Pascagoula, Mississippi, is home to an abundance of local lore; not surprisingly, so is one of its most treasured antebellum homes (one of the few remaining), which you may know as The Longfellow House.
The home was constructed of native pines and cypresses during the 1850s by Captian Daniel Graham. Its slate roof was adorned with three dormers with a chimney at each end. This three-story structure stood on a large plot containing around four-hundred feet of waterfront property on Pascagoula Bay. Inside, a winding, magnificent, self-supporting staircase leads to the third floor–a testament to the architectural grandeur of the estate. The house has about twenty rooms and three cross-halls.
Longfellow House, Pascagoula (Charles Reagan Wilson Collection, Center for the Study of Southern Culture, University of Mississippi
Captain Graham was a wealthy slave trader from New Orleans and an occasional pirate. He and his wife were reputed to be exceedingly cruel to slaves. As a result, to this day, blood stains may be seen on the third-story floors.
Once construction was completed, Graham set off to sea, leaving his wife to keep up the mansion. He died of mysterious circumstances.
The residence served as a refuge and hospital during the Civil War, and afterwards, Mrs. Graham moved away. The house sat empty for years. Unexplained noises and objects that enigmatically changed location led locals to believe the house was haunted, perhaps by a ghost of a slave who died due to mistreatment at the hands of the Graham family.
Captain Graham’s inclination to piracy inspired legends of a hidden treasure on the estate, which led to wall demolition and the occasional hole-digging on the grounds. No gold has been found–as of yet.
Sometime between 1873 and 1902, the property changed hands nine or more times. Some owners resided at the estate, while others didn’t. It served as a girls’ school for a time. W.A. Pollock purchased the home in 1902, and his family lived there for 36 years. They named the home Bellevue, although locals usually called it the Pollock House. When his family sold the house, Mayor Frank Canty took ownership but sold it three years later to Ingalls Shipbuilding Corporation (ISC).
ISC transformed it into an exclusive club resort with all the amenities. They changed the name to The Longfellow House to reflect the rumor that the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow visited the estate, and inspired by Pascagoula Bay, penned “The Building of a Ship.” A line in the poem reads, “Brought from regions far away, / From Pascagoula’s sunny bay.” There is, however, no proof of a visit. Some say Longfellow likely heard of Pascagoula as a source of timber for sailing ship masts.
ISC ran the resort successfully for a time, but eventually, business declined, and the house fell into disarray.
A real estate developer purchased the estate and divided the land to sell as individual lots. Diane and Richard Scruggs were the subsequent owners of the house. They researched its history, restored the home to its former grandeur, and donated it to the University of Mississippi Foundation.
In 2005, Hurricane Katrina caused extensive damage to the estate. The following year the home was purchased and again became a private residence.
There are more legends surrounding the home, including a few I couldn’t quite track down about a baby falling from the third-story window and something about a renegade priest. Visitors have reported seeing entities at the windows of the home. Have you heard these stories? Do you have a haunted tale about Longfellow House to tell? We’d love to hear it!
You can drop your story in the comments or send them to us at msfolklore@gmail.com.
Researching and writing a story about the ghost of Deer Island was suggested to me a few months ago and I readily agreed; I consider myself the perfect person to do so. I have experienced unexplained noises, apparitions, and ghostly visions in my travels around the US described by locals. Therefore, I have no problem believing ghosts exist, even if only in my overactive imagination. Still, I do need credible evidence or a firsthand visit by a spirit before buying into any local legend or popular lore, which is usually spread around to drum up tourist business. Over a long military career, I had the good fortune to live for a time in the cities of Biloxi, Ocean Springs, and Picayune. During my early years living on the coast, I often strolled through the French Quarter while my small Renault was being serviced at the local dealer. As I walked around the cobblestone streets looking up at frilly wrought iron framed balconies and occasionally ducked into small dimly lit shops just off Canal Street near the Museum of Death, the past crowded in on me, laying heavy on my shoulders; a musty cloak of violent history and questionable karma. Restless spirits from three hundred years past swirled around my subconscious teasing me with disturbing thoughts and images.
Enter Deer Island.
While stationed at Keesler Air Force Base, I passed Deer Island every single day. One breezy Saturday afternoon in March, I made small talk with a local shrimper while he scooped large grey shrimp into a brown paper bag and weighed them for me. Those gulf shrimp had been swimming in the Mississippi Sound a couple of hours earlier. Glancing south across a quarter mile of water shimmering like quicksilver in the bright sun, I asked, “What do you know about Deer Island?” He paused, stopped folding the damp paper bag, and glanced across the water before looking at me intently, black eyes boring a hole in me for what felt like an eternity before asking, “What chew want to go messing with that spooky piece of swamp fer?” I smiled, shrugged, and offered, “Just curious I suppose.” He shook his head and frowned as he handed me two pounds of pungent shrimp that would be boiling in a large silver pot in a couple of hours, “Stay yourself aways from theah. If de ghosts don’t get you, de smugglers will.” I nodded and walked off.
Storm Clouds Approaching Deer Island
A Short History
French explorers landed on the Mississippi coast in 1717, establishing a small camp. The expedition wasted no time mapping the area and collecting plants and animals to take back to France before setting sail for other parts of the gulf south. A few hardy souls remained, however, expanding the camp into the city of Biloxi. The name Biloxi refers to a member of a Native American people formerly inhabiting territory on the Gulf of Mexico, Biloxi Bay, and outlying barrier islands. Deer Island is a 400-acre, four-mile-long ribbon of sand, palmetto bushes, sawgrass, and scrub pine lying about three hundred yards off Biloxi beach. It is one of several barrier islands in the Mississippi Sound, shown on navigation charts as the Chandeleurs. Deer Island’s highest elevation is seven feet. Locals say that at low tide the nutrient-rich water along that stretch of the Sound is shallow enough to wade from the mainland to the island…assuming the wader doesn’t step into an almost invisible sinkhole and drop twenty feet into murky brown water. The marshy, low-lying island has been a magnet for tourists, fishermen, and crooks for more than a hundred and fifty years. Developers and smugglers alike have been drawn to the place. From 1905 until the mid1930s, an amusement park operated on the island. During Prohibition, bootleggers found Deer Island very useful. Even now, I’m sure that smugglers find the island a convenient drop-off point for illegal goods and are instrumental in keeping stories of ghosts and sightings of other strange apparitions alive and well. Ten endangered species can be found on the island, including Great Blue Herons bred in a rookery maintained by the Mississippi Coastal Preserve.
Until Hurricane Camille struck the area in 1969, Deer Island was inhabited by a sprinkling of local fishermen and their families. The island was evacuated after Camille, which though an unpopular decision at the time, proved providential; Hurricane Katrina’s storm surge crushed the island under the weight of a ten feet high wall of fast-moving seawater. After Katrina, the State built an artificial barrier reef to minimize storm damage and protect Deer Island.
Deer Island Home Before Hurricane Camille
Spirits and Other Apparitions
Many generations of coast residents believe the island has been haunted by restless spirits for almost two centuries. In 1922, the writer A.G. Ragusin published a story called “The Ghost of Deer Island.” By the time Ragusin’s article was published, the ghost story had been a part of local lore for more than a hundred years. Ragusin’s story quoted Captain Eugene Tiblier, Sr., a lifelong Biloxi resident, who related the following tale told him by two fishermen. Sometime in 1892, the men were spending the night on Deer Island when they heard Palmetto bushes rustling and shaking a few feet away. They quietly walked toward the noise. To their horror, they saw a headless skeleton standing among the Palmettos. The ghost was part of an unknown pirate crew that buried treasure on Deer Island, perhaps a hundred years earlier. Before the pirate captain departed the island, he beheaded one crew member, leaving the corpse to guard his treasure. The headless skeleton is said to roam Deer Island at night, restlessly searching for his lost head.
