Coffin Hollow and Other Ghost Tales (2 page)

I suppose and hope that other volumes will be quarried from Dr. Musick's literary estate. Nothing could better serve her crusade for the recognition of West Virginia folklore.

WILLIAM HUGH JANSEN
University of Kentucky

PREFACE

West Virginia is truly a beautiful state, although its beauty may very well be doomed. The strip miners seem so determined to scalp the hills and slice off the topsoil — to get at the little bit of coal that lies near the surface — that they are fast skinning the state alive. Also lumber-men — clear-cutters — continue to mow down the trees, and so-called sportsmen are slaughtering much of the wildlife. West Virginia may soon become just an ordinary state — well,
worse
than ordinary — a completely sodless, treeless, creatureless land, unless it can be saved.

For years now I've been trying to save just the stories and general lore of West Virginia. To me, these tales are almost as fascinating and individual as the state itself. One of the things I particularly like is that the tale-tellers are so sincere. Aside from legends — and no one knows exactly how a legend originates — these tales are told as the actual experiences of the contributors or of their relatives or friends. In almost every case the original teller, at least, believes that he or the person involved has had a supernatural experience.

While most outsiders seem to think that all — or almost all — West Virginians speak some kind of colorful, un-soiled-by-schooling, mountain dialect, something like the language of Little Abner and the Dogpatch clan, I have not found much of this speech used by the storytellers I have met. Undoubtedly there are isolated sections in the state where Anglo-Saxon or peculiarly mountain expressions are common; but I have heard almost nothing of such dialect, much as I would like to, and I've lived in the state for years. Furthermore, the people who have shared their lore with me have evidently never heard much, if any, of this speech either.

Although I have used every method known to man in collecting folklore — I have bought four tape machines, to date — I am indebted to former students at Fairmont State College for much of my material, especially the stories. I would say that some 90 percent or more of all my ghost tales were brought in by my students, who got them from their parents, grandparents, or older neighbors in most cases. Although some tales were told orally, a great deal of this material was written up when it was brought in, and besides deleting extraneous material or transferring it to the notes, I have kept the tales as they were given to me, merely correcting student errors of grammar and spelling — faults one can hardly blame on the original contributor or call authentic folklore.

Vance Randolph collected all his material from the Ozark people themselves, so that his dialect is both colorful and authentic, as it should be. So far, I can't follow his example, much as I would like to do so, for I have heard almost no dialect here. However, I would like to point out that I have been able to collect hundreds and hundreds of ghost tales — most of which I would have had no way in the world to get except through my students. Older people may very well object to telling any supernatural experiences to outsiders, but they usually have no objections whatever to telling such happenings to younger relatives or neighbor youngsters whom they have watched grow up.

Some of the tales in this collection were previously published in
North Carolina Folklore, West Virginia Folklore,
the
Charleston Gazette-Mail State Magazine,
the
Morgan-town Dominion-Post Panorama,
and the
Allegheny Journal.
I wish to thank the editors involved for permission to use this material again.

Also I wish to thank all the contributors of stories, since without their help there could have been no book. I particularly want to thank my former students at Fair-mont State College, especially those who became so interested in my love of lore that they combed their communities in order to get together as much material as possible. My enthusiasm for ghost tales must have been fairly obvious from the start, since so many of them were brought in. I also want to thank the relatives and neighbors involved, who gave so generously of their time.

Last of all, I want to express my appreciation of my brother's illustrations, which add so much in helping to portray the supernatural situations as told in the tales.

RAM
Fairmont, September 1973

TALES

1: A Strange Illusion

It was a cold night. And with the chilly air came lightning and thunder. Soon the rain began to come down in torrents. No one was out except for one man — a young traveler who, because his horse had gone lame, was forced to go on by foot.

Of course he had to seek shelter some place, and that is why he stopped at the first house he came to — a large old mansion. His knock went unanswered, so he called out, “Is anybody home?”

There was no response. Lightning and thunder echoed over the hills, and the weary traveler turned the door knob. To his amazement he found the door unlocked. It shrieked and creaked on its hinges when he pushed it open. Probably the old mansion was deserted, yet strangely enough the rooms seemed to be furnished.

The traveler shut the door and went to a chair. Folding his damp coat under his head, he prepared to go to sleep. He had begun to doze when suddenly the old grandfather clock started to strike twelve. Down the winding staircase came a young girl carrying a lantern. The youth jumped to his feet and said, “The door was loose and open, so I walked in out of the rain.”

The girl just smiled and vanished into another room. Soon she came back carrying a tray of food and steaming hot coffee. She gestured for him to eat and then extended one of the cups to him. The girl did not make one sound. Instead a mysterious smile played about her lips. Never had the traveler tasted such fine food. When the meal was over, the girl gathered up the tray and went back to the kitchen.

After a while, when she did not return, the man began to smell what he thought was wood smoke. Afraid that something might have caught on fire in the kitchen, he ran into the adjoining room. There was no girl there, and things seemed to be in order. Thinking that there was another way out of the kitchen and the girl had probably taken it, the sleepy youth wandered back into the next room and sank into the chair. Not another thought came to his mind, and soon he was asleep.

Before he knew it, morning came. Birds twittered outside the window. A tray of fresh food was before him. When he looked up, there stood the smiling girl. Probably she was a deaf-mute, he thought, as she never spoke. The traveler thanked her for the food and shelter, finished eating, and said good day to the girl, telling her to look him up if she ever needed a favor.

