hello, light on the other side.

If it were only so easy. It's claimed that he can be seen to this day riding on the hillside at night atop his white stallion with flaming red eyes, still searching for his lost love. And woe to those that see him; they're said to be doomed to die a horrible death, just like Reuben's.

Good luck trying to find his tombstone; the memorial was toppled and broken 35 years ago, and eventually hauled away. All that's left now is an unmarked footer, alleged to be near the infamous hanging tree.

So how do we know what it said? Because a photo of the broken stone and its inscription was part of Ford City HS 1974 yearbook, no doubt a reminder of the impetuousness and passion of youth.

"As you are now so once was I..."

(H&H gives big props to LC, his Philly spook sister, who dug up most of the story and the location in ways only she knows.)

Hall's Haunted Tower

Vid of the Tower and Mansion, posted by xjmoe83 on YouTube.

Just off of the intersection of I-81 and SR114 near Mechanicsburg in Cumberland County is a 16 story building, towering alone in the countryside. It's known as Hall Tower, or Carillon Tower (its original raison d'etre). Now it's a vandalized wreck, covered in graffiti and burned several times, best known as the home to teen parties - and a spooky presence.

The local urban legend is that the guy that built it, John Hall, embezzled money from his company to build the Tower and surrounding Mansion, complete with a moated building, b-ball court, and worker's house.

He went broke, had to sell the estate, and then set it on fire right after the signing the transfer papers in a fit of frustration over losing it. If he couldn't have his Tower, no one could.

Some accounts say that his family was still inside, while others claim he lived there alone. Most lore claims that he was inside the tower when he started the fire and perished in the flames.

Another tale says that he was sent to jail after his son blew the whistle on his embezzlement scheme, and had the house and property transferred to him. When Hall was released from prison, he went back and burned the property as revenge against his son. Hall died shortly after that, some say by suicide, other by natural means.

(One of our readers wrote in to debunk the family fire tales. She said that Hall had been arrested for fraud and arson, but was never connected officially with the Tower fire. He and his family are still alive. In fact, we understand that his son lived, or may still reside, on the property. Urban legends are a mess to sort through.)

What we do know is that Hall ran through his fortune and put his dream estate up for sale in 1993 as part of his bankruptcy settlement, but didn't draw a decent bid. It suffered major fire damage in 1995, and no one knows how that blaze started.

Anyway, that's the genesis of the Hall stories. And hey, if you want to buy a spooked out property, just contact Fred Essis, the current owner. For $1.25M, it's yours.

There's supposed to be an apparition that stares down at people from the top of the Tower, which is impossible to get to from the ground. Others have reported a voice inside that says "Get out."

A young man named Ernie Barr (a popular guy who's friends still recall him fondly) died there when he fell while climbing the ladder along the elevator shaft, and some posit that it wasn't the partying that got to him, but that an unseen spirit shoved him to his doom. There are also reports of fatal construction mishaps and drownings in the small lake across from the tower.

(Erin, a neighbor, told us that a diver who was hired to drain the moat died when he was caught in the suction of a drain pipe, and confirms the death of the teen, who was brought to her house to await the ambulance. So some of the Hall's ill-fated lore is based on actual events.)

The place has recently been fenced off, and if you want to visit, satisfy yourself with a gander from the road. It's a no-trespassing area, and the local gendarmes have been known to cruise by the old bones of the Tower.

It's a treacherous building to wander around in - some might say a lawsuit waiting to happen - and hey, you never know who, or what, you'll run into in the Tower.

Spry Ol' Stories

Image from Karen's Whimsy
Hey, if you're ever driving through West Virgina and pass Harts, take a little side trip to Dry Branch Hollow. There, between Board Tree and Frances Tree Roads, you'll spy Spry Cemetery.

First, look for the tombstones of Dixie and Charlie Counts, buried alongside one another. Dixie didn't survive childbirth while having Charlie, who was delivered stillborn.

But death didn't affect the bond between mother and child; in fact, it made it everlasting.

When there's a full moon casting its eerie cold light over the graveyard, it's said that Dixie can be seen rocking her baby at their grave site, both dressed in white gowns and crying. Even in eternity, there's no closer tie than between a mother and her baby.

