Info on East Stroudsburg Pennsylvania cities including homes, weather, photos, education and more.

East Stroudsburg is a borough in Monroe County, Pennsylvania, 32 miles (51 km) north of Easton. It was originally known as "Dansbury", but was renamed for geographic reasons when the Delaware, Lackawanna, and Western Railroad opened a station in town. It is situated in a picturesque region at the foot of the Pocono Mountains. Its population has shown a slow, steady escalation from 2,648 in 1900 to 3,330 in 1910 to 6,404 in 1940 to 9,888 in 2000, according to census reports. East Stroudsburg is served by the East Stroudsburg Area School District and is the home of East Stroudsburg South High School and the East Stroudsburg University of Pennsylvania. -- Source: Wikipedia.com

On July 10, 1902, 112 miners lost their lives in an explosion in the Cambria Iron Company's nearby Rolling Mills mine. People have claimed to see apparitions of phantom miners walking the James Wolfe Sculpture trail that leads up to the mine entrance.

There have been sightings of a lone miner on the trail who disappears as you approach him, and of a pair of miners holding their lunch buckets at the base of the Johnstown Inclined Plane, still waiting for their ride. The spook of a young boy has been reportedly seen there, too.

The sightings date back even further. It's alleged that there was an Indian burial ground near the top of the Plane, and floating lights have been seen dancing around the Native American's final resting place.

So if you get to visit J-Town and ride the Plane to its impressive observation deck, keep your eyes peeled. You may see more below you than the Stony Brook river valley.

The park area was once home to the Susquehannocks - who had their own local tales of evil spirits lurking on the nearby Sheshequin Path - and later Lenape and Shawnee before being pretty much cleared of Native Americans after the French & Indian War and Revolution.

It was named after Civil War Colonel R. Bruce Ricketts, whose family bought the land a generation earlier. The ex-officer ran a hotel and over time either owned or controlled 80,000+ acres of land in this area through his lumber companies, which clear-cut nearly all the property (and, in fact, the state still allows controlled lumbering in the park). His family sold 10,000 acres to the state after his death, and PA opened the park in 1944.

There are a couple of spooky tales associated with the isolated area. Here's the better known local lore:

First is the legend of the "ghost tree." During the lumber boom days, a boy was cutting down a tree when it toppled on him, causing his death. A sapling sprouted where the boy died, and grew into a white tree that has never produced a single leaf, even to this day. It's also said that nothing will grow near the ghost tree.

Lake Jean's story is a bit spookier. A boy fell through the ice, and his parents, watching from a shore side cabin, rushed to his rescue. They too cracked the ice and dropped into the frigid lake; all three drowned. Since then, it's been said that strange lights appear over the lake, and that the faces of the family can be seen in its waters.

Locals also claim to hear voices in the wind. There is no cemetery in the area; many think the voices are the laments of all the restless spirits that were never properly laid to rest, dating from the Native-American to lumberjack days.

So hey, if you're ever visiting Pennsylvania's great northeast, take in Ricketts Glen State Park. It's a beautiful site, brimming with history, meandering trails, waterfalls, scenic spots...and a smidgeon of spookiness.

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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...

This library was Carnegie's gift to the workers and families of the nearby Homestead Steel Works. It was small consolation for a community torn asunder by the bloody Homestead Strike of 1892. Many didn't even want to accept the building, though it eventually became a well-used neighborhood gathering spot with its books, pool, gym and music hall.

It didn't take long for some bad mojo to strike. Robert Peebles "was found dead in eight feet of water" in the pool on November 28th, 1899, "under mysterious circumstances" according to the Homestead Messenger. No one has claimed to see his spirit hovering, but there are plenty of other eerie experiences connected to the complex.

Books fly off the stacks and switch positions on the library shelves for no apparent reason, and doors open and close without any human intervention. Loud disembodied voices have been reported (no doubt drawing a frown and a "shhhh" from the not-easily-spooked librarians). The ghosts of old steel hands, still dressed in their sooty mill outfits, wander about the structure.

The library isn't the only hot spot for the unexplained. The housekeeper claimed to have seen a shadow moving in the back steps of the old music hall in the library; shadow figures of both sexes are regularly sighted in the building. The voices of ladies giggling in the basement locker room have been heard, and by no less than the Syfy Channel's "Ghost Hunters" squad.

The TAPS team visited the library in May of this year, and in September aired an episode from Homestead including Carnegie's building. And they confirmed most of the above phenomena to be active during their midnight expedition.

So if you ever stop by to grab a book or catch a show in the music hall, remember that the old steelworker standing nearby may not be on break from pumpin' iron and sweating steel, but an ethereal reminder of Homestead's misty past.

In the middle ages when the economy was agrarian, pagan harvest rites like Samhain continued unabated no matter how much the Church tried to squelch them. All focused on the dead; after all, it was tied into the season when the earth's bounty began dying.

Surprisingly, it's thought by many that the All Hallows (Saints) holiday, the church's effort to co-opt the pagan rites, wasn't first aimed at the Irish, but the Romans.

In the early seventh century, the Romans celebrated the Feast of the Lemures, which featured rituals such as bean offerings to the dead, walking around in circles at midnight, banging brass pots and asking your departed relatives to stay wherever they were. And it culminated on May 13th, not the end of October.