A few years after the two fishermen told Captain Tiblier of their experience, he and his brother Louis decided to check out their story, rowing a skiff to Deer Island intent on spending the night. According to Captain Tiblier, he and his brother were also startled to hear the shaking and rattling of Palmetto bushes. Thinking it might be a wild hog, they walked toward the sound. Instead, they too saw a headless skeleton standing among the Palmettos. The skeleton charged, chasing the Tiblier brothers to their boat, causing them to make a hasty departure from the island. Captain Tiblier also told Ragusin another ghost story. On two separate moonless nights, at about 2 AM, he and his brother saw the Firewater Ghost as they rowed a skiff across the back bay from Biloxi to Gautier. According to local legend, the Firewater Ghost is a blue light that floats about a foot over the water and travels between the Biloxi back bay and Deer Island; always after midnight. It is said to be a sentry holding the blue light as he patrols the bay.
Summary
I never made it out to Deer Island, though I did pilot a boat near there. In 1980, I had the use of a twenty-eight-foot Sea Ray for a few days. A couple of times each week I launched from the Keesler Marina and headed east around Point Cadet toward Ocean Springs and Deer Island. However, I turned around before reaching the busy Point Cadet shipping channel which was always thick with shrimp boats, tugs, and barges. I was often on the water at night but never saw the Firewater Ghost. In my interaction with locals, I never heard tales by locals of the Deer Island Ghost reappearing to chase campers away from the island’s pirate treasure. This brings up one curious point that I believe the writer Ragusin should have cleared up for his readers. If Deer Island was continually inhabited until just after Hurricane Camille, how did the islanders make peace with the headless skeleton? Did they give that part of the island a wide berth or did the ghost decide to leave them alone? I am still looking for a copy of Mr. Ragusin’s story, so perhaps he did address my questions. On my next trip to the coast, if I’m able to find more details about Deer Island and Firewater Ghosts, I’ll let you know.
If you have any Deer Island stories, we’d love to hear them. Leave them in the comments or send them to us at msfolklore@gmail.com.
Have you ever seen something in the sky you couldn’t explain – a UFO? If you did, did you tell someone about it or keep it to yourself for fear of being laughed at or labeled bonkers?
In American culture, that’s the way it often goes. Some countries take these things seriously, but when you say, “I saw a UFO last night,” in the USA you usually get serious side-eye.
After decades of secrecy and denials, the U.S. Military revealed in a Congressional hearing last May that they have a database of about 400 incidents of “Unidentified Aerial Phenomena,” or UAP- their new term for UFOs. Despite thousands of sightings over many years, this was the first public U.S. hearing on UFOs in over 50 years!
They describe no evidence of life on other planets, extraterrestrial travel to earth, nor attempts by extraterrestrials to communicate with humans, but these 400 sightings cannot be explained.
Most of the sighting data came from military personnel with expertise in aviation – pilots, navigators, and traffic controllers. The Military reasserts its top goal to keep U.S. personnel and bases safe.
Famous “tic tac” UFO seen and tracked by the Navy
Indeed, reports are increasing, and so may be the dangers. Understandably, there are competing needs for transparency and some secrecy. The Military has long sought to stigmatize the idle chatter, much more the official reports of “flying saucers,” UFOs, or USOs (unidentified submerged objects). Now, apparently, they have enough evidence to create a new campaign to destigmatize reporting.
Pilots have kept sightings to themselves for fear of being laughed at or worse – being punished by superiors. Punishment can mean transfers, demotions, or discharges. Now there are official procedures for reporting UAPs, and aviators have come forward with old sightings kept secret for years. This is quite a change from the past when weird things in the sky were always explained away as weather balloons, blimps, lanterns, swamp gas, satellites, or drones.
In other news, a research group, part of a NASA team, will spend nine months studying unclassified UAP sightings. A report will be made available to the public in mid-2023.
Mississippi skies are particularly good hunting grounds for objects unidentifiable. Perhaps the rural aspects of the state invite ETs not wanting too much attention. Perhaps the Stennis Space Center, one of ten such facilities in the USA, is the attraction. Perhaps the wooded, flat areas provide good cover for landings. And what’s with all the reports of people being chased by bright lights in the woods? Read on.
Mississippi is the 13th most likely state for UFO sightings, according to Casino.org, an organization specializing in betting on many things, including whether we’ll contact UFOs, whether aliens exist, and in what year we’re likely to discover alien life. Casino.org lists the odds of someone in Mississippi seeing a UFO at 522 to 1 — 13th best. The top states are Wyoming and Vermont (294/1). Least likely state is Florida (3,485/1).
Per Casino.org, Mississippians reported 5,721 UFO sightings between 1940 and 2017. The state’s known UFO history is oddly varied while oddly repetitive. The further back these stories go, the wackier they get. Here are a few such events from the past:
March 1883: After several sightings of “ships” in the sky for weeks, a saloon owner in Kilgore Hills and his neighbor discovered a metal cylinder-like vehicle on the ground with small humanoids around it. The neighbor shot and killed one with his rifle as the others escaped in the spaceship. They displayed the alien’s body on the saloon porch. It was about five feet tall and had gray textured skin and large eyes. Photos were taken for a fee. The alien’s body was finally buried and dubbed the “Moon Man of Kilgore Hills,” as reported in the local paper.
In a very weird 2022 twist, a woman claiming to be the 140-year-old sister of the original saloon owner who was also a witness to the events of 1883 came forward to confirm the story. She attributed her longevity to touching the body of the Moon Man. She said if she ever died, she wanted to be buried next to him.
October 1973: In Mississippi’s most famous modern UFO case, Calvin Parker and the late Charles Hickson were fishing in an abandoned shipyard in Pascagoula when they were hypnotized and levitated into a large, football-shaped floating craft and examined by aliens. The aliens released them, and they told their story to the public. A media frenzy ensued.
In 2018, Parker wrote a book about his experience. He and his friend never wavered from their original accounts.
February 1977: Nearly 2 dozen law enforcement officers witnessed a giant, blue, floating object with portholes shaped like a spinning top above the tree line in a cotton field near Flora. People still see the object but try to keep it quiet because of the furor it caused in 1977.
April 2014: A trail cam picked up deer in the headlights of an unidentified floating object in the woods of Jackson County. The sighting was attributed to a camera anomaly. Was it?
February 2015: In Lewisburg, a bright, blinding light “the size of a football field” but triangular with smaller objects around it was seen in the sky.
March 2021: In Southaven, multiple unidentifiable lights were seen moving overhead in one general direction. The largest one was the last to disappear.
Typical UFO shapes
I conducted an informal survey on Facebook to discover how many friends and acquaintances have seen something. The results were very interesting.
One sighting was described as, “Lights were all around,” and they “shot up and out.”
Someone else said, “Five or more objects were in the sky, and they would suddenly be gone as others appeared!”
In another area there was a “large object hovering in the sky,” and nearby, during the day, “large white circles were found on the ground by generations.”
Sightings seem commonplace in some communities. “Large, quiet, cylindrical objects in the sky were seen by people every few months.”