As he entered the outskirts of the town, he was met by a mob, who led him off to the sheriff's office. It seemed that an old man had been beaten very seriously during the night. Everyone in town was pointing an accusing finger at any stranger who arrived. So far all suspects were able to justify their whereabouts. Could the Traveler?

Once inside the sheriff's office, he was asked where he had been during the night. When he explained about being at the mansion and how grateful he was for the warm hospitality extended him, a few of the men laughed, but some of the elderly men frowned and walked away.

“I gotta lock you up, boy,” said the sheriff. “That's one story that just can't stand true. The old Cathcart mansion was the only one near here, and it burned down five years ago.” There was nothing to do except to lock the traveler up in jail.

After the morning hours dragged into midafternoon and the earlier confusion had died down, the young traveler had time to think. “Sheriff, why don't you and I drive out there and take a look at the place where I stayed? Maybe it can prove my innocence.”

Being kind and considerate, the sheriff agreed. After all, the man did not have a guilty look, and if he had any way of proving his innocence, the sheriff was going to let him try.

Hitching up a horse and buggy, the two men started toward the outskirts of town. Before one comes to the Cathcart estate, a turn in the road obstructs the house from view. As they drew near this turn the young man said confidently, “You'll see, sheriff, that place is where I stayed.” But instead of a big white mansion, there was only a red brick chimney staring upward, with charred ashes on the ground.

The sheriff put a comforting hand on the shocked traveler's shoulder. “I'm sorry, boy, but now you can see for yourself. That place burned five years ago. Old man Cathcart's daughter, who people claimed was mentally ill because she always smiled, was burned to death. Hamilton Cathcart tried to save her and was badly burned. He died later at the hospital.”

The traveler hung his head sadly as the carriage headed back to town. The only witness in the world who could save his life — and she wasn't there! Who was the woman he had seen then? There were no other houses around. This definitely was the place where he had stayed during the night. Could it be that he had seen a ghost?

The sheriff was talking. “Yes, sir, it was rumored that old man Cathcart was carrying on a feud with Charlie Pickens over some love affair between Melissa Cathcart and young Charlie Pickens, Jr. Some folks think Pickens set the place on fire, hoping to destroy Cathcart and his young daughter. There was no evidence against him, so he went free. Before old Cathcart died, his last words were, Til get even with the one who did this to me! He'll pay!' People didn't pay much attention to him, as they figured he was out of his head.”

The sheriff lit a pipe and drew a long breath. The young traveler asked, “What happened to old man Pick-ens?”

“That's why we're holding you,” the sheriff answered. “Old man Pickens was the guy that got beat up. if he dies, you'll be tried for murder. Right now you can't prove your innocence, and we can't prove your guilt. But if he dies we'll have you on circumstantial evidence.”

At this the traveler's heart sank. He asked, “Sheriff, why don't we go to the hospital and see old man Pickens? He might help my case.”

The sheriff agreed. “If old man Pickens is conscious, we may get a few questions cleared up. I'd still like to know for myself if he did set the Cathcart place on fire.”

The rest of the trip was made in silence. Inside the old two-story hospital, a few members of the Pickens family hurried to the door as the sheriff entered. “He's been calling for you, sheriff,” they said.

The sheriff leaned over to hear the faint whispers coming from the dying man. “The traveler is innocent . . . I burned the Cathcart place and now . . . old Cathcart is just getting even with me.”

At that instant, a huge cloud of black smoke came out with Pickens's breath. For a split second flames and smoke engulfed his body. They were gone as quickly as they came and left the body burned beyond recognition.

From out of nowhere a man's voice was heard saying, “I got even with you!” The words were followed by a harsh laugh.

The case was closed then, and the traveler went on his way — a free man. But never again did he venture into this strange town.

2: The Jailer's Dog

Many years ago in the town of Brownsville, Pennsylvania, there was a small jail run by a very friendly and just sheriff. Sheriff Davis and his big dog were usually the sole occupants of the jail, but on one particular night a boy was brought in who had got drunk and destroyed property at one of the local bars.

Sheriff Davis locked him up in a cell and proceeded to doze off in his bed. His faithful dog Rusty lay at his feet, as usual.

In the middle of the night the sheriff was awakened by the barking of his dog. He jumped to his feet and saw the darting figure of the boy dashing out of the door of the jail. Without thinking, he grabbed his gun and fired over the boy's head. The bullet was defective, as often was the case in those days, and, instead of following a true course, it dropped, hitting the boy in the base of the skull and killing him instantly.

Sheriff Davis was never the same after that. Although still running a very good jail, he was no longer kindly toward fellow humans or to his old dog Rusty, whom he had loved so dearly. Now, the big dog no longer slept at his feet, but spent the cold nights tied to a pole in the back of the jail. Davis was also known to take his problems out on Rusty by kicking and mistreating him. The dog had grown unfriendly toward his master, who no longer fed him. The neighbors, with whom Rusty was still friendly, now provided his food, but whenever Davis appeared, the dog immediately flew into a mad fit of rage, snarling and snapping viciously until the man beat him into quietness.

One day Rusty gnawed through his rope and ran away to one of the houses nearby, only to be dragged home by Davis, who again proceeded to beat him into submission. This time Rusty no longer stirred. The next day he was buried by the neighborhood children, who loved him and gave him the only kindness he knew.

Davis grew worse and turned to bottle-drinking — to excess. He lost his job as sheriff and stayed around the jail only to keep the place clean. He was thought to be crazy, for often in his drunken rage, he would yell, scream, threaten, and plead for Rusty to stop following him and haunting him. He often heard snarling and footsteps behind him, although nothing could be observed by anyone else.