Pope Boniface IV decided to usurp the pagan's dead day with a Christian holiday, and declared an All Martyrs day on the same date. It seemed to work; after a century or so, Popes Gregory III & IV decided to try the same trick and moved the holiday to November 1st, not only to counteract Samhain but several other autumn pagan rituals common in Northern Europe. They renamed it All Hallows Day. (It was actually celebrated at the same time, as the Church holiday began at sundown.)

Our most recognizable Halloween custom sprang from the church-sponsored holiday. Catholic dogma taught of a nether world for the dead called purgatory, a not-so-pleasant half-way house on the way to heaven. And since the souls there couldn't do much to advance their cause, their fast track to the Pearly Gate was greased through prayers from the living.

So a custom sprang up called "souling." Beggars would door knock for sweets - a fruit cookie of sorts called a "soul cake" - and in exchange for the pastry promised to pray for departed souls. That practice morphed into today's trick or treating.

The church also introduced the association of witches with the holiday. They weren't really part of the culture until the witch hunts of the Middle Ages, although their familiars seem to have a long history of causing panic. The black cats were especially dreaded by the superstitious because all that could be seen of them at night were their seemingly disembodied glowing eyes.

But many of the customs remain from the old days as the church couldn't entirely dig out the pagan roots of Halloween. Skeletons were used from the beginning, some even being propped up on window sills to keep the dead at bay. Ghosts and the undead, of course, were the reason d 'etre of the pagan rites. Costumes and masks were worn by the Druids and their followers. And the jack-o-lantern was handed down through Irish folklore.

So there it is. Halloween is a tangled weave of Christian and pagan ritual and belief. Still, it's kinda hard to imagine that a bag of candy and Freddy Krueger was what the Vatican and Druids had in mind all those centuries ago. C' est la vie.

First, the Post-Gazette covers all the fright night haunts in the region from Hundred Acres Mansion to the Demon House in Faith Cotter's article "Spreading Fear."

The Tribune Review posts its mansions of mayhem, too, including some that are gently haunted for the kiddies and a movie schedule in its piece "Scary Season." It also has an older story by Michael Machosky called "Pittsburgh's Obsession With The Undead" that gives a neat little background on "Zombietown, USA."

We'd be remiss if we didn't mention the Zombie Fest, which will be held at Market Square on Saturday, October 8th, featuring bands and fun events like the brain-eating contest. It starts at noon; after all, zombies need their beauty sleep.

Hey, hometown pride runs deeper than the sports teams in da 'Burg. In some circles, George Romero is held in higher esteem than Hines Ward and Mario Lemieux. So wave your freak flag proudly, Tri-State spook fans. It's your season to screech.

There are some typical tales. Vodra Hall, a dorm located in the middle of campus, is the alleged site of unexplained laughter and music (at least it has happy spooks). And the old Science Center, now replaced and used by Hudson County CC, has a legend that claims an elevator workman was electrocuted on the second floor, and ever since the elevator often stops there whether or not the button is pushed.

But the primo paranormal spot is a gothic tower and theatre that are part of the oldest building on campus, the equally gothic Hepburn Hall (the structures are so associated with the school that its teams are known as the Gothics), which opened in 1930.

Hepburn Hall, the only school building used during the first 25 years of NJCU's existence, houses administrative offices, classrooms and the Margaret Williams Theater.

Opened in 1931 as an addition to Hepburn, the theatre was originally designed as a combination auditorium and gym like you see in most high schools. In 1968 it was renovated for use solely as a theatre and named after long-time faculty member Margaret Williams. She must have been pleased; it's said she's never left the building.

The classroom closest to the theater (Room 220) and under the Tower is always cold. Students have reported odd sounds coming from the attic and backstage of the theatre. The actual theatre sometimes has a spotlight that turns on and tracks an unseen phantom performance; some claim to hear songs and music coming from an empty stage.

But the most popular lore is the sighting of Margaret William's ghost floating through the halls. She's been reported seen in various rooms and the theatre. It's said that at night, you can sometimes see Williams peering down at you from the Tower. She haunted the theatre area during life, and looks like she's still comfortable there in death.

If you want to check out NJCU a little more, its lore is part of the popular Weird New Jersey series by Mark Moran and Mark Sceurman.

That would be the old Normal School building, the oldest structure on campus. As chronicled by Cheri Farnsworth in Haunted Northern New York, a turn-of-the-century schoolmarm sent one of her students to the basement to find out why the heat wasn't on. He found the answer hanging from the ceiling in the person of the janitor.

Cheri changed that a little later in her Big Book of New York Ghost Stories after some extra newspaper research. Just a few particulars were altered: in 1917, janitor John Blanchard did kill himself by inhaling gas because he was despondent over his wife's recent death.

Regardless of the year or method, the janitor reportedly didn't leave the Normal School after his departure from this vale of tears. Blanchard was often seen during the ensuing years walking the halls and checking the roof, just as if he were performing his everyday rounds.

The Normal School burned completely to ashes on January 26th, 1929, and it took more than three years to replace the original structure, built on the bones of the old. In 1955, it was renamed after Plattsburgh's longest tenured leader, George Hawkins, who was the school's principal (similar to president) when it was rebuilt.