Here are three oddly similar stories from different people:
“In January of 2013, I was traveling down a dark, deserted road through the South Mississippi woods at 5:30 AM, on my way to a job in a nearby town. Suddenly a blinding light hovered over my vehicle and drifted slowly downward. I slammed on my brakes to avoid hitting it, simultaneously realizing that it was utterly soundless, and not a helicopter, as I first thought. The object drifted over the road and into the woods, where it appeared to settle on the ground. Right there was a logging road, and I impulsively thought I would go chase after the object. But I was overcome with a sense of dread that raised the hair up on my neck and arms. I sped up and ran to town. When I tried to tell my co-workers that I had seen a UFO, they laughed at me. To this day, I have no idea what I encountered. I would really love to know!” – Diana Lou
“Yep. Seen 2. One followed me while I was driving. I turned around and went back the other way and it kept following me. Speed up, slow down, it matched my pace. The 2nd one was a Blackhawk helo chasing an orange glowing Orb just about tree top level down in south MS. WOT hauling butt. Alcohol was not involved lol.” – Donald McDonald
“In July 1987, my husband and I were chased by something with bright lights that suddenly disappeared on Highway 61 at Duncan, MS right out of Clarksdale. We still talk about it because it scared us very badly. It made no sound, just bright as daytime lights shining in the car and keeping up with us, even at speeds over 100 mph” – June Dotson
I have never seen what I’d call a UFO, although odd things have caught my eye in the night sky. I agree that we are surely not alone, as several of you also expressed, and I expect that ETs have been around at least as long as humans. I hope that I have the privilege of learning the truth someday, because it’s out there, friends.
In the meantime, don’t be afraid to look up! Keep that cellphone camera ready for collecting evidence. Be calm and report your sighting to MUFON. (https://mufon.com/cms-ifo-info/) They will not laugh at you. They will not stigmatize you.
Note: At the time of the occurrences in this story, the Romani people were referred to by the term “Gypsy”. Today the term is considered by some to be offensive to the Romani people and is strictly used here to maintain historical continuity, no offense is intended.
Most of us go about our daily business giving as much thought to Gypsies* as we do life on the planet Neptune. Gypsies, also known as Romani, pass through our communities with about the same frequency and impact on our lives as a comet or asteroid, making appearances in their brightly decorated caravans. Sometimes fate intervenes and their appearance in our communities takes on greater significance. One such event in their history is tied to Mississippi and played out one hundred and seven years ago. A story on RoadsideAmerica.com describes it. “On January 31, 1915, Kelly Mitchell died in a Romani camp in Coatopa, Alabama. The “Queen of the Gypsies” — her title on her tombstone — was trying and failing to give birth to her 15th child at age 47.
Kelly’s husband, King Emil, chose to have her buried 40 miles west, across the state line in Meridian, Mississippi…one practical reason for choosing burial in Meridian was that it was the nearest place with ice and a morgue. The Queen needed refrigeration because it took 12 days before America’s Romani population could assemble — from every corner of the country — for her funeral. It was an elaborate service, reportedly attended by over 20,000 people who arrived in the city on special trains. Cameras filmed it for early movie newsreels. Kelly was buried in royal robes of green — “barbaric splendor” was how the Meridian Dispatch described it — and wild stories quickly began to circulate that her casket was made of precious metal and that mourners had tossed $20 gold pieces into her grave.
The Queen’s cracked capstone testifies to the presence of ghouls who’ve smashed it several times over the years in search of the rumored buried treasure. King Emil’s new Queen, Flora, was his sister. He outlived her as well, and when he died in 1942, he was buried between his two Queens. The graves of the King and Queens, but especially Queen Kelly, are easy to spot in the cemetery; they’re festooned with Mardi Gras bead necklaces, trinkets, flowers, costume jewelry, and offerings of whiskey, beer, and loose change. Some of these may be tokens of affection, but others are self-motivated, left in the supposed belief that they will entice Kelly, Flora, or Emil to enter your dreams and solve your problems.”**
Queen Kelly’s necklaces
During my senior year at Ole Miss, one day after class, my sociology professor smiled and handed me a slip of paper with “Gypsies” written on it, saying, “I think you’ll like this one.” I glanced at the paper and gave him a blank look, “Where am I going to find Gypsies?” He laughed, “Try Senatobia, there’s a large group of them camped there. Better hurry though, they don’t stay in one place for very long.” I walked slowly down the hallway and then headed to the library; I needed to read up on Gypsies.
Queen, King, Queen. Queen Kelly’s grave on the right is routinely festooned with trinkets.
A week later I made the fifty-mile drive up to Senatobia to meet and interview those exotic Gypsies. Once in town, I flagged down a police cruiser, “Can you direct me to the Gypsy camp?” The cop frowned, “What do you want with them folks?” I gave him a three-word answer, “School research paper.” He shook his head, “Follow me.” I rolled along behind his black and white for a mile or so before he stuck an arm out the window and pointed left. I waved my thanks and swung into the large fairgrounds parking lot, noticing brightly painted wagons parked in twos and threes, and old trucks scattered everywhere. The caravan wagons were roughly twenty feet long and eight feet wide, riding high off the ground; a kaleidoscope of emerald green, yellow and crimson splashed along their sides, finished with round metal roofs and truck tires mounted on brightly painted spoke wheels.
Notebook and pen in hand, I stepped from my car and walked over to a clump of young women and kids playing stickball in the bright fall sun, waved, and said hello. The kids scattered and the women turned away from me. Rather than wander uninvited through the middle of their camp, I stood for a couple of minutes watching the crowd and suddenly spotted a middle-aged man with a long black ponytail stomping toward me. A jagged livid scar ran down his right cheek like a menacing lightning bolt. He stopped a couple of feet away, scowled at me, and shouted, “Who are you and what do you want?” I took a step back, a little intimidated, and then offered my most disarming smile, “Good afternoon, I’m a student writing a paper on Gypsies. I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time if that would be okay.” He shook his head and yelled, “NO! It is not okay! Go away!”
I was shocked and put off by his aggressiveness and turned to leave, but paused and thought, screw that, my professor will not let me off the hook and I’ve driven all this way…so, I followed about ten feet behind him as he headed toward an old blue Chevy truck. The hood was up and as I looked closer, noticed the man’s hands were very greasy. As we neared the truck, I asked, “Having trouble?” He turned and opened his mouth to yell at me; but I slipped past him, leaned across a rusty fender, and looked over the engine. It was a filthy mess. I turned my head toward him, “No wonder this truck won’t run right, it’s in terrible shape.” He grunted and spat on the ground, “What would you know about trucks, Mr. College Student?” I smiled, “My dad is a damned good mechanic. I learned from him. If you’ll let me ask you and some of the other Gypsies a few questions, I’ll fix your truck.”
He hesitated for a moment and then said, “Okay, let’s see what you can do.” I glanced down at his pitiful collection of tools laying in the dirt, “Let me pull my car closer, I have my own toolbox. Also, you’re going to need some parts.” Ten minutes later, I gave him a list of tune-up parts, which he handed to a young man who quickly disappeared. I glanced at the older Gypsy, “How did y’all wind up in Senatobia?” He shrugged, “We follow county fairs, working as we can and do other things on our own.” He watched me suspiciously as I removed parts from the old truck, “How did you become a mechanic?” I smiled, “I learned helping one of the best mechanics in the state, my dad.” Thirty minutes later the younger guy walked up, pulling stuff from his jacket pockets. My mouth dropped open! It was obvious the guy had shoplifted what I’d asked for. I glanced over at the older guy, who shrugged, “Don’t ask, just do your thing, Mr. Mechanic.”