Then take a stroll to the Spry footbridge crossing the small creek. It has some local lore associated with it, too.

It's been told that the devil appeared to a rough Mountaineer one night in the 1950s, facing off on opposite sides of the span. It seemed to be a good match; the man was a brawler, well known in the community as a person that mistreated his family and neighbors. It was only a matter of time until Old Scratch claimed him.

But this wasn't the time. Satan thought he'd teach the man a lesson before he got to the fiery kingdom, and challenged him to a fight after the ruffian had spent the prior day bragging to all who would listen that he was mean enough to lick the devil himself.

Hey, the guy had a big mouth and a powerful punch, and he also had a trick up his sleeve to back up his bravado - he knew his demonology.

He eyed up the Reaper of Souls and told him "Come over here to the road, and I will fight you." Lucifer, frustrated, said "You know who I am and that I cannot cross running water." At a stalemate, the Prince of Darkness let out an evil cackle and disappeared into the night.

Of course, the street fighter let everyone in town know that night that he had stood down Satan. The next day, a boy was walking through the boneyard. He crossed the bridge and found cloven hoof prints burned into its wooden slats. Maybe for once the town braggart was telling the truth (although we suspect the next meeting may have a decidedly different result).

So if you're ever passing through Point Pleasant under a full moon, head east for a few miles and visit. Spry Cemetery will be worth the trip.

(And please be respectful if you do stop by - after all, Old Scratch may catch you on the same side of the creek.)

Frenchie the Friendly Ghost

Club Charles website
The Club Charles (Club Chuck to its regulars) has been a North Charles Street magnet for the Baltimore night crowd since 1941. It features bordello–red lighting, art deco wall murals of hell (supposedly painted by WPA artists during the depression), a Rock-Ola juke box, waitresses flying overhead on trapezes...and a house spook named Frenchie.

Edouard André "Frenchie" Neyt was born near Paris in 1925. It's reputed that during the Nazi occupation of his homeland, he served as a spy, ratting out the Nazis to the resistance. After the war, he crossed the pond to Baltimore and began a life-long career as a waiter.

For years, he roomed in an apartment above the current Club Charles, known as the Wigwam (advertising "Grub and Fire Water") when Neyt lived there. When he wasn't charming women, he was playing jokes on people.

Frenchie died in his room in 1979, reportedly from acute alcoholism. Though gone and buried, many believe the spirit of the fun-loving, diminutive (5'3") Frenchman lives on at the Club Charles.

Club owner Joy Martin says she sees Frenchie so often, always dressed in his black-and-white waiter's outfit, that she's ready to put him on the payroll.

He rearranges bottles at the bar. Frenchie likes to juggle glasses, too, right in front of the customers, who watch them float through air and eventually settle on the floor, unbroken. He'll pour himself a drink from the bar's beer taps. Frenchie has even called the staff on a pay phone that doesn't take incoming calls.

A tale related by the Baltimore City Paper: For years, a group of cops and cab drivers met to deal some cards. When Frenchie came back from work, he'd head straight for the table and playfully harass the poker posse, rubbing their hair or trying to sit in their laps.

The games continued after Frenchie died, but he enjoyed them too much to miss because of a little inconvenience like death. Now, late at night, about the time when Frenchie would usually returned to the club, some of the players reported feeling their hair being ruffled. One cop, trying to concentrate on the cards instead of Frenchie's little games, pulled out his pistol and fired a shot in the air.

"Damn it, Frenchie!" he yelled. "Leave us alone!"

The little guy doesn't just put on incorporate shows; he's been spotted by the staff, too. Bartenders report seeing a small, older gentleman in black trousers and white shirt, Frenchie to a tee, standing at the top of the stairs leading to the upper bar. He disappears after a while, probably on his way to make more mischief.

If you want to catch up a little more on Frenchie's antics, they're related in Ed Okonowicz's book, Baltimore Ghosts.

The Zodiac

Hey, North Charles Street has a couple of joints that jump - and not just because of the current customers. The Club Charles and Zodiac Restaurant are side by side establishments, owned by Joy Martin, and both boast of spooks mingling with their night-time crowd.

The Club has Frenchie, an old waiter who we'll get to next week, and the recently shuttered Zodiac doesn't claim a serial killer, but possibly a murder victim, former owner Emil McKim.