Did Blanchard finally find the light home after the fire? Probably - he hasn't been seen since, although some still sense his presence.

But don't fear. There's still a dorm around that's full of unexplained phenomena and spooks, MacDonough Hall, the oldest resident hall on campus.

In 1948, work on the dorm, named in honor of General Thomas MacDonough, who led his troops to victory over the British in the Battle of Plattsburgh that capped the War of 1812, began. The field behind MacDonough Hall was used as a public hanging grounds for the nearby Arsenal, which was destroyed by a British raid on July 30th, 1813.

When workers began their site excavations, they found two old tombstones (some say remains were discovered, too) of a woman and a child, both believed to be among the oldest settlers in the area. The stones were moved to the roadway to be picked up and the digging went on. But the next morning, the markers couldn't be found. To this day, their disappearance has never been solved.

Hanging grounds? Disturbed graveyards? Hey, no good can come of a location like that, and MacDonough has its share of tales to tell.

Students have seen flickering on/off lights, heard piano music coming from an empty lobby and eerie children's laughter and crying echoing through the hallways. Some have seen grotesque images reflected from mirrors and windows, and heard the screams of a woman. One student reported being smothered in bed as her name was being called, supposedly verified by her roomie. A paranormal team went through the building, and got an EVP of a woman whispering to them in the attic.

One legend, reported on Shadowlands and some other sites, is that the basement of MacDonough Hall was once the morgue for the old city hospital. That's one bit of lore we can debunk. MacDonough opened in 1951 as a dormitory and has never been used as anything but a residence since then.

The morgue story has its roots in the web of underground passages beneath the building. They're not sinister. The "catacombs," as they're sometimes known, are used as maintenance tunnels, and back in the good ol' days of the Cold War also served as the school's bomb shelters in case the Russki Bear decided to drop the big one. And Plattsburgh was a primo target then; the nearby Air Force base was Top Ten on the hit list.

In fact, the base is supposed to be a haven to quite a few spooks itself, but we'll save that post for another day.

If you want to know a little more about Plattsburgh's haunted halls, open a copy of Haunted Northern New York or the Big Book of New York Ghost Stories by Cheri (Ravai) Farnsworth. Or enroll; your choice.

It's a popular lodge, restaurant and meeting center. But hey, watch who you're talking to - not all the guests are newly registered.

Graceland is thought to house the spirit of Grace (who else?). She's said to be the source of the unidentified sounds and sense of presence that fills the estate; some have even claimed to have caught a glimpse of her. Her supernatural aura was said to be strong enough to stop a prom being held in the building.

In 2008, paranormal investigator Chris Fleming led a troop of students on a ghost hunting expedition of Graceland. He got an alleged EVP from Henry Davis, saying hello, identifying himself, and then asking the group to leave. The gang even got a fuzzy photo of the good senator's shadow. Fleming also ran across Katie, apparently an old servant, who instructed the group to move on to the kitchen. When they got there, the gas burners turned on by themselves.

But the mansion's star spook is a former servant who, as the tale goes, was beaten to death for some transgression and buried under the dirt floor of Graceland's basement. People have reported seeing his face looking out the top window of the building.

Halliehurst, built in 1891 by Senator Stephen Elkins, was donated to the college in 1924 by the senator's wife and the mansion's namesake, Hallie Davis Elkins. When the College first opened, Halliehurst was a female dorm and has since been an administrative center for the school. Apparently, it's still Hallie's home, too.

Hallie's ghost has been seen looking out the window of her bedroom on the second floor, which is now the Admissions Office. Some say they've spotted her running up and down the stairs. Others claim that they felt a shove when they were on the steps or balcony.

Others say that they've seen and heard a small knot of children laughing and playing on the porch and even seen a giggling girl standing on the stairway and then disappearing.

Fleming visited Halliehurst the same night he toured Graceland. He said he made contact with children on the second floor, whose laughter was caught on EVP. In the servants wing of the mansion, Fleming said he felt the presence of a ghost and tried to make contact with no luck. But there is supposedly a photo that depicts the ghostly face of a young woman in a kitchen window of Halliehurst.

While the locals are of divided opinion regarding the going-ons at the houses on Haunted Hill, they don't exactly shush the rumors away; some are even supported by staff reports. And both mansions are the sites of Haunted Halloween parties, ghost tours and other spookily themed events, reminders yet of the century old Davis-Elkin legacy. It's kinda nice that the old bones still have an interest in the College named for their families after all these years.

A church was built directly atop the burial grounds in 1852. The web history has it that a local law required cemeteries in the city proper to physically connect with an adjoining church, but it actually was raised to provide a growing western Baltimore population with a place to worship.

property being tight, the structure was plopped in the middle of the boneyard, straddling gravestones and burial vaults to create a hybrid catacomb system between its supporting arches and under its floor.

But the church membership crested and by the 1920's, the flock eventually moved away into the 'burbs, leaving the historic graveyard deserted, in disrepair and vandalized for decades.

In 1970, the U of Maryland got hold of the land, and in 1981, the Westminster Preservation Trust began to manage the property and are in the ongoing process of restoring it. Thanks to their work, the church (now Westminster Hall) and cemetery are again open to the public from dawn to dusk.