I quickly replaced all the parts he’d brought and once the owner started the truck, put the finishing touches on a major tune-up. Once the truck was idling smoothly, the older guy’s attitude changed. He reached over and we exchanged a grimy handshake, “My name’s Emil; you do good work.” We then reached a strange accommodation; I repaired all eleven of their trucks and each one I fixed bought me an hour or so of time to ask questions. As I worked on their trucks, I set one ground rule, “No stolen parts; show me receipts for everything we’re installing.” He laughed but agreed. I returned nine days in a row and invested many hours on those trucks. I also spent hours wandering around their camp, and my notebook was almost full of notes, answered questions, and personal observations. My skill as a mechanic had opened up this Band of Gypsies to me…mostly. After dark, work stopped, and the women got busy feeding everyone. They took good care of me, and I ate several evening meals with them. I had never eaten Naan bread or lamb kabobs and spicy side dishes, but I did with them. Everything was delicious, including honey-sweetened Baklava, which I gobbled down shamelessly.
On the tenth day, I parked and headed into the camp to wind up my interviews and say goodbye. Emil heard me drive up, smiled, and waved me over. We walked deep into their camp, past clumps of men, women, and children who now smiled and waved. Emil led me toward a large, very ornate wagon…one I hadn’t seen before. As we approached, an old man with a face brown as a leather saddle bag, broad flat nose, and a long silver ponytail yelled hello. When he waved me over, I also noticed that he had tattooed forearms and silver rings on almost every finger. The man stepped down from the wagon, smiled, and shook my hand, “So, you are our college student mechanic who is interested in Gypsies; come into my wagon, and let’s talk.” I had no idea what an honor this was. Few outsiders ever saw the inside of his wagon, which looked like something from an Arabian night’s tale, draped with swaths of gold and blue paisley, deep crimson brocade panels, and brass fixtures lighting every corner.
This old man was their king and oozed charisma. His Christian name was Hanzi, but everyone called him “Duke.” The Duke surprised me by starting our conversation thanking me for all I’d done for them. “You have saved us a lot of money and trouble and you have done so for only the cost of conversation and a few facts about who we are.” I grinned and nodded, “It is for a school paper.” He shook his head, “Why do you bother with school when you can earn a living with your mechanic’s skills?” I was surprised by that question and shrugged, “My momma wants me to get a college education. She doesn’t have much schooling and wants her kids to do better.” He smiled, “Yes, mommas are like that. You must have a good momma.” I nodded, but he saw my troubled expression, “Your momma is not well?” I looked at the floor, unable to conceal my sadness, “Cancer. She hasn’t much time to live.” He sat silent for a bit, “Then you will need another momma soon. Come join us and we’ll become your new family.”
I sat stunned and didn’t speak for several seconds before looking up at the Duke, “That is a kind and generous offer, but I am married to a nurse and will enter the Air Force a year from now.” He casually waved a ringed left hand, “Those are unimportant details. Bring your wife with you and if she doesn’t want to come, that’s okay, we’ll find you a new, pretty wife. We will be a family like you have never experienced.” I looked down, suddenly finding my hands very interesting. The old man reached over and lightly touched my forearm, smiling at me when I looked up at him, “I have given you much to think about. Take a couple of days and then come let me know what you will do. If you join us, we will rejoice and make preparations to bring you into our Romani family. If you choose not to join us, we will mourn the loss for a time and then move on.”
As we stepped from his wagon and walked through the camp, he steered me past several beautiful young women with long, raven hair, each of whom smiled and curtsied as we passed. He patted my shoulder, “You can pick from any of these beauties, and we will build you a caravan to live in, all you need do is say yes.” The Duke walked me to my car and stood watching me drive away. It was the last time I ever saw him or the others in that camp.
I did go back two days later to tell him I wouldn’t join them, but the whole clan had disappeared like smoke in a strong wind. I was disappointed and relieved at the same time. I had become unexpectedly attached to those charismatic people and dreaded insulting the Duke by telling him I couldn’t accept his offer.
by Steven Cornelius
* a member of a traditionally itinerant people who originated in northern India and now live chiefly in Europe and in smaller numbers throughout the world:ROMANI. Unfortunately, Gypsy is mostly used in a negative way to describe a wanderer.
** Graves of the King and Queen of the Gypsies, Field Review by the Team at RoadsideAmerica.com
Pascagoula is the county seat of Jackson County (Home of the notorious outlaw, James Copeland. More on him in a future post.) in South Mississippi. It has a population of about 22,000 residents. Among its notable citizens are congressmen, athletes, musicians, and actors. It’s the setting for Ray Steven’s Mississippi Squirrel Revival and is well known for its Singing River and alleged ufo sighting and alien abduction in 1973 (more on that in a future post, as well).
In 1942, another citizen was making headlines across the country–a criminal who broke into his victim’s rooms under the cloak of darkness and cut locks of their hair off as they slept– and was thus nicknamed “The Phantom Barber of Pascagoula.”
The first victims of this unusual crime were Edna Marie Hydel and Mary Evelyn Briggs, two young girls who shared a room in Our Lady of Victories convent. Mary Evelyn Briggs awoke in time to see a “short, fat man” standing over her with something shiny in his hand and he was “fooling with her hair.” The girl is quoted by The Greenville News (Greenville, South Carolina) as saying, “When he saw me open my eyes he said ‘shhh’…I yelled… He jumped out the window.”
A six-year-old Carol Peattie was the next victim. She awoke to find much of her hair had been taken and her window screen had been cut.
Later, Mrs. R. E. Taylor–the phantom barber’s first adult victim– reported two inches had been shorn while she slept in a room with her husband and two daughters. The tonsorial fiend had broken through a window, cut only her hair, and fled the scene. She told police she had a strange feeling of something passing over her face and later woke up feeling ill. This led officials to suspect the use of chloroform to keep his victims from waking.
The last reported victims* were also adults, a Mr. and Mrs. Heidelberg. Although the phantom barber had never injured a single victim while engaging in his bizarre criminal fetish before, this time his attack was violent. He beat them with an iron pipe as they slept. What was different about these victims? Had they woken up and caught him in the act? The accounts don’t say at this time. The search for the Phantom Barber grew more intense.
The hair-hijacking phantom broke into at least ten homes in a few weeks was little evidence other than the occasional footprint. Was he an actual barber gone mad, or was the culprit performing “backcountry hex ceremonies”, as one paper suggested, or was there another reason for this peculiar series of robberies? (You’ll find other suggestions in the sources below.)
Finally, a suspect was located by the name of William Dolan. He was arrested and charged with attempted murder for attacking Heidelbergs. He had a motive–a disagreement with the couple. Human hair and barber scissors were found in his home, leading officers to believe they had the right man.
Dolan was a German-educated chemist and he wasn’t very well-liked by those who knew him. His further motivation for these crimes, according to police, was to impair the morale of war workers. Locals were happy to see him arrested and they rested easy knowing the phantom barber was at last behind bars.
However, Dolan maintained his innocence. He was released from prison after passing a lie detector test. As far as I know, there were no further reports of crimes committed by Pascagoula’s Phantom Barber.
Was the phantom barber ever caught? Many believe he was never truly identified. We may never know for sure.
Eighty years have passed since these crimes have been committed, so it’s unlikely the culprit still lives. Which presents the question, what does a phantom barber do in the afterlife?
