Haunted Holidays

by Roberta Simpson Brown

  We have seen brief accounts of this haunting on websites now, but nobody knows the identity of the man or the little baby he is holding close. Maybe he and the baby are waiting for the baby’s mother to join them.

  On a visit to the cemetery recently, we found two graves close to each other. One was the grave of a male adult. The other was the grave of an infant. Could their spirits have been the ones visiting among the living on that long-ago Halloween Day?

  Halloween House

  Many stories support some of the superstitions that we talk about in our neighborhood storytelling sessions. As we mentioned earlier, it was considered bad luck to remove dirt from a graveyard; it was also considered bad luck to live in a house next to one. One family Roberta heard about scoffed at this idea and lived to regret it.

  Here is her story.

  Uncle Lawrence told us about this family during one of his visits. He and my Aunt Lily were living in a house in south central Kentucky, two houses down from a cemetery by a little country church.

  An empty house stood between them and the graveyard. A homemade sign in the front yard of the house said, “For Rent.” As the weeks passed, nobody came to look at the house, so my aunt and uncle assumed nobody would be moving in.

  Then one day in late October, Aunt Lily noticed that the “For Rent” sign was gone.

  “Look, Lawrence,” she said. “I think we may be getting new neighbors. I think the house has been rented.”

  A couple of days later, the new neighbors, the Brays, moved in. There was a man, John; a woman, Mattie; a boy, Ben, who was about thirteen years old; and a girl, Sara, about nine. Aunt Lily and Uncle Lawrence walked over and introduced themselves and asked if there was anything they could do.

  “Thanks,” John told him, “but I think we are all settled in.”

  Uncle Lawrence smiled at the kids.

  “Do you think you’ll be scared living next door to a graveyard on Halloween?” he asked.

  John spoke up before they could answer.

  “We don’t believe in ghosts or celebrating Halloween. It’s just foolishness. Living by a graveyard is just like living anywhere else.”

  “Well, I always heard it was bad luck,” said Uncle Lawrence. “I never did like to tempt fate. I hope all goes well. Just let us know if you need anything.”

  John Bray simply nodded and said nothing else. Uncle Lawrence and Aunt Lily went back to their house and went about their own business.

  The new family didn’t seem to be inclined to socialize. The Brays nodded and spoke if they and Uncle Lawrence and Aunt Lily happened to be in the yard at the same time, but they never came to visit. My uncle and aunt respected their privacy and did not intrude.

  One day, though, Uncle Lawrence happened to be in the backyard at the same time as the Bray boy, Ben.

  “Who’s buried in that grave off to itself at the back of the graveyard?” Ben asked. “I was over there late yesterday afternoon, but I couldn’t find a marker.”

  “I haven’t lived here long, Ben, so I don’t know firsthand, but I heard down at the store that the man who is buried there used to live in your house,” Uncle Lawrence answered. “His name was Ernest Haskins, I believe they said. My hearing isn’t always what it used to be.”

  “What did he die of?” Ben asked.

  “What I heard was that he killed himself,” said my uncle. “He couldn’t make the payments on his house, so the bank foreclosed and told Ernest he’d have to move. He was very upset and angry. He said that he’d die first, and I suppose he decided right then to shoot himself. In any case, he didn’t leave that house under his own power. They had to carry him out and bury him.”

  “But why did they bury him just outside the graveyard fence, and why didn’t they put up a headstone?” Ben wanted to know.

  “Church people didn’t think it was fitting. They thought it was sinful to bury a corpse on sacred ground with Christian people if the deceased had taken his own life. I don’t guess he had any family to put up a proper marker. The whole thing was very sad,” said my uncle. “Some people have said to me that they have seen Ernest’s ghost around and inside your house at night. I guess that’s why it was so hard to rent.”

  “My dad doesn’t care about tales like that,” said Ben. “He doesn’t believe in ghosts, but Sara and I aren’t so sure. Last night we were on the porch and looked across the graveyard. A white mist covered that grave—Ernest’s grave—and there wasn’t any mist over any other grave. We told our dad, but he said it was just fog and to get on up to bed. I looked out my window, though, and I saw that mist turn into a shape like a man and drift toward the house. Dad yelled again for us to get in bed, so I don’t know where the mist went. Later in the night, I woke up and it seemed like there was someone else in the room. I finally went back to sleep.”

  John came outside as Ben finished his story.

  “Ben!” he called. “Don’t you have chores to do? You don’t have time to stand around talking all day!”

  “I’d better go,” said Ben. He hurried off to try to catch up with his father.

  Uncle Lawrence always liked a spooky story. He looked out the window to see if he could see the mist that night, but he couldn’t see the grave from his window.

  About a week passed, and a neighbor down the road died from a stroke. They buried him in the graveyard, leaving the fresh dirt covered with flowers.

  After everybody had gone, Aunt Lily was out in her backyard taking her wash down from the clothesline when she noticed Mattie Bray headed for the new grave with two flowerpots and a little garden shovel. Aunt Lily watched as Mattie filled the pots with dirt and came back across to her yard. Then she noticed that Aunt Lily had been watching her.