The graveyard now holds the plots of deceased plain folk, assorted hoi-polloi, eight congressmen, five mayors, Revolutionary War and War of 1812 veterans, a small army of generals, and local celebs like Edgar Allen Poe, all who found Westminster to be their last stop.

And not very many of them seem to resting in peace.

Cemetery visitors have reported hearing bodiless voices, footsteps and screams, feeling the grip of invisible icy hands, sniffing inexplicable stenches and encountering cold spots.

There are numerous alleged sightings of spirits and dark misty figures roaming the grounds, often looking more lost than the living. Ghost hunters have captured EVPs and photos of the dearly departed in orb/shadow form. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

One suspected cause of the eeriness is the church itself. Because it was thrown up in the middle of the graveyard (it's said that the cemetery's brick paths were used as a foundation), there are some tombs that are now inaccessible to visitors. And boy, there's nothing more cranky (or noisy) than a lonesome, forgotten spook.

Another is the movement of graves during the building of the church. A whole section of Revolutionary War soldiers thought lost was later discovered under one of the walkways, and other bodies were likewise shuffled around or just plain lost.

God only knows how many plots were covered or moved because of the church; it was said that kids could be seen playing with skulls in the graveyard.

Davidge Hall provided another source of potential spookiness. It is the oldest medical school building in the US, dating back a couple of centuries, and was where bodies were dissected by the students. It was also built on property carved from John Howard's farm, so guess where the cadavers came from?

Digging up bodies for anatomical studies became commonplace. The midnight raids, though, so upset the locals that they once hung a student grave-robber that they had caught in the ghoulish act. Vandals and thieves were also a constant problem. They left the bodies intact, but stripped off anything of value, like jewelry.

Add to that macabre mix tales of people buried alive, although for what reason we never did discover, and you have a perfect storm for spooks. Neglected, abused, dissected, relocated, built over, lost...it's no wonder there are so many reports of Westminster apparitions.

There are several haunts that are renowned at Westminster. One is the "screaming skull of Cambridge" of a long-ago murdered minister.

It's said to screech 24/7 - and the lore is that when they planted the clergyman, they gagged his skull's yap and covered it in cement in an effort to shut him up. It usually works, but woe to anyone that hears the scream; it's supposed to drive you insane.

Another often-sighted spirit is that of a nameless, elderly, white-haired spirit, seen walking slowly between the rows of tombstones as if in search of a particular marker.

There's also lore of an insane woman's ghost haunting the catacombs. She was considered so raving mad that she was buried in her strait jacket. Her crazed laughter is supposed to echo through the catacombs, and her presence has reportedly followed folk through the graveyard.

And don't disrespect a grave; the shadow of an old groundskeeper may show up and start chasing you with a shovel. The ghost is said to act as if he's under the influence, as he was most of his time on earth, and will swear up a storm while shooing you out of his cemetery.

The second-most famous spirit is that of 16 year old Lucia Watson Taylor, who died back in 1816. She's been seen many times kneeling by her own grave and praying, a long haired lass dressed in a loose white dress.

But the main man at Westminster is America's Master of the Macabre, Edgar Allan Poe. EAP died on October 7, 1849 on the sidewalks of Baltimore, and was buried in Westminster Church Cemetery.

He only died once, but he has two graves at Westminster. His original marker is near the back of the cemetery and is a headstone with an engraved raven. He actually went quite a while without a stone; his memorial was shattered in a train accident on the way to Baltimore.

The second is a monument added in 1875 after Western Female HS teacher Sarah Sigourney Rice and Baltimore school children waged a "Pennies for Poe" campaign to build a proper memorial. It's where he's actually buried now.

In commemoration of their success (George Childs actually covered half the cost, but hey...), it's a tradition for visitors to leave a penny at his grave site even today.

Everyone knows the story of Poe's birthday visitor, and he's not a spook. But did you know that Poe himself makes the rounds at Westminster every so often?

He's been seen in the grave yard, mostly around his birthday but also at other times throughout the year. Poe is reported to be dressed in black, wearing a waistcoat, broad brimmed fedora, and a scarf covering his face.

Edgar Allen carries a walking cane topped with a silver cat's head, and has even talked to some of the people who have seen him. Poe's also been reported in the catacombs.

Hey, Westminster Burying Grounds is beaucoup popular. Beside ghost and Halloween tours, it's been featured on "Sightings - The Ghost Report," and episodes of "Creepy Canada" and "Scariest Places on Earth."

And you can't beat the price of a visit - it's free, except for the penny you have to leave for Edgar Allen Poe.

A small dirt lane known as Park Road was serviced by a turn-of-the-century jitney driver, who rode the well workers to and from their jobs. One day he felt a bounce while driving his wagon, and looked back to see who was bumming a free ride. It was the bloody figure of a headless man, who we assume was looking for a lift back home. Good luck with that, although he must have made it to wherever he wanted to go, as he's not been seen since.

Then there's the sad saga of blind Ed Koons, who lived near what is now the park entrance. Not only was he sightless, but married to a true shrew, with the mother-in-law also sharing the crib. Aye carumba! Life was not very kind to Ed, and having had his fill, he tossed a rope over a tree, slipped his head in the noose and hung himself.