Better lock your door and windows, just in case. 😉
By Trista Herring Baughman
*I read conflicting information about his last victim. Some sources say it was the Heidelbergs, and some say it was Mrs. Taylor.
Off the beaten track in Lauderdale County, 12 miles southwest of Meridian Ms, amidst pine trees, dirt roads, and red clay, stands a dilapidated old bridge that once carried folks across the Chunky River. The bridge isn’t much to look at these days. It was closed down to traffic and barricaded in 2011. It is covered in graffiti, but people still come from all over the country to see it. They call it Stuckey’s Bridge and some believe it is haunted.
The original bridge was erected by early settlers in the region in 1850 to give carriages and horseback travelers a southwestern route to and from Meridian. In 1901 a new bridge was erected by the Virginia Bridge & Iron Co. to replace the original, spanning 112 feet across the water.
It was during the construction of this new bridge that a gruesome discovery was made. Workers began finding bodies along the river bank. At least 20 bodies were discovered. They were believed to be the remains of travelers murdered by a man named Stuckey, years earlier.
At the end of the Civil War, Meridian MS was in shambles, and most of the area’s railroad and military infrastructure destroyed by Union Army troops. Once the war concluded, Meridian was rebuilt. Its population doubled over the following decade, making the once small town into the largest city in the state for half a century. Growing cities can attract unsavory people, troublemakers, and outlaws, and Meridian was no different.
The legend states that as Meridian began to grow, a violent group of outlaw train robbers, known as the Dalton Gang, traveled through the area, and when they moved on to their next destination one of the members was left behind; a man known only as Old Stuckey.
Now, no one knows for certain why he stayed behind. One version of the story suggests that he thought it was a pleasant place to retire and settle down. Another version says he was injured and couldn’t keep up so he was left there. A third version of the tale says that Old Stuckey was so mean even the Daltons didn’t want him, so they parted ways.
However it happened, the story states that Old Stuckey opened a small inn near the banks of the Chunky River. This was on an old dirt road cut through the pine forests. As the town of Meridian began to grow, more and more travelers began to find themselves floating along the river on their way to the city.
Old Stuckey took advantage of this and devised a plan. He would stand on the bridge with a lantern and entice weary travelers to his inn. He promised them hot food, a warm bed, and the trade of goods. Once the travelers were asleep in his inn, Old Stuckey would murder them and steal their belongings. He then dumped the bodies in the Chunky River or buried them along its banks.
It wasn’t long before reports of missing people began to surface in the surrounding communities. The finger of blame was pointed at Stuckey, who was known as a violent person. Even though no bodies had been found at the time, the local sheriff organized a posse to confront Old Stuckey. He was given a kangaroo court and forced out onto the bridge.
There, Stuckey was hanged for his alleged crimes. The posse left Stuckey’s body hanging from the bridge over the river for 5 days, exposed to the sweltering humidity and heat of the Mississippi wilderness. When the rope was finally cut, Old Stuckey’s body plummeted into the waters below, joining the many bodies of his victims.
After the bridge was torn down and replaced in 1901, the stories began to circulate. People claimed to see a strange light at night on the bridge and splashes in the waters below it. People told tales of seeing an eerie blue glow coming from the spot in the river where his body sank below the muddy depths.
Stuckey’s Bridge was inducted into the National Register of Historic Places in November 1988. Today, over 121 years after the bodies of the victims were found, people still visit the bridge in hopes they see something or hear something supernatural. Stuckey’s bridge is known as a spot for teens to go and party and maybe after a few drinks test their courage against the ghosts of the past. Visitors to the bridge claim to have been touched by invisible hands. They also claim to have heard strange splashes, seen ghostly lights, and some even claim to have been pushed off the bridge when they were alone.
In 2010 a guy recorded his 1955 Chevrolet Truck driving over the bridge. He intended to document it for history because the bridge was about to be closed to traffic forever. It was officially shut down on August 24th, 2011. He posted the video on YouTube and commented on how it was sad to close old landmarks such as Stuckey’s bridge.
Though it was unknown to him, he had captured something strange on film. Just as the truck comes off the bridge, something can be seen rising up at the far end, behind the truck. One person who viewed the video commented by asking if she was the only one who noticed a ghost in the video. I have watched the video and definitely see something, but what I see, I can’t say, as the film isn’t very clear. I will post the link to the video in my list of resources below the article and let you check it out for yourself.
There is no formal evidence whatsoever that Old Stuckey was part of the Dalton gang. No other name for him was ever given and if it was ever known at all, it has long since been lost to time. There is also no evidence that the Dalton Gang visited Meridian, but they were well-known in other areas. While they could have traveled through the area, there is also the likelihood that it was made up to bring a bit of notoriety to the area.
Who was Old Stuckey? How many people died as a result of his murderous ways? Did any of it even happen, or was this just a cautionary story that was derived from the minds of locals, meant to make travelers in the area more cautious? Is there really a malignant spirit haunting the bridge? There are so many questions, but the biggest question of all is this… Are you brave enough to find out?
Perhaps you’ve heard the story of the infamous Bell Witch—a disembodied voice that terrorized the Bell Family in Tennessee. It’s considered one of the most famous paranormal encounters in the United States. But did you know the story doesn’t end there? It continues in Yalobusha County, Mississippi.
In case you aren’t familiar with the tale, let’s start at the beginning.
Adams, Tennessee is a small town in Robertson County, near the Kentucky state line.
John Bell, his wife, Lucy (coincidentally, according to Family Search, my 2nd cousin eight times removed), and their family were immigrants from North Carolina.
They settled on a farm on the Red River and quickly became respected and influential in the community. By all accounts, the Bells were a happy and prosperous family, respected for their integrity, hard work, hospitality, and Christian devotion.
An artist’s sketch of the Bell home, originally published in 1894
Unfortunately, their luck was about to change.
In the summer of 1817, the family began to see and hear strange things. But they still weren’t aware anything was wrong. Several odd occurrences were dismissed and explained away logically. Knocking on the door and outer wall of the house was attributed to some mischievous pranksters, although they could never seem to catch them.
Later, there were disturbances inside the house– the sounds of chains dragging across the floor, fighting dogs, and rats chewing on bedposts. The family’s bedcovers were yanked off their beds. The children would scream as they felt something pull their hair. Something they couldn’t see.
The noises and activity would cease as soon as they lit a candle. They would later search the rooms from top to bottom, but there was no source for the noises.
The Bell’s daughter, Betsy, would often be targeted. She and her father were most often the victims of the unseen assailant.
Mr. Bell was afflicted by stiffness of the tongue. At times he could not eat.
The Bells endured such happenings for perhaps a year or more, not daring to tell a soul outside their household until it became intolerable.
John Bell shared the story with his friend James Johnson and his wife. They agreed to spend the night, hoping to discover the cause of the disturbances. Although they experienced the sounds and covers pulled off beds, they, too, were unable to find the reason.
The persecution of Betsy increased. She would experience hard blows to her cheeks as if from an open hand, her hair pulled until she would scream with pain.
Mr. Johnson advised Mr. Bell to invite other friends into the investigation.
The Bell home was from that point, overflowing with visitors. They traveled long distances to witness demonstrations and began to try to communicate with the entity.
When asked a question that could be answered by numbers or yes or no, the answers would come in raps, like someone knocking on a wall. It was consistently correct.
It was not uncommon to see lights like a candle or lamp flitting across the yard or through the field. Often when Mr. Bell and the boys were coming home from work, chunks of wood and stones would be thrown at them–only no one was there to throw them.