Employees of the Zodiac report seeing a dapper gent dressed in a Roarin' Twenties white seersucker or linen suit sitting at Table 3 (others say Table 13, a more appropriate choice, we think.)

Sometimes the man is accompanied by a small white dog, and is often spotted with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Waiters have even tried to give him a menu, only to have him vanish.

And he is most assuredly not a friendly spirit. The staff claims that they often feel like they're being watched, and sometimes find themselves inexplicably filled with a sense of dread. Workers add that they've been pushed down the cellar stairs by an invisible entity; owner Joy Martin suffered a broken wrist when she got the McKim shove.

His face will sometimes pop up in the mens' room mirror, sending customers scurrying back to their table with wet hands, uncombed hair, and a burning desire to find another eatery. People also claim to have heard a mysterious voice at the restaurant telling them to "Get out!"

When the Ghost Hunters of Baltimore visited the Zodiac, one of them said an unseen hand tried to push her across the room and out the door. The Maryland Ghost and Spirit Association has an album filled with snaps of the Zodiac wraith.

Much of the eerieness centers on a flight of rickety steps that leads to a jumbled third-floor storage room; many workers are afraid to go up there. And given his antics on the basement stairs, who can blame them?

Who is Emil McKim and why doesn't he rest in peace? An elderly local resident said that during Prohibition, the restaurant was a speakeasy run by McKim. He hung himself in the basement (or third floor apartment; no one's quite sure) after his wife left him.

But just maybe he didn't kill himself. Other rumors speculate (among other possibilities; after all, it was a speakeasy during the gangster era) that his wife was fooling around and she and her lover boy decided three was a crowd, so they staged McKim's suicide. And he's now hanging around, trying to get the true tale told.

At any rate, the restaurant is closed now, and we understand it's currently being used as a performance space. And who better to kick off the festivities than Emil McKim? Whether a suicide or murder victim, his sad spirit is sure to be a show-stopper.

(Next - we're hanging out in Baltimore one more week. We'll visit the next-door Club Charles for a drink and meet-up with Frenchie.)

Liberace's Midnight Visitor

White Nun from Wikipedia

On November 23, 1963, Liberace was scheduled to play a gig at Monroeville's Holiday House in suburban Pittsburgh. Assuming the show would be canceled because of JFK's assassination, he busied himself with cleaning his costumes. He used a cleaning solvent with the toxic carbon tetrachloride as its' base.

Liberace napped once or twice in the unventilated room, and it almost cost him his life. While performing, he collapsed on stage and was rushed to St. Francis Hospital in the City's Lawrenceville section, suffering from kidney failure from inhaling the deadly fumes.

The doctors told him to get his affairs in order while hooking him up to a new device for that time, a dialysis machine. He was given a 20% chance of surviving. During those long nights, drifting between life and death, he dreamed of many things.

But he recalled one vision clearly, and it was a turning point in his recovery. As he later wrote in his autobiography The Wonderful Private World Of Liberace:

"A very young and lovely nun wearing a white habit came to see me late one night, when I was very near death. She said she was going to pray to Saint Anthony for me, and he would make me well.

The very next day, I began to get well. I described the nun to the Mother Superior at the hospital and asked who she was. The Mother Superior said 'There are no nuns in the hospital who wear white habits.'"

Of course, there was no nun in white at the hospital. The Franciscans wore dark habits. Did St. Anthony send Liberace an etheral messenger, or was he just the fortunate recipient of Dr. Thomas Allen and Dr. Frank Mateer's deft handling of the new fangled dialysis machine?

Maybe they go hand-in-hand, with the spiritual realm coming to intercede in the work of the physical world. After all, not all spirits are evil harbingers.

Dialysis took off after it saved Liberace, and St. Francis Hospital gained a new, life-long benefactor. He raised funds for the hospital, even having a lobby dedicated to him, and made sure that the sisters had tickets whenever he performed in Pittsburgh.

Saint Francis Hospital, like Liberace, doesn't exist anymore. It's been replaced by a modern, state of the art Children's Hospital. But hopefully, the good sister in white will stay to watch over her youthful charges as diligently as she watched over the showman. The story is also recounted in his biography Liberace: An American Boy by Darden Asbury Pyron.