According to local legend, Ed Koon is still hanging around. To this day, people have reported seeing his body dangling from that tree, outlined by their headlights. Park pedestrians have claimed that they've seen his spook on the gravel path leading to the lodge, near the spot of his sad ending.

Teens parking near the park entrance - it's a local lover's lane - reported hearing pounding on their vehicles, and when they got out to see what was up, all they found were handprints on their car. Most suspect that the prints belong to Koon, probably frustrated that others have the kind of relationship with their girls that he never enjoyed in life (or maybe he's just being ornery, who knows?)

Today, the state park is known for its 72 miles of rail trails, a series of old railroad beds and tunnels that are now used for hiking and biking. It's Tunnel 19 (the Silver Run Tunnel), where Ritchie County's most popular ghost is said to roam.

First, a little cemetery lore. There's an old graveyard at the top of the hill by the tunnel entrance. It was the final stop for workers who lost their lives building the tunnel, and is supposed to be a very active paranormal spot. But that's not the headliner.

A "Lady In White" has been seen in the tunnel, going back to railroad days and continuing into the present. The tunnel itself has cold spots and is claimed to look illuminated inside without any light source. Her story, in brief:

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. None of the locals actually knew, or at least remembered, who she was, but vague recollections of a fatal fall from the train platform, jilted brides and foul play were roiled once again from the dusty past.

It was widely assumed that she was the alleged lady in white.

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, and that seemed to answer their questions. The remains were 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...

H&H doesn't) is located within Sproul State Forest in Clinton County and contains one of the most unique natural habitats in Western Pennsylvania. It features its namesake conifer among a varied wetlands' collection of bird and plant life, and even includes one flower that munches on insects.

It was originally a logging and gas drilling site; now it seems to be the home of high school keggers. But it's also the origin of the legend of George. Here's the story...

There's a ribbon of a trail that winds through the swamp. One day two school buses tried to pass one another in opposite directions. The road was too narrow, and the vehicles bumped and splashed into the Tamarack. According to local lore, several-to-many of the kiddies lost their lives.

After the accident, one the drivers - yep, George - returned to the scene of the fatal wreck, and filled with remorse, hanged himself off one of the trio of bridges that spanned the lane.

Legend has it that if you drive over each bridge and chant "GEORGE, GEORGE, GEORGE," you'll hear thrashing under the bridges from the driver's tormented spirit. It's also claimed that you'll hear the voices of small children out in the swamp and your car will be covered with their handprints. To make the adventure even dicier, cars were said to stall on the bridges, making them easy prey for George.

A popular game among the area youth is to dare one other to get out of the car, run down the dark road, and make it back to the car before George tears them to pieces. We'd guess with an attitude like that, he obviously prefers to do his eternal penance in solitude.

In fact, the footrace with George is pretty much the only game in town now. The state closed the trail to vehicles, making it accessible only to pedestrian traffic.

Some people report that the rusting hulks of the buses still remain, but what they see are actually the remnants of a couple of old campers parked out in the swamp. There's also an unsubstantiated tale alleging that a small town once existed there, but sank in the swamp. Apparitions and the sounds of former residents are claimed to float through the bog.

Another thing that remains unexplained is the UFO sightings reported by swamp visitors. The Tamarack appears to be an intergalactic tourist trap, too.

So if you're around the parkland, stop by and see if George is under his bridge or if a UFO is hovering. If not, maybe you'll at least get to see a swamp mosquito or two become a snack for the Tamarack flora.

It's sited about an hour away from the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum, and in fact they were featured together on the same Ghost Hunters episode in 2009. The asylum is well known as one of West Virginia's hottest paranormal spots. Flinderation's claim to spooked out fame begins with a three-man track gang working in the tunnel, sometime in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century.

While the gandy dancers were doing their thing, a train roared through the narrow tunnel, its engineer unaware that there was any work going on inside. One man managed to escape the speeding train, but the other pair were mangled and killed by the Iron Horse.

The train itself derailed, and there are conflicting tales as to why. One story says it was because the track work wasn't completed; another says that it tipped off the tracks while dragging a worker's body under its wheels. No one has found any published verification of the train wreck story, but it was long ago and far from any large towns. Beside, a train derailment and a couple of railroaders accidentally shuffling off this mortal coil wouldn't have been big news during that era.

Another tale equally as gruesome claims that the tunnel was a regular gathering point of the KKK in the early 1900s. Not only did the klansmen meet there, but they used the dark tunnel as a lynching spot to create a little extra terror while performing their horrific deeds.

To add to the eerie mix, Travel Channel's Ghost Stories said that a cemetery once existed atop the tunnel. The show claimed that some of the coffins fell through the roof of the tunnel, and that a disinterred body may have once been lodged between the tunnel's roof and the cemetery above.

As you might imagine, Flinderation's karma took quite a hit because of these events, and the tunnel has the paranormal lore to back its hard luck history.

People claim to have heard phantom train whistles and have seen a ghost train (or at least its lights) rumble through the tunnel, along with the sound of metal scraping against metal. The spirits of a young boy and girl, giggling and laughing, have been seen and heard. Voices saying "Help me" and "Quit pushing" have been reported by paranormal investigators, apparently remnants of the long-ago derailment.

