FIRST PERSON
1950s and 1960s.
My grandma was raised in southern Ohio, just south of Rt. 32 near Sunfish Creek in Pike County. Her family was beyond poor by modern standards, but her parents worked hard and loved their six surviving children fiercely.
During the Depression, my great-grandpa — his kids called him James or Pap — would set out to find work, work hard all day and take home less than a quarter for his efforts. And still, back home, his children were happy.
My grandma had three older sisters, an older brother and a younger sister. While the two oldest helped Mam cook and clean inside, the younger kids were sent out, probably to give them peace.
Grandma lived in the hills — the locals still call it the Little Smokies — surrounded by the woods and rolling hills of Appalachia.
They lived just off the main road, up a curvy path that led halfway up a hill to where the land flattened a bit. Pap had built their house, which was near an old barn with a hayloft for the kids to play in and an awning for the animals.
From the house, the trail rounded back up the hill, across a creek and up again to the hilltop, where a small orchard could be found.
My grandmother spent her early summer years outdoors among the trees, in the woods and along the creek bed. She and her siblings went barefoot all summer, sliding around the slate-lined creeks, creating mud pies and cakes on a large flat stone they called their playhouse.
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Grandma’s brother, Wilbur, made shelves in the playhouse by stacking rocks precisely, allowing the girls to store their pies and play “kitchen” with some old dishes Mam had thrown in the trash heap. They played hard, never realizing that they were poor; they were, after all, loved and happy.
As children, my siblings, cousins and I all looked forward to hearing Grandma and Grandpa’s stories, including the details I just shared. Our favorite tale was one we called her ghost story.
Out in the country, my grandparents in some ways were highly secluded but enjoyed the company of neighbors at church socials and at school. The kids in the area attended a one-room schoolhouse on Victory Hill where a man named Babe McAllister taught them.
As the summer of 1930 ended and the kids returned to school, Babe began to hear sounds from under the schoolhouse. He thought it might just be a tramp or drifter guarantee is granted.
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seeking a place to sleep or eat — not uncommon during the Depression.
On one particular school day, when the noise began again, Babe sent Walter Current, an older student, out back to look under the schoolhouse and scare away the tramp.
When Walter looked for the source of the noise, though, no one was there. The noise would recur every so often, again and again, but no animal or person was ever found under the schoolhouse.
As Babe discussed it with neighbors, they realized that the noise — sort of a whistling sound — would start only when a girl named Agnes Williams placed a hand to her mouth as she sat at her desk.
People from near and far began to stop by the school to hear the noise for themselves. Agnes started to live in fear because, no matter the time of day, whenever she placed a hand to her mouth as she sat at her desk, the noise started.
One theory suggested that an electricity within Agnes' body caused the noise or, perhaps, a slipstream of air rushing past her body in that particular spot.
Nevertheless, the mystery remained unsolved.
The school — located on a steep hill on Rt. 772 but long ago demolished — became known as the Haunted Schoolhouse on Victory Hill.