  “I wanted to repot some flowers,” Mattie said. “I thought the fresh dirt would be rich and easy to get. The rest of the ground seems so hard now.”

  “Yes,” said Aunt Lily. “I guess it is rich, but I’ve always heard it’s bad luck to take dirt from a graveyard, especially a fresh grave.”

  Mattie just laughed.

  “I don’t believe in all that nonsense,” she said.

  She took her pots and went inside, and Aunt Lily took her clothes and did likewise.

  Halloween came and went. Most of the neighbors celebrated with jack-o’-lanterns and treats for the children—all except the Brays. Maybe it was Halloween that set off the events that followed.

  On Sunday at church, Mattie stopped to talk to Aunt Lily after they came outside.

  “Do you really think it’s bad luck to take the dirt from the grave?” she asked Aunt Lily.

  “It’s what I’ve always heard,” she answered. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve seen a shadow around my flowerpots every night,” confided Mattie. “John says the shadows are from tree limbs, but there are no limbs outside the kitchen window where I keep my flowers.”

  “Maybe you should put the dirt back,” suggested Aunt Lily.

  “I was going to, but John said he’d have no such nonsense,” said Mattie. “He can be very stubborn about such things.”

  “Maybe he’ll change his mind,” said Aunt Lily. “Sometimes a man has to learn for himself. Maybe things will happen to make him reconsider.”

  And happen they did! Aunt Lily and Uncle Lawrence only learned of the events later, when the Brays were loading their belongings and moving away.

  The first thing was a crash that woke the Brays in the middle of the night. They rushed to their kitchen and saw both flowerpots shattered on the floor. Mattie swept up the dirt and broken pieces of the clay pots and took them back to the graveyard as soon as daylight came. There were no more shadows at the window after that, so Mattie thought that that spirit must now be at rest.

  But there were other happenings that indicated an angrier presence had come into the house. Ben saw the mist rise every night from the grave and float toward the house. At first there were knocks, and then loud banging. At other times, they would hear eerie, but indistinc
t, whispers. At night, the cover would be yanked from the bed where John and Mattie slept, or at least tried to sleep.

  The final straw came when Sara’s screams filled the house one night. They rushed to her room and found her sobbing. Scratch marks were visible on the side of her face. She hadn’t seen what did it, but she had been terrified for her life. As they all stood there not knowing what to do, a loud whisper told them, Get out of my house! They followed the suggestion.

  A few days after the Brays had moved, Uncle Lawrence decided to walk over to Ernest Haskins’s grave. He was shocked to see stakes driven deep into the ground all around the grave. Chains crisscrossing the grave were locked securely to the stakes. He never knew who did it. And he never knew if the chains kept Ernest in the grave. Maybe John installed the stakes and chains before he and his family went away. Or maybe it was someone else who lived nearby.

  Uncle Lawrence and Aunt Lily moved away soon after the Brays left. Nobody else moved into the house by the graveyard during the short time they were there.

  Of course, there is no proof that it’s bad luck to live by a cemetery, but the things that the Brays experienced provide a great deal of evidence to support the belief.

  The Octagon House

  At the 2014 Southern Festival of Books in Bowling Green, Kentucky, several people stopped by our table and asked if we had heard of Octagon House. Most of them had information or stories to share before they moved on. They pointed out that Octagon House is not far from Bowling Green.

  Octagon House (also referred to as Octagon Hall) is located in Simpson County at 6040 Bowling Green Road, just north of Franklin, Kentucky. When Andrew Jackson Caldwell built the house in the mid-1800s, he wanted something unique, so he had eight sides built instead of the usual four.

  It is said that during the Civil War, Caldwell offered shelter to many Confederate soldiers. Civil War reenactments are sometimes held there now. Those who participate sometimes experience things they cannot explain, such as footsteps and the opening and closing of doors throughout the night.

  The Caldwell family continued to occupy the house even after Andrew’s death in 1866. In 1918, his widow, Harriet, sold the house to a Nashville osteopath, Doctor Miles Williams. He lived in the house until his death in 1954.

  His heirs turned it into rental property until 2001, when The Octagon Hall Foundation obtained the building and became dedicated to restoring and preserving the house and grounds.

  Some people who stopped to tell us stories about the place said that they have experienced strange smells in the parlor where Andrew’s body was laid out. They also mention seeing the ghost of a man riding a wagon in the backyard. It is thought to be Andrew Caldwell.

  A young Western Kentucky University student told us the most intriguing story of all. In the 1800s, she said, there was a little girl (one website calls her Mary Elizabeth) who was helping prepare a meal for the Caldwells in the basement, a place called the Winter Kitchen. She got too close to the fireplace, caught fire, and burned to death.

  On some tours, visitors hear the girl’s footsteps beside them, and some say she has held their hand. Others say they have had a fleeting glance of a figure in the Winter Kitchen. The figure seems to appear and vanish quickly.

  During one of the Halloween tours at the Octagon House in 2003, the fireplace kettle on a movable arm mysteriously swung out into the room. The student assured us that this was not part of the tour. Perhaps the little ghost is lonely and wants attention.