Other sounds such as deep grumbles, sobbing and screaming are heard as common occurrences and been captured by EVPs. Unexplained lights, bodiless footsteps, orbs and mists have been both sighted and photographed.

Flinderation Tunnel was officially closed and the tracks were torn out in the nineties. It was out of service for some time prior to then because of the decline of railroad traffic in general and, it's said, because the tunnel's dark tales made it a track that railroaders religiously wanted to avoid. Today, like so many other abandoned rail lines, it's a recreational run, part of the eastern end of the North Bend Rail Trail.

So you can lace up your Nikes, hop on your bike, or jump on your horse (it's also an equestrian trail) to check out the legends of Flinderation Tunnel. When you get inside, your creep-o-meter will red line. It's pitch black once you're a few feet in (and flashlight batteries are said to die inside), its path is muddy and treacherous, and water drips through the ceiling while the splashes echo noisily off the walls. Or is that a decomposing body falling through the roof...?

Heck, if you dig the chills and eerie ambiance of Flinderation Tunnel, you can "like" its Facebook page. Even apparitions know how to get out the word with social tools nowadays. And ain't that spooky?

But hey, with almost two centuries of existence, you know the school has more attached to it than a long list of distinguished alums (which it most certainly boasts). It's considered one of the more heavily haunted sites in the state. It starts when you enter the campus.

The southern campus gates on the school's Main Path are said to have been built over a Hellmouth, or portal to Lucifer's lair. One shouldn't walk between the pillars when the bells in the Church of the Holy Spirit are chiming at midnight, unless looking for a one-way ticket to perdition. That's why they're known by the students as the "Gates of Hell."

Others warn to never look into the trees shading the gravelly Middle Path. Because of their shape, they're considered "pitchfork trees." We're not exactly sure what that means, but it sounds sufficiently sinister enough that we sure as heck don't plan to find out. Superstitious Kenyon students who pass between the old gates always tap one as they pass, apparently to keep themselves grounded in the material world.

Once you're safely on campus, there's hardly a building that doesn't have a tale connected with it.

Bailey House: There are reports of footsteps in an empty building, cold spots and a sense of presence.

Caples Hall: The ghost of a student who died in a plunge down an elevator shaft allegedly still holds a grudge against girls in Caples Hall. The most popular story is that the guy, returning unexpectedly from a party, found his girl with another fella. This led to a pretty nasty argument, and she barricaded her door with a bureau while the angry beau either fell or was pushed down the shaft, presumably by the other guy.

(Another version has the guy staying overnight with his girlfriend, and when groggily leaving in the morning, stepped through the elevator doors without noticing that there was no elevator car and fell to his death. We like the first tale better; it explains the spooks' campaign against females.)

The gal involved later felt icy hands covering her face as she slept and found her door blocked by her dresser on different occasions. The jilted lover's transparent spook has been reportedly seen leaning against female students' furniture, and sometimes pushes dressers against dorm room doors in a ghostly reenactment of his last night on this mortal coil. The spirit actually tries to physically harm females in the hall, according to the lore, accused once of smothering a girl with her pillow.

The events all take place on the eighth floor.This is supposedly based on an actual incident that happened at Caple, although we suspect the details have become fairly well muddled over time.

Church of the Holy Spirit: The 19th century chapel is thought to be cursed. There are scorch marks by the windows (although no record of a fire exists) but they run down instead of up, meaning the flame that caused them burnt downwards. That defies physics, but it is the right direction if you're headed to Hades. It seems fitting. The church is alleged to sit over the pits of Hell, yet another gateway to Old Scratch's realm.

There are also reports of a priest's ghost, a pitch-black shape seen under the choir loft. Years ago, the father was said to have gone loco and locked himself in the office of the Church. The legend is that he hung himself in the belltower and is now condemned to haunt the church forever as his eternal punishment.

The DKE Pledge: In 1905 Stuart Pierson was killed while pledging the DKEs when he was struck by a train on a trestle over the Kokosing River during his initiation. Every year on the accident's anniversary date of October 28th, Stu's ghost is said to gaze forlornly out of a window as the trains pass. In fact, whoever's living his former room in Old Kenyon vacates it that day for Stuart to reclaim.

Pierson's shadow now has to watch Schwinns whizzing by instead of locomotives as his fateful railroad line has been replaced by a bike trail. Stuart is active during the rest of the year, too. He opens and closes windows on the top floor and his footsteps can be heard treading across the roof through the ceiling.

Those with a more skeptical bend suspect that the Stu story is just a way for the DKE brothers to spook the pledges. They hold a ceremony with a processional carrying a coffin to the trestle, followed by various readings while dressed in frat regalia on the anniversary of "Stewie's" death. Nothing like a little pomp and circumstance.

One positive came from Stu's untimely demise, which is a documented event. For the first time, the Greek community began to examine the question of fraternity hazing, although it would take decades to finally tone down the practice.

The Hill Theater: It's located inside the Shaffer Speech Center, which was supposedly built on site of a drunk driving accident that killed two students. Night staff routinely find the ghost light (a theatrical night light) unscrewed on the Hill stage. Although they turn it back on and lock the building, they often find it unscrewed again on their next visit. The stage curtains are also often found mysteriously open after having been closed following the evening rehearsals.