The phenomena strengthened in force as visitors urged it to talk and tell what it wanted. The voice started as a whisper, but over time developed strength and was heard by many.
When asked who it was and what it wanted it’s said to have replied, “I am a spirit; I was once happy but have been disturbed.”
It might have been better for the Bells had their visitors kept their questions to themselves for as time progressed, the disembodied voice kept talking. And it wasn’t very nice. It would scream obscenities at Mr. Bell.
The voice would often predict things that came true, but it couldn’t always be trusted. Several times it sent the family on wild goose chases including a search for a lost tooth and a buried treasure. It seemed to know Bible scripture and all the surrounding community’s business.
It could repeat sermons from the local churches in different locations, word for word. It could also take the form of animals or even people.
Once when asked who it was, it replied it was Kate Batts, which was, unfortunately, the name of a local woman. Many believed the spirit’s words; some didn’t, but from then on the entity was called Kate or The Bell Witch by some.
The witch carried on conversations with neighbors and strangers who came to call. There’re records of it even visiting neighbors and climbing into the bed of one.
Investigators came from all over. Several left completely terrified and never returned.
Sometimes Kate was friendly, especially to Lucy, which it called “Old Luce”, even bringing her grapes and hazelnuts when she was sick. It was also amicable to some neighbors, even shaking hands with one of them and bringing another one gifts.
But it always hated “Old Jack,” though it never stated why. It also seemed to be quite racist.
You might think this is enough for one family to go through, but it didn’t stop there. Kate was joined by a witch family, Blackdog, Mathematics, Cypocryphy, and Jerusalem.
Richard Williams Bell, one of the Bell’s sons, stated in his book, Our Family Trouble: The Story of the Bell Witch of Tennessee, “These demonic councils were introduced by singing songs of every character, followed by quarreling with each other, employing obscene language and blasphemous oaths, making a noise like a lot of drunken men fighting.”
Kate wasn’t fond of Betsy, as mentioned earlier, but she particularly didn’t like Betsy’s suitor, Joshua Gardener. Joshua was a handsome young man from a good family. Betsy had many potential suitors, including the handsome-bachelor school teacher, Richard Powell.
Some speculated perhaps it was Richard causing the trouble. Some thought maybe it was a native spirit that had been disturbed. Still others thought the family was making it up for monetary gain, although they in fact never received money from their guests.
Richard Bell said, “Whether it was witchery, such as afflicted people in past centuries and the darker ages, whether some gifted fiend of hellish nature, practicing sorcery for selfish enjoyment, or some more modern science akin to that of mesmerism, or some hobgoblin native to the wilds of the country, or a disembodied soul shut out from heaven, or an evil spirit like those Paul drove out of the man into the swine, setting them mad; or a demon let loose from hell, I am unable to decide; nor has any one yet divined its nature or cause for appearing, and I trust this description of the monster in all froms and shapes, and of many tongues, will lead experts who may come with a wiser generation, to a correct conclusion and satisfactory explanation.”
On December 19th, 1820, John Bell passed away. Kate admitted to having murdered him with poison. As friends and family left the burial site, the witch sang loudly. She remained with the family until the Spring of 1821, becoming less demonstrative all the while. Then she told the family she would be absent for seven years but would return.
The death of John Bell, December 1820. The illustration was first published in 1894.
Kate did return in 1828, beginning much in the same way as before. The family chose to ignore it and the occurrences stopped after two weeks.
But the Bell family had not seen the end of Kate just yet.
Betsy didn’t end up marrying Joshua. They had once been engaged but called it off a few months after John Bell died. She later married Richard Powell. They had children, many of who died. Richard suffered a stroke and became an invalid. Many believed Betsy was cursed.
Later, when Richard died, she moved to what was then Panola County, Mississippi, (now Yalobusha, the two counties are located just east of the Mississippi Delta in the northern part of the state), to live with members of the Bell family who had moved here.
She died in 1888 and was buried in the family plot on a forgotten hillside. Someone stole her original headstone and took it as a souvenir. It was later replaced.
One might think with Betsy gone, the story would be at its end, but according to legend, the witch tormented Betsy’s grandson, John T. Bell, and his family. If you’re looking for a story with a happy ending, this isn’t it.
John T. Bell’s daughter, Mary, was in love with an overseer named Gerald. John T. disapproved and murdered Gerald.
Mary became very ill and constantly spoke of her lost love, falling in and out of consciousness. When she woke several days later, she said she was going to be with Gerald and died.
Mary’s funeral was at Long Creek Cemetery in Panola County. On the way, there was a large dark bird seen flying around the carriage that carried the casket and stayed until the last piece of dirt was filled into the grave.
According to local lore, Panola and Yalobusha counties have had a lot of strange happenings over the years even after Mary’s passing, such as strange lights, people hearing their names called in the woods, and flood flowing from faucets.
The story has inspired books and movies, such as An American Haunting, The Blair Witch Project, and The Bell Witch Haunting, to name a few.
Next time you’re walking in the woods alone and hear your name, remember it’s probably best not to answer.
Have you or someone you know experienced spooky things in Panola or Yalobusha counties? Tell us your story in the comments or send it to msfolklore@gmail.com.
Every state has its share of outlaws, duels, and feuds. History is filled with troublemakers and gunfights, but few can compare to the folklore surrounding the Sullivan family and a place called Sullivan’s Hollow.
In the beginning, Sullivan’s hollow was thought to be about six miles long by three miles wide and ran in a northerly crescent from east to west. It was originally founded in 1820/21 by a Scotch-Irish settler named Thomas Sullivan who later became known as Pappy Tom.
Thomas was married twice. There are many versions of how and when he came to have his second wife, but all accounts agree that Pappy Tom had 22 children. As these children grew, married, and had children of their own (averaging 10 to 11 children per family), Sullivan’s Hollow expanded, encompassing the southwest corner of Smith County and parts of both Covington and Simpson counties. By the turn of the century, Sullivan’s Hollow was known as the area bound by Mize in the north and Hot Coffee in the southeast. It also had Mount Olive and Saratoga on its southwest side.
The Sullivan family named their children after their own brothers and sisters. This created duplicate names and soon it became necessary for them to add prefixes to the given names. Those prefixes were retained by the family branches. The Hog Toms, Wild Bills, and Red Jacks were just a few of the family prefixes.
Nease, Red Jack, and Wild Bill (see resources below)
From the very beginning, the Sullivans of Sullivan’s Hollow were pulling pranks, stretching the truth, and wriggling themselves out of things and places they didn’t care to be in. One narrative states that Mark Sullivan got out of jury duty by telling the judge that “he left both his daughter and his wife in bed and he had no idea which was going to die first”. He was excused and carried on with his day.
Later, the judge saw Mark who was still in town and questioned him. Mark said he never told the judge that anyone was in danger of dying. He only said that he left them before daylight and they were still in bed. He also stated that no one could know who would die first and it was simply a statement. He claimed that the judge must have been confused by what Mark told him. Mark later served as a constable, and his son was a Justice of the Peace. On the whole, the Sullivans were said to be relatively good men by some with an interest in law and politics. However, they were prone to being drunk and loved a spirited fight and that is when the meanness surfaced.
Mize and Mount Olive were significant towns in the Sullivans’ territory. The story is told that the Sullivan boys would start a fight in one town and ride off to the other until the trouble blew over. The Sullivan boys through the years fought, told lies, gambled, drank, and stole things. Violence in the hollow usually resulted from revenge, practical jokes, property disputes, trespassing, and wife stealing. Sullivan’s Hollow became a synonym for lawlessness to the rest of the state’s occupants.
