It’s crazy weather here. Rain one day, sunny and beautiful the next. Today it snowed. I think Dooley is out hunting “wabbits”. The rest of the animals are hole-up in their deluxe apartments over at the Animal Yard, a gated community.
I thought today might be a good day to write some letters. Here is one of them.
Dear Ghost Hunters TV Show,
I live on a large, isolated piece of land in Roane County West Virginia. There used to be a small community here called Owl Rock. There was a mill, a school house, a cemetery and at least 15 cabins in the valley and surrounding hills. There is nothing left of Owl Rock except a few stone chimneys, two mill stones, some foundation stones and the cabin I now live in. At the encouragement of one of your fans, Irene Looney, I wanted to share a few of the stories that haunt my land.
As told by locals, one fall night in 1923 the Reverend Robert Davis and his hound Buster were out hunting raccoons with a carbide lantern on the east side of the valley. At some point Buster took off on a scent and soon disappeared into the darkness. Following down the path, Davis could hear Buster howling but couldn’t find him with the light. Several hours passed but in spite of the constant howling, Buster could not be found in the darkness. Davis returned the next day with his son and in the daylight quickly isolated the sound as coming from deep inside a narrow rock crack at the base of a 50 foot rock face on the hillside. Buster appeared to have chased something into the crack and had gotten himself stuck deep inside the rock. In spite of almost 20 days of effort to get him out the howling finally stopped and Davis assumed Buster had finally perished in his rock prison. To this day, if you sit quietly near the crack on a crisp fall night you can hear Buster howling for his life.
The next story, although true, is not one that is in any way pleasant to talk about. A woman once lived alone at the far North end of my valley. Locals who had unwanted babies would take the children to the woman who gladly took them in. I believe the assumption was that she would secretly find homes for the children. It was not until several years after the woman’s death that the bones of over 20 infants were found at the base of a cliff behind her cabin. Locals now refer to this spot as the “baby dump”. My dog, Dooley, refuses to go anywhere near the site and I have to believe the souls of these children still haunt the area.
The third story occurred after my family had purchased the property in 1967. There used to be a second standing cabin on our land that my dad allowed two brothers to live in when we were not visiting the land. On weekends when we would come to the property to hunt or fish, my dad would bring them whiskey and they would disappear up into the woods until we were gone. In return for living in the cabin the brothers kept a path cleared for us from the road to the cabin. On Halloween night in 1969, one brother shot the other with a shotgun, left him on the bed, set fire to the cabin and disappeared into the woods. Although the light of the fire could be seen for miles that night, the sheriff waited until the next day to check it out. There was nothing left of the cabin but the twisted remains of a few appliances and a lump of burned flesh on the bedsprings. Local ATVers frequently pass this spot on night runs through the valley and on more than one occasion I have been asked who the old man was, standing by the rusty bedsprings.
If Ghost Hunters would like to feature my property in one of their upcoming shows it would be contingent on keeping my name and the exact location private. For further information please contact Irene Looney at the ***** Public Library. Sincerely, Roger ******
*Irene Note: Did you really send this letter? I would love to meet Jason and especially Grant of the Ghost Hunters Show.
I thought today might be a good day to write some letters. Here is one of them.
Dear Ghost Hunters TV Show,
I live on a large, isolated piece of land in Roane County West Virginia. There used to be a small community here called Owl Rock. There was a mill, a school house, a cemetery and at least 15 cabins in the valley and surrounding hills. There is nothing left of Owl Rock except a few stone chimneys, two mill stones, some foundation stones and the cabin I now live in. At the encouragement of one of your fans, Irene Looney, I wanted to share a few of the stories that haunt my land.
As told by locals, one fall night in 1923 the Reverend Robert Davis and his hound Buster were out hunting raccoons with a carbide lantern on the east side of the valley. At some point Buster took off on a scent and soon disappeared into the darkness. Following down the path, Davis could hear Buster howling but couldn’t find him with the light. Several hours passed but in spite of the constant howling, Buster could not be found in the darkness. Davis returned the next day with his son and in the daylight quickly isolated the sound as coming from deep inside a narrow rock crack at the base of a 50 foot rock face on the hillside. Buster appeared to have chased something into the crack and had gotten himself stuck deep inside the rock. In spite of almost 20 days of effort to get him out the howling finally stopped and Davis assumed Buster had finally perished in his rock prison. To this day, if you sit quietly near the crack on a crisp fall night you can hear Buster howling for his life.
The next story, although true, is not one that is in any way pleasant to talk about. A woman once lived alone at the far North end of my valley. Locals who had unwanted babies would take the children to the woman who gladly took them in. I believe the assumption was that she would secretly find homes for the children. It was not until several years after the woman’s death that the bones of over 20 infants were found at the base of a cliff behind her cabin. Locals now refer to this spot as the “baby dump”. My dog, Dooley, refuses to go anywhere near the site and I have to believe the souls of these children still haunt the area.
The third story occurred after my family had purchased the property in 1967. There used to be a second standing cabin on our land that my dad allowed two brothers to live in when we were not visiting the land. On weekends when we would come to the property to hunt or fish, my dad would bring them whiskey and they would disappear up into the woods until we were gone. In return for living in the cabin the brothers kept a path cleared for us from the road to the cabin. On Halloween night in 1969, one brother shot the other with a shotgun, left him on the bed, set fire to the cabin and disappeared into the woods. Although the light of the fire could be seen for miles that night, the sheriff waited until the next day to check it out. There was nothing left of the cabin but the twisted remains of a few appliances and a lump of burned flesh on the bedsprings. Local ATVers frequently pass this spot on night runs through the valley and on more than one occasion I have been asked who the old man was, standing by the rusty bedsprings.
If Ghost Hunters would like to feature my property in one of their upcoming shows it would be contingent on keeping my name and the exact location private. For further information please contact Irene Looney at the ***** Public Library. Sincerely, Roger ******
*Irene Note: Did you really send this letter? I would love to meet Jason and especially Grant of the Ghost Hunters Show.
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3 comments:
Those are some very interesting stories you have about your place! The baby dump is just a horrid thought to even think about. I can remember when we first moved to our old farm house a lady stopped by and said that she always thought our farm house was haunted. I did see a little girl upstairs in our bedroom. She appeared out of no where and told me everything was going to be alright. She was a very beautiful little girl with long brown hair wearing a dress. A few years later I heard that a little girl had drown in the creek near here in the winter while ice skating. Might have been her!
Thanks for taking word verification off!
What strange stories; and yet it seems that every community has some eerie tale connected with it, at least in these hills. I'm with Angela--the baby dump is terrible in every sense of the word. And the dog; poor old Buster.
The "baby dump" still gives me chills. Occasionally I think about finding our more about it. People have told me they have read about it in recollections on geneology sites. Frankly, I think I know too much already.
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