Guards have also allegedly reported seeing the spirit of a student who fell to his death from the catwalk. The sound of his body repeatedly thumping against the backstage is said to echo through the theater.

Kokosing (Bishop's) House: The Kokosing House, also known as the Bishop's House, was built in 1864 by Bishop Gregory Thurston Bedell. Residents and guests have reported organ music, doors which had been closed standing open, strange noises in the front room, creaking floors, footsteps and banging windows. The resident ghost, a female, has been seen on the house balcony and stairwell, although nobody is quite sure who she is.

Leonard Hall: Room thirteen (where else?) is supposedly haunted. Residents report creaking sounds and a sense a presence. A guard once claimed to have seen a figure in a ball cap that disappeared in front of him.

Lewis Hall: A freshman who hanged himself in the attic (which has since been boarded up) turns lights on and off, randomly flushes toilets, and disturbs students by knocking on their doors. Kinda hard to tell the difference between a flesh-and-blood frosh from a spook, judging by that phenomena.

Manning Hall: A student who died of leukemia before she could attend classes keeps herself busy waiting for her first day of courses to arrive. She rearranges furniture and student belongings in her old dorm room, 108, as if still preparing herself for the upcoming school year.

Mather Hall: The basement of this dorm is supposed to have trap doors that lead down to the Gateway to Hell (the third one on campus, by our count). It's said that if they're opened a Satanic altar will appear along with a flaming stairway leading to Satan's sin bin.

Norton Hall: A student who committed suicide in his dorm room roams the hall's corridors. The female spirit is said to be a night stalker of sorts. She noisily paces the dorm late at night when most of the living students are asleep, or at least trying to sleep. Why? Because she was an insomniac in real life who walked the halls when she couldn't sleep.

Old Kenyon: On February 27th, 1949, nine students were killed in a blaze that consumed the school's oldest building, dating to 1827. It was rebuilt the following year, and tales of the victim's spirits began almost immediately after it reopened. The shadows of the unfortunate nine were reported gliding down the halls, visible only from the knees up because the foundation of the new dorm was higher than the one of the former building. Some students claimed to see the transparent legs of the ghosts hanging through the ceiling of a lower floor.

More eerily, night cries of "Get me out of here!" are heard, along with "Wake up, fire!" ringing through the halls, accompanied by the violent shaking of closed doors. It's also been said that 1949 yearbooks are sometimes found open to the page with the names of the nine victims.

There's also a little contrarian history involved. Some claim that the ghosts are actually nine women who died in the fire while staying over at Old Kenyon with their boyfriends after a Sophomore dance. The school administration never conceded the possibility that girls were in the all-male dorm. But it's said that at night you can hear a group of women singing around Old Kenyon.

Rosse Hall: There's a portrait of Lady Rosse, a supporter of Bishop Chase, in the hall foyer ("Lady Jane King"). It's said the picture's eyes will follow you around, and if you stare at the portrait too long, you'll be cursed.

Shaffer Pool/Bolton Dance Studio: This building used to be the home of the Kenyon swimming pool. According to legend, a swimmer using the high dive board bounced his head off the glass ceiling (the original pool was called "The Greenhouse" because of that feature), broke his neck, splashed into the pool and drowned.

There is no record of that sort of event ever happening, but there sure are a lot of spooky tales that make it seem possible. When the old pool was still used (it's since moved to a modern athletic complex), swimmers sometimes heard a voice calling out for help or lifeguards would hear someone thrashing in the water, only to find the pool empty. Conversational voices have been heard, too.

The Dance Studio has been plagued by the unexplained as well. Wet footprints lead into the old locker room area or to walls where they dead end. Splashing and springboard sounds are heard by dancers in the studio, and a small white face with wet, slicked back hair has been reported peeking out through a window at passersby.

A school tradition has the old pool, which was located in the current Shaffer basement (it's now a boiler room) visited annually by the swim team before their championship meet. By candlelight, the team goes down the spiral staircase and gathers around one of the seniors, who tells the story of "The Greenhouse Ghost" to get the squad in the mood to do-or-die in the upcoming meet.

It's been said that the ghost moved to the new pool, though that's unconfirmed. That's a lot of spectral swimming for our water wraith.

Wertheimer Fieldhouse: A jogging ghost has been reported by the night guards, unseen but heard running around the track. There are also claims of music coming from the storage area, apparently as the track spook winds down after his workout. The spirit may not even have a Kenyon connection. The fieldhouse was part of an old off-site Navy installation and was donated to the college. It was transported to Kenyon, so maybe the jogger came along for the ride.

With all these tales, we still probably haven't done justice to Kenyon's haunted history. Tim Shutt, a professor well known for his ghost tours, which he conducts in a top hat and waistcoat, is the man to find when you're on campus. He knows where all the skeletons are hidden.

Most of the guests like to tan, splash around, and enjoy a week-long romp in the sun and sand. But others come away with stories of the hotel's more permanent guests, its spooks.

Now, the Typaldos say they've never seen anything supernatural occur in their hotel, but they do admit it's an old building with a lot of tradition and history, and have a generally laissez-faire attitude toward the whole ghost thingie.

But check with their employees, and the stories come gushing out. They've heard the sound of footsteps and moving furniture in empty rooms, and people walking down hallways when they're alone. The sense of presence while they work is also a well known phenomena at the hotel.