  To check out this site for yourselves, go to the Octagon Hall Museum website and make a reservation. They allow legitimate ghost-hunting groups to book investigations, but they discourage those who simply consider it a lark to spend a night in a haunted house.

  If you are looking for a “fake” Halloween haunted house where you can giggle and scream, the Octagon House is not for you. If you are looking for a Halloween treat and have respect for the dead, this is the perfect place to go.

  Veterans Day

  We will start our chapter on Veterans Day with a grammatical note about the title. There is some difference in spelling on calendars and elsewhere. Some sources spell it “Veteran’s Day”; others, “Veterans’ Day.” The United States government has declared that the official rendering is the simple plural, with no apostrophe.

  Veterans Day is celebrated on November 11. Originally called Armistice Day to honor the end of World War I, the name was changed to Veterans Day by Congress on June 1, 1954, to honor all those who served in the U.S. armed forces.

  On Veterans Day, nonessential government offices are closed, all federal workers are paid for the holiday, and no mail is delivered.

  Some restaurants offer free meals to veterans on that day.

  On this day, the president of the United States places a wreath on the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington National Cemetery, and veterans’ organizations hold parades.

  Veterans Day is a time for all of us to pause, remember, and express our thanks to those who fought that we might be free.

  A Veterans Day Civil War Tale

  We have veterans on both sides of our families, and our families hold these veterans in the highest regard. We honor, respect, and love them, and we remember them in our stories on Veterans Day.

  Lonnie has a story about his family and the Civil War, and he tells it this way.

  Two young men on my side of the family, Elijah and Malachi Brown, are subjects of one of my favorite Civil War stories. They were brothers, about a year apart in age.

  Elijah and Malachi were sons of Jonathan and Sara Ann Brown, and they lived and worked on the family farm in Wayne County. The family supported the Confederacy, but the boys delayed joining up because they were needed to do farm work.

  On long summer nights, the family gathered round on the porch and listened to Jonathan or Elijah play the fiddle. Malachi and Sara joined in by clapping their hands and sometimes singing. It was the best relief they had from the stress of war all around them.

  Times were extremely hard. When reports came that the Yanks were approaching, families, including the Browns, would hide all their valuables—food, silverware, and jewelry—in caves or bury them so the enemy would not take them.

  The families themselves would sometimes hide in caves, taking with them their children and pets. If the pets were loud enough to attract attention and became a threat to the family, the family would kill the animals so they would not lead the enemy to the cave where they were hiding.

  The Brown boys wanted to take care of their family, but they longed to fight for what they believed in, too. The year finally came when they knew they had to join the action. That year, they tended the crops, harvested them, and stored them in the safest places they could find on the farm. They wanted the harvest to be safe for the family in case the Yanks came through.

  It was the end of October when all was finished. The young men sat down with their parents and told them they would be leaving the next morning.

  Sara Ann’s eyes filled with tears, but she understood that this was something they had to do.

  “I’ll pack some food for you in the morning,” she said.

  “I want you to take the fiddle,” said Jonathan. “It will keep you company when you miss your home.”

  The boys nodded in agreement.

  The next morning, Elijah and Malachi said good-bye to their parents. They took the food and the fiddle and started over the hills to become Confederate soldiers. That was the last time their parents saw them alive.

  When the family had heard no word from their sons, Jonathan walked over the hills to the town where they had headed to sign up. It was November 11, long before Veterans

  Day was named a holiday, but it was a day burned in Jonathan’s mind forever after. The records showed that his boys had signed up, but nobody had seen them since.

  That night, Sara Ann and Jonathan heard music. It was warm for early November, and they were sitting on the porch, waiting for the house to cool down after the h
eat from cooking supper.

  “That sounds like Elijah playing the fiddle!” said Sara Ann.

  “It certainly does sound like him,” said Jonathan. “His style is unique.”

  “Maybe their regiment is camped nearby! Maybe they will pass by here and stop tomorrow. I’d love to see them!” said Sara Ann.

  “I would, too,” said Jonathan. “I’d like to see how they’re doing.”

  The old couple went to bed with high expectations that night. Maybe they would get to see their sons one more time before they went into battle.

  Morning came, but the two young men didn’t come. Sara Ann and Jonathan waited until midafternoon before they gave up watching.

  Jonathan decided to climb up the hill where he’d heard the music playing the night before to see if he could see a sign of a campsite. When he got there, though, he could find no evidence that anyone had camped there.

  Puzzled, Jonathan enlisted the help of his neighbors. They searched the hill, but found nothing.

  That winter was harsh, but Sara Ann and Jonathan survived on the food their sons had left for them. When Jonathan was in town and met any rebel soldiers passing through, he asked if they had met Elijah or Malachi, but the answer was always no.

  Night after night, even when they were inside the house, Sara Ann and Jonathan heard the fiddle playing in the distance. It moved around sometimes, and they couldn’t figure out the source. Sara Ann began to think that they were the only ones hearing it, but she asked the neighbors about it and they confirmed that they were hearing it, too.

  Then, the music stopped. It was a year before they heard it again. They heard it every year after that at the same time the boys disappeared.

  Except for the fiddle music, they never had any other contact from their sons. The mystery of their disappearance was never solved.