Since we are, if nothing else, a creature of habit, we found it quite necessary to revisit our previous volume, wherein we took the reader on an imaginary voyage through a dozen or more haunted Indiana locales–all the better to educate those seeking information on the creaking hollows and ghost-choked cemeteries of old Indiana.
First, let us draw the magic circle of protection about ourselves, making sure to say all the proper incantations and spells to ensure that, while our flight through the ether of the unknown may be a properly frightening one, it in no way endangers our safety. Then, let us summon forth, from the crumbling pages of so many august tomes, a few dreadful tidbits to whet the appetites of wonder-seekers everywhere.
We begin our spectral voyage (after beating our way through the midnight hour traffic of so many fleeting phantoms) in the quiet town of Portage, where rears before us the stately, reverent visage of Wolf Mansion. The owner, a reported keeper of slaves, went mad one accursed night, and killed each of his slaves and their children. Later, in a fit of grief over what he had done, he finished off his own family with an axe, then put the barrel of a gun in his mouth. Legend has it that at times, you can see mysterious figures peeping from the windows, strange, garbed figures moving about on the property (and disappearing), and those that have been inside swear that they have heard moans and groans, felt the clammy touch of spirit hands, and generally have a feeling that there are mysterious eyes upon them at all times.
It is also said that the tower (which formerly held a bell that was rung to call the slaves to attention) can still be heard to give forth with the spectral ring of ages past, when the blood of slaves was spilled here by a man who had lost his mind.
Next, we take you to South Bend, to sit for a mouth-watering morsel of a tale at the Tippecanoe Place Restaurant. Once the home of Studebaker scion Clement Studebaker, a man that made and lost a fortune, it is highly believed to be the location of his eventual suicide. Whatever the objective truth may be in that regard, the Studebaker mansion in South Bend is a place where the tragedy of the past meets the hopefulness of the living with a strange, resonant wail.
In the early part of the last century, the entire place erupted into a smoking inferno, killing a nanny and small child , and (apparently) leaving behind the grief and tragedy of the even as a sort of psychic echo in its wake. Reports of cold spots, strange noises, haunting melodies trickling forth from the old ballroom, and the sensation of mysterious “eyes” being on you at all times, have been reported by a variety of anonymous witnesses. And don’t worry about getting your drinks on time. The liquor bottles have been known to fly from their shelves on their own accord.
From the posh interior of the Tippecanoe Place, we next travel to the humble burg of Gas City, in Grant County, where the 10th Street Bridge bears the unhappy spirit of a construction worker, who fell from the bridge to his death many years ago. Today it is said that on certain nights of the year you can see a figure clinging, desperately, at the edge of the bridge, with fingers that are eternally slipping on the rough edge toward a watery grave below. Also, it is said that powerful screams can be heard by those who cross the bridge and, we must assume, are equipped with the psychic sensitivity to hear them.
We don’t have to beam ourselves very far afield for a next stop, for Gas City is where the pleasant playground of the old East Side School still retains, reportedly, the shivery laughter and still-exuberant screams of playing children who are not there, at least, in bodily form. The educational stomping grounds for generations of this happy hamlet, the old East Side School apparently still retains a merry-go-round that spins, at times, of its own accord. Believe it if you will.
Onward we fly, on spirited wings, toward Indianapolis, where the former owner of the Indiana Repertory Theatre is still busying himself worrying about his physical health, even though his physical body has long been laid to rest. Apparently, the man had been a fanatical physical fitness buff, and his incessant jogging between bouts of paperwork would continue on the upstairs mezzanine, particularly on days when the weather was inclement.
His exercise would prove to be a test in futility, however, for he was killed in an unfortunate automobile accident. Some would claim this ironic, given the nature of a man that spent so much time furiously moving his feet, but, whatever the case, one undeniable thing can be ascertained: he’s still jogging the upstairs mezzanine of the theatre, to this very day.
Or so some would claim.
From a jogging theatre owner to the bearer of a hooked hand and a “secret treasure,” we take you now to Fort Wayne, to unfold one of the strangest sagas yet told in our torrid tome. This story may leave you feeling the clutches of a hooked claw rake across your neck after you get done reading it.
Supposedly, in a little-known area called “Devil’s Hollow”, there is an old house that was once occupied by a strange man and his long-suffering wife. The man had a hook where his right hand should have been, and he was rumored to have secret connections to Nazis in Germany, as well as knowing the whereabouts of a substantial portion of stolen Nazi treasure. Whether there was any truth to this legend or not can never, now, be fully ascertained, but what is certain is that the man was a violent, abusive drunk, who frequently beat his wife and terrorized local children into nicknaming him their “boogeyman”.