One popular report is of the sound of children, playing and laughing, in the lobby and the hallways, usually at night. One employee claimed to have seen the ghostly kids in the lobby.

Guests have verified what the staff has seen and heard, adding their own tales. Some visitors claimed to see apparitions of people dressed in dark nineteenth century outfits walking through their rooms or down the hall. Others have said that they've seen an impression form on their beds as if someone were laying there.

Lookin' for a little sun in the summer? Try a trip to the Grenville - you may be surprised at who you meet.

(Readers - sorry; we've been on a bit of a hiatus. This is our weekend blog, and spring has finally sprung. We promise to get back in the swing of things after fending off our spring fever - H&H)

12/21/2011

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.

Now it's a museum, open for tours and sightseeing - and there are more things in Oak Hill Cottage than meet the eye.

First, there are the usual sensory phenomena. Visitors claim to feel a stifling presence of someone watching them, some even suffering panic attacks, and other oddities, such as the lights on the chandelier flickering on and off. And that's just the starting point.

One ghost reported is that of an elderly female, wearing period clothing, most often seen on the main stairway. If you spot her, never fear - she's said to be friendly and seems happy to see visitors admiring her home; she may even welcome you. It's supposed that she's Frances Jones, who truly loved the cottage.

She's also been seen fluffing the pillows and dusting in the cottage rooms, still a neat housekeeper after all these years (some say it's an old maid still doing her duty, but we prefer to agree with those who think it's Frances, keeping her pride and joy homestead up to snuff).

Other spooks are more site specific.

A back stairway leads a small landing, one which is reportedly frequented by the spirit of a young boy dressed in white stockings and knee pants. He's thought to be the shadow of one of the Robinson's sons who died in the home and spent his days playing on the landing.

In the basement, the apparition of an old man haunts the furnace area, and he has a bad vibe. No one can quite identify him, but it's no wonder he's ornery, being stuck in the cellar for all eternity.

Stop in if you get the chance. The house has a great history, and you may get to take in more than the furniture and art. You may be lucky enough to meet an old inhabitant or two.

It dates back to 1844, and since has grown to a major research center with 18,000 students scattered over several city campuses, with a tradition of gently spooked buildings. Its alleged haunts include:

-- The Humanities Building mostly reports, via the evening work staff, eerie night noises - things dropping to the floor, slamming doors, bodiless footsteps and other assorted sounds. There are also unsubstantiated reports of a ghostly nun sighted in the hall.

-- Mahican Hall (located at the Indian Quad, how appropriate!) is said to be spooked by the apparition of girl that walks the corridors late at night. She's a relatively recent addition to Albany's lore, first being reported in the mid-nineties.

-- The Performing Arts Center features the shadow of an electrician who died in the building when some wires he was working on shorted. He's more of a presence than actual spook, and his sense has been reported by actors, especially during rehearsals.

-- Pierce Hall, part of downtown Albany's Alumni Quad, was built in 1935 as a women's dorm and basically unchanged since then, also hosts a specter girl that endlessly paces the building.

The U may not exactly be a hotbed of howling ghouls, but hey - get off campus and take a trip through Albany; you'll find a who's who of spookdom in the state capitol.

The Education Building sports the spirit of a workman who was buried alive in concrete in the basement, called the Dungeon; Sage College's Fine Arts Building is home to a collection of specters; and the Capitol Building tour includes the ghost of a custodian who died in a fire; there are several other tales of the unexplained floating all around the town.

Detractors may mockingly call the upstate city smAlbany (everyplace can't be the Big Apple), but it's big-time when it comes to spooky lore.

Ron Kirkpatrick of East Brady is a talented and hard-working customizer; he operates his own shop, Ron Kirkpatrick Customs, on 3rd Street. His company specializes in bike work and does vehicle customizing, too. He wrote H&H and related this tale:

His shop was originally built in 1927 as a Quaker State station. The previous owner sold the shop to Kirkpatrick after he had a ghost sighting and refused to ever set foot in the building again. Despite the tale, Ron plunked down the cash and set up business.

Kirkpatrick poked into the history of the structure a bit, and found out that a pair of people had died there, including the original owner, because of work-related accidents. That in itself isn't all that unusual, considering the shop dates back to the Roaring Twenties.

But the old owner's tale picked up some credence when Kirkpatrick's security system taped pictures of orbs on a daily basis and suffered from unexplained electrical glitches, one of the trademarks of visitors from the other side.

Adding another log to the fire were the reports from his staff, who claimed to witness two misty old men in the garage and "seeing other stuff flying around."

Intrigued, he had a local ghost-hunting crew investigate the place. They captured an EVP of a voice that said their names before their equipment malfunctioned.

Do the spirits of two men who left home for work and never returned now consider the shop their new home? Well, Kirkpatrick will leave it up to you; he has an open invitation for the curious to stop by his place, at 504 3rd Street on Route 68, to see for themselves.

Better yet, bring your ride. The shop spooks will keep you entertained while Kirkpatrick turns your wheels into a work of street art (flames or haunted theme, your choice).

Ron sent us pictures taken by his security cam; here's one orb shot:

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Goodbye, Kaybee
12/21/2011

Point Lookout Park
12/21/2011