A couple of the Sullivan brothers catalyzed numerous tales of lawless behavior in the Sullivan family. They were the grandsons of Pappy Tom; Wild Bill, and Neace(my distant cousin according to an ancestry site). It was said that the Sullivans were “mean as Hell” and it was evident in Wild Bill and his brother Nease.
Now Bill and Nease both reformed in their middle age and were respected by their community, but in their youth, they were violent. They enjoyed it. They gained a reputation for being mean, and it gratified their sense of humor to remain “mean”.
They were as close as brothers can be and always had each other’s back. If one fought and seemed about to lose, the other jumped in to help. If it took violence to settle a disagreement, they didn’t mind.
Some fights involving the Sullivans even got names. The Battle of Shiloh happened when a man named Gabe Chain tried to steal Nease Sullivan’s wife. What started as a fistfight between them ended with a man named Jim Dikes dead, Gabe Chain slashing Nease’s stomach, spilling his intestines on the sand near a creek, and Gabe suffering a gunshot wound which eventually led to his death.
Legends say that Nease picked up his intestines, stuffed them back in, and rode to a house to be sewn up. Who shot Gabe is debatable. Some say it was Wild Bill, while others say it was Nease’s brother-in-law, Frank Gibbons who killed Gabe and Jim.
In 1847, Wild Bill had an affair with the sister of a man named Bryant Craft. After mutual intimidation, a fight ensued between Bryant, another Craft, Wild Bill, and Nease. One of the Sullivans shot and killed Bryant. They both took to the woods for 2 years before surrendering. While waiting for a trial, the courthouse burned down, taking all of the records with it and the murder charges were dropped.
In Mize, only Sullivans were in the streets on a Saturday night. Everyone else stayed home for fear of being mistaken for one of the Sullivans’ enemies and being killed. Nease’s son, George Sullivan, was one such casualty of the Sullivans’ penchant for shooting first and checking identity later. George was fishing one day when Sam Sullivan approached him, shot and killed him, thinking he was a man named Rob Dean.
The Sullivans were also known to fight amongst themselves. They even brought their wives into the fights, sometimes forcing them to hurt each other. In 1903 Wild Bill and his son Jack stabbed Bill’s brother, Wils, to death after a falling out. Bill and his son were arrested and imprisoned. While awaiting trial, Jack committed suicide.
Bill was found guilty, but in 1904 the Mississippi Supreme Court reversed the decision and freed him. Wild Bill was rumored to have killed 40 to 50 men, but he was only ever found responsible for the death of one. Nease Sullivan died in 1920 and Wild Bill died in 1932.
The folklore stories of The Sullivan family and Sullivan’s Hollow are too numerous to list. Their stories make feuds like the Hatfields and McCoys look like a family picnic. As the years passed, the hollow cleared out, but there are several family members still living there today. The stories are still passed down, but we will never know how much of what happened was accurate and how much was embellished. If the stories are to be believed, Sullivan’s Hollow is the meanest valley in America.
If you have been to Sullivan’s Hollow, know any of the Sullivan family’s descendants, or have heard any of the folklore tales, we would love to hear from you.
Ghost sightings and reports of haunted houses have long been a part of American folklore. Stroll through any bookstore in the south and titles such as “The Most Haunted Places in…” are yours for the picking. On the other hand, try finding a book about “The ten different shades of red clay in the south and where to see them.” Ghost stories endure because people love to be scared. Horror movies prove this time and again. Every state has a list of haunted sites, inviting tourists to visit. Mississippi is no exception, with “haunted places” scattered across the state, including a few in Alcorn and Tishomingo counties. This story is about a place that isn’t included in any haunted site books.
Fortunately, I know my way around this place. Ride along with me and I’ll take you to a far corner of northeast Mississippi to visit a spot between two tiny communities settled about two hundred years ago. Farmington and Glen are easy to miss as you fly past on Highway 72, headed to Memphis or the Alabama state line, but not us. We turn off the big road and head north, swinging onto a gravel and red clay farm lane running through deep woods and untended fields. After bouncing along for a few miles, we’re crawling along now, leaning forward in our seats looking closely for the landmark stub of a red brick chimney poking forlornly through dense privet thickets and briar brambles.
Relieved to have found it, I point out the pitiful remains of an old sharecropper’s cabin. We step out of the car and walk a few feet toward the faint outline of a stone foundation. Thank goodness it’s a relatively cool day and not that many flying pests are out. I saw your doubtful look.
Let’s sit on this fallen oak tree and I’ll tell you what I learned about the old place as a twelve-year-old kid.
It was built sometime in the 1880s by a local farmer. Once the walls and roof would keep the rain and wind out, the place welcomed one desperate family of sharecroppers after another, each trying to wring a living from hardpacked red clay fields surrounding the place.
The place sat abandoned since the depression, but locals began avoiding the old house well before then, especially at night because of a tragedy that befell one of the last families to live there. Many believe the old house to be haunted and swore even their animals acted nervous if taken anywhere near the old shack.
I first heard the ghost story on a cold November Friday while spending the night with a school friend. The sun was long gone, and we had just been called to supper. As we ate, my friend’s momma sat sipping coffee and holding us spellbound with this story, obviously relishing our fidgety nervousness. As she told it, decades earlier, a sharecropper family with a toddler moved into the cabin.
One especially cold November night the mother placed the baby’s cradle near the hearth, stoking the fire high before turning to after supper chores and herding her other children off to bed. No one noticed as sparks from the fireplace ignited the woven wicker cradle and swaddling that wrapped the infant. Hearing the baby’s cries, she rushed back into the room but was too late; the cradle was engulfed in flames, burning the little girl to death.
The mother was inconsolable, believing her carelessness killed that baby. After burying the little girl behind the old place, anyone passing near there reported hearing the momma sitting by the baby’s grave sobbing loudly, unable to contain her grief. Hoping a change would help, the family moved out of the house and eventually left the county.
Then a different kind of crying began…that could be heard on cold winter nights…a baby’s wailing piercing the underbrush and trees, cries of pain and a plea for help rising into the dark sky. Folks passing by the empty house, especially after dark, claimed unsettling screams came from inside the old shack. Those brave enough to peer through a broken window or step inside, told of seeing a flickering fire and smelling woodsmoke, but never saw a living thing.
As word spread about the crying baby, people began avoiding the place altogether. The house sat empty for months and then years. No one would rent the place or even live there for free, so the shack was left to fall in on itself.
We sat with our mouths hanging open; his momma ended the story with a solemn look, “I’ve heard that story since I was a young girl, and believe every word is true.”
My friend and I finished his evening chores and sat outside in a punishing cold wind that numbed our faces, daring each other to go to explore what was left of the old house. It was only about four miles away, so around midnight, we tiptoed out the front door, pushed my motorcycle a few hundred feet away from their driveway to keep quiet and took off.
We rode without headlights through a cold night, lit by a full moon, pulling to the side of the road about a hundred feet from the overgrown front yard. Neither of us had a flashlight, but the moon cast enough light to find a narrow path leading to the front door. Dense undergrowth tugged at our coats as we tiptoed through the yard and stepped onto the front porch, dodging dark holes in the rotting wood and put our hands against the outside wall.
A cold wind watered our eyes and created eerie noises; dead leaves clinging to blackjack oaks rustled like dry bones and what was left of the tin roof creaked and moaned. I stuck my head through a dark empty window and saw flashes of eerie white moonlight dancing across the floor and almost jumped out of my skin!