They were not long, however, to enjoy the company of his (earthly) presence, for this mad individual one day went clean out of his skull, butchered his wife and child with an axe, and hung himself on a nearby bridge.
Strangely, before he enacted this atrocity, he completed the construction of a bizarre monument to his madness, a strange, irregularly built fence whose old boards crisscross up and down in unusual patterns. Some say that the very wise, or the very psychically gifted, can read the entire sordid saga of the man in the shapes and contours of this fence, and that it holds the secret to where his vast sums of gold is buried.
Of course, the hooked-handed Nazi is as eager to protect his gold, in death, as he was to protect it during his short, bitter existence. It is said that strange lights can be said to play over the countryside near Devil’s Hollow, and that if you go out to the house, alone, you will see the image of a man hanging as you try and cross the bridge. If you pass this grave sentinel without turning away in panic, then further along, in the dim reaches where the old house sits, you will see a light , burning eternally , in the old upstairs window. You may also see a presence in a hat and a long dark cloak. This image may reach out to strike at you, with one hooked hand slinging desperately at the air, in a futile attempt to guard a treasure that may never have existed at all.
These things may happen, but we wouldn’t swear by them.
Ah, onward we move, through the Infinite Void, now to Kokomo. Having visited the “Devil’s Hollow” we now make for a pleasant stop at “Satan’s Church”, a boarded-up house of worship that no longer bears the redemptive touch of the Most High God. Rumor has it that the cemetery behind is cursed by the apparitions of the walking dead, and that growling curse can be heard to erupt from the ground, and from inside the boarded-up confines of the church proper. Also, a pair of glowing eyes can be seen in the darkness, while glowing orbs and a “foul mist” cling like a sepulchral blanket to the edges of the place.
To top matters off, it is said that mysterious, underground “Satanic covens” have used the cemetery (and perhaps even the interior of the church ?) as a place for the invocation of diabolical forces, no doubt during the most high holidays of Walpurgisnacht, or even Halloween.
Satanists or no, we wouldn’t advise taking in Sunday services at “Satan’s Church”. It doesn’t strike the present author as being very spiritually edifying (depending, of course, upon your respective religious persuasion).
From “Satan’s Church” we next travel to “Blood Road” in Dunkirk, for the eerie tale of a maniacal farmer who murdered his barren wife. One night, after bashing in her skull, he placed her body in the back of his pickup truck, heading off down the darkened country lane, while he was driving, the body (which had, apparently, been tied-up in the bed of the truck, which had no tailgate), came unstuck, and nearly fell out the back. It was dragged, unknowingly, down miles of rough road, spurting a slick miasma of blood like a slug leaving slime in its wake.
It is said that travelers of Blood Road can see this ectoplasm trail of grue to this very day, as they drive along at night. That would be enough to frighten anyone to stay away. But wait! There’s even more.
According to some accounts, the homicidal farmer butchered his small son, as well. It is said that the apparition of the tot can be seen beckoning, at times, from the side of the road, lonely and lost; looking for the love, perhaps, he was ever denied during his short existence.
Next, we come to the (seeming) relative safety of a bustling Indiana high school (although, how safe any school can be considered in this day and age of random shootings is a matter of debate) , in particular Northside Highschool in Ft. Wayne.
Once the site of an Indian burial plot, the land itself was reportedly cursed by the ancient Chieftain who refused to ever allow anything to be built upon it. Of course, his warning went unheeded, and the Highschool itself has been the scene of ghostly visitations, including that of a teenaged girl, who reportedly has been sighted in the gymnasium, walking through the halls after hours, and can be heard whispering to herself in the cafeteria.
A janitor (who suffered a massive heart attack and dropped dead at work) is reportedly still on the job, and a construction worker that was killed in a building renovation has been seen to haunt the auditorium. A construction crew hired in the early Nineties for some major work reportedly had laborers who quit, or refused to be in the building alone. It would appear that, as far as the ghosts of Northside Highschool are concerned, class is always in session.
The Potawatomi Indians believed that the St. Joseph river (which they called Sauk-wauk-sil-buck, later Sau-was-see-bee) was a dual river, one a flowing beauty that supplied them with fish, and which they could float their canoes downriver, to trade with settlers and friendly tribes, the other a vast underground stream flowing into the Underworld.