I didn’t smell wood smoke, but my friend and both I heard a crying baby, which grew louder the longer we stood on the rickety porch. As the wind and crying both grew in volume, I quickly moved to the corner of the house, unsure what to do next. My nerves were shaken, and I very much wanted to get the hell out of there but also wanted to make sure a feral cat wasn’t the source of that eerie sound. Before I could decide, my buddy jumped off the porch and ran toward me shouting, “Let’s get outta here! I just smelled woodsmoke and heard that baby crying even louder.”
That was good enough for me.
We plunged back through the briars and privet, flew over the ditch onto the road, straddled my bike, and took off like scalded cats. We bounced back up that gravel road and I built up enough speed to coast into my buddy’s yard. We snuck back into his house and tiptoed to bed.
Amped up as we were, it took a long time for sleep to take me, and then I was visited by uneasy dreams. The next morning as we sat down to breakfast, my friend’s momma gave us a sly smile, asking, “Y’all didn’t go down to that haunted house last night, did you?” We shot guilty glances at each other before giving her an emphatic “No ma’am.”
We were lying like rugs, and she knew it but didn’t call us out. I still don’t know if what we experienced was real or the result of suggestion and our hyperactive imaginations. Almost half of adult Americans believe in ghosts; maybe their belief is because of just such an unsettling encounter. Personally, I think that poor baby girl still haunts the place where she burned to death and now lies in an abandoned, unmarked grave.
On a fine summer night in the sixties, my teenage friends and I piled into somebody’s car to find out if Mississippi’s “New” Capitol in Jackson was haunted.
Centrally found on the banks of the Pearl River, Jackson was originally called “Le Fleur’s Bluff” for the trading post high above the river where the town got its start. The town was situated near the historic and mysterious Natchez Trace and became the state capital in 1822. Later, after so much of the city was burned repeatedly during the Civil War, Jackson got the nickname, “Chimneyville.”
Jackson is hot and humid in the summer and cold and humid in the winter. It has seen many floods, tornadoes, and hurricanes. With much turmoil and tragedy – vanishing tribes of Native Americans, slavery horrors, the Civil War, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights era, and much more – the town is simply chock full of restless spirits!
We heard the rumor all through Junior High that a ghost lurked on the lower level of the Mississippi Capitol Building. Many kids saw it and lived to tell the story. The legend was simple. If you drive around the building late at night and honk the horn three times at the right moment, the ghost of a man appears in a lower-floor window and reaches out to you.
We had our driver’s licenses; we were high on milkshakes and adrenalin, and we were ready for adventure! While everyone felt somewhat safe to be shoulder to shoulder in that car, we were still scared. The thought of seeing the ghost scared us enough, and our parents forbade us to go out looking for ghosts. Double trouble.
We waited until it was dark and quiet downtown. In those days, one could drive right up to the oval, one-way drive around the Capitol building from High Street, loop the loop, and exit back on High Street. No guards patrolled in the thick silence. A light fog blurred the streetlamps.
We turned onto the capitol grounds, and at a moderate speed started the drive around the building, first toward the west end. When we reached the covered entrance on the south side below the exterior grand staircase, our driver blew the car horn three times. Amplified sound from the tunnel jolted us out of our seats a bit, but there was little time to react, for as we started around the east end of the building, we saw the ghost!
The dark apparition of a man appeared in the window, and as we watched aghast, he raised one hand toward us! Everyone screamed, and the car sped off as the ghost backed into the shadows. That car didn’t stop until we reached Lamar Street, two blocks away. My heart thumped loudly.
Our driver pulled to the side of the street, and we all talked at once, “Go back – No! No! I wanna go HOME! – Let’s go around again! That was great!” Incredulous, each of us saw the famous New Capitol Ghost!
So, ghosts are real? I kept thinking over and over. No! Someone got in that window and played ghost just for us. No way. We decided spontaneously to do this ghost thing. No one knew we were going there but us. Do I really want an encore? Now that the ghost knew we were here, would he come after us? I shivered.
We voted to go around again while one girl whimpered a little in the back seat. Once inside the Capitol grounds, we made our way again, more quietly this time, around the west end.
Inside the tunnel, the car horn blasted three times, and we strained to get a clear view of that east-end window. Out came the ghost again, raising his hand as if to beckon us inside. We screamed and laughed and cried and shot out of there and toward home as fast as we could.
During the years that followed, I took visiting relatives and friends on that exciting joyride. Occasionally the window coverings were shut; sometimes it rained, and nothing happened. Most of the time, though, we saw the ghost. So did Facebook friends on their adolescent excursions.
It wasn’t necessary to drive around and honk the car horn to see the ghost. Josef Nix was only a boy when he began seeing the ghost. “I lived within a boy’s walking distance from the Capitol, and I was always a night owl,” he said. “The late-night guard knew me and told all kinds of stories…yes, I had regular visits with the ghost!”
Lloyd Pursley saw him “Several times,” he said, “usually on a Sunday night after church at First Baptist Church across the street from the capitol.”
The ghost was great for date nights too!
“My high school date knew about the ghost; I did not,” said William Bullock. “So, we went to the New Capitol grounds. She walked me around to the east side of the building, and – Yikes – there it was peering through the window.”
Others, like me, just got a kick out of driving visitors around that spooky loop and scaring the Dr. Pepper out of them.
I learned later, along with other friends, that our manifest ghost was a bronze statue of Theodore G. Bilbo, infamous former governor of Mississippi, on display in a window of a lower floor conference room. A trick of moving headlights, turning car, and curved building made the statue appear to move and reach with its raised right hand. It was a wonderful effect, but sadly, our apparition was only a statue.
Fast-forward to January 2022, when state lawmakers noticed that the statue of Governor Bilbo was missing from the place it had stood for decades. If kids were still joyriding around the capitol at that point, they were sorely disappointed. “He is 5-foot-2 and weighs 1,000 pounds, so he did not go willingly,” Rep. Lee Yancey, R-Brandon, said. “I don’t know anything about it.” The Clarion Ledger was on the story.
Several other legislators expressed hope that the Bilbo statue never returns and ends up in a museum because of Bilbo’s extreme racist views.
The “Where’s Bilbo” mystery was solved in February when someone found him hidden in a storage room. The previous October, House clerk Andrew Ketchings directed a work crew to move the statue into a large closet behind an elevator and wrap it in a fire-resistant blanket.
So, they wrapped up our “ghost” and put him in a closet. He can no longer scare us unless we read about him in history books, but oh, what memories of adventure we have!
by Linda D Mann
Shortly after graduation from the University of Southern Mississippi in Hattiesburg, Linda lived in a large, haunted house in Dallas. Her experiences galvanized her interest in ghosts. During work at VisitMississippi.org and VisitJackson.com, she researched and wrote entertaining visitor itineraries focused on the state’s rich heritage. Among her favorites – “Haunted Mississippi!” While authoring articles for Guides Publishing, she became fascinated by the traditional folklore of indigenous Mississippians. Untold hours traveling Mississippi Delta roads and the Natchez Trace Parkway enchanted her with history and tales of sea serpents, witches, and highwaymen. The state’s cultural heritage has informed Linda’s career from performing and choreographing at New Stage, to directing the Craftsmen’s Guild of Mississippi, to directing marketing at the USA International Ballet Competition. These days, she works for the Office of the State Treasurer in the city center where, in the oldest parts of town, one may encounter local ghosts with dramatic histories.
Mississippi Folklore 