One such story has the Chief of the Potawatomi, who, out of all his children, loved his little son the most. Yet, tragically, the River Spirit (who had an ironic, if not particularly large appetite) saw in the boy something that It fancied, too. The Chief’s son went down to the river to play, and was never seen again.
The chief, who nearly mourned himself to death, spent the remainder of his days looking for the lost tot, but, finding it fruitless, he simply sat one cold winter’s day on the banks of the St. Joseph, leaned against a tree, and froze to death. A sort of passive-aggressive suicide.
Of course, a school rests on the exact spot now, and it is said by employees that they have caught a glimpse, at odd and sundry times, that the image of a Native American chief can be seen roaming the hallways, perhaps continuing his fruitless search for his little boy, into eternity.
We are still whipping through the crawling chaos of clinging mist towards a new destination, that being: Francesville. There, a mysterious light can be seen skimming through a cornfield. Legend reputes that two brothers long ago were riding in a carriage, when the other brother managed, through misadventure, to fall out, being horribly decapitated under the wheels in the process. The light seen is supposedly that of his brother, who combs the tall crops in search of the messy remains of the head, so it could be properly buried.
Across the street from where I presently live is an old house called Hostess House, a rather stately-looking old place considering the down-at-the-heels condition of most of the rest of the surrounding neighborhood. The house, which serves as a “social showpiece”, now houses restaurants and shops. It also has a reputation for housing the resident spirit of a murdered woman who was killed long ago.
The man who perpetrated the murder, incidentally, was a distant relative of an individual known to the present author, so the details leading up to this particular crime were well-known to him.
The crime was perpetrated by his cousin, a young man who hailed from the mean streets of Chicago. He had gotten mixed-up, at a rather young age, in the seedy world of drugs and gangs, and his relatives, having become concerned for his safety, and seeking to get him to “clean his act up”, had sent him to his relatives in Marion.
At the time, Marion, Indiana was an altogether cleaner, nicer, and thoroughly more law-abiding place than what it, unfortunately has evolved into since. Of course, many communities now, regrettably, are plagued by gangs, crime, drugs, and the specter of social decay. It was not so pronounced even thirty years ago. But, I digress.
The young man, in point of fact, did not “clean up his act”, although he might have done so for a short time. One fateful evening, he made his way downtown, perhaps finally “fed to the teeth” with being so “good” for so long, to celebrate his “coming of age” at a local bar.
His celebration was to be short-lived.
Drunk as the proverbial skunk, he walked (or was rather, ejected) from the bar in an intensely drunk, drugged, and paranoid state. Walking the streets in the wee hours of the morning, inebriated, is never a good idea for those who wish to remain on the right side of the law so, knowing full well he might be picked up, he stumbled upon the grounds of the Hostess House, perhaps imaging the stately old place was so large no one would notice if he snuck in, found a silent nook in which he could dry out, or wait until dawn.
Alternately, it has been suggested that he broke into the Hostess House with the idea of robbery in mind. It could have been a desire to buy drugs which drove him there that fateful early morning, but, whatever it was, somehow he managed to climb (precariously we must assume, considering his drunken state plus the height of the building itself), to an open window and creep inside.
It must have been very dark, and although we won’t linger long over the unmerry details of the ensuing event, suffice it to say he was not alone in the building. An elderly lady discovered the young lout roaming around upstairs, drunk and out of his mind.
She may have screamed, or she may have boldly demanded what he was doing there, and threatened to call the police. At the mention of the word “police”, the young man may have flown into a rage. At any rate, reportedly he grabbed a blunt object, perhaps a table lamp, and proceeded to bludgeon the elderly woman to death.
The details to what happened next, as they were presented to this author, are a little unclear, but suffice it to say that the young man was apprehended in a short amount of time, having left a trail of bloody evidence in his wake. He was tried, convicted, and sent to prison where he, undoubtedly, belonged. However, that is not the end of the story.
It is said that on moonlight nights the ghost of the old woman can be seen standing on the balcony outside, staring off into the darkness below. (Perhaps wondering at all the new, sporty cars and loud, thumping music erupting out of them?)
We have passed this particular abode on many occasions, and have yet to see a trace of her, all though we will concede that the place itself, which is lit heavily, eerily, in front, but recedes to darkness in the back, does have its own unnerving, foreboding quality. We’ve not yet been inside, and we’re not sure we ever want to go…
While we are stopped in Marion, we might as well take a little tour through the once-auspicious residence of a family that lived in a glorious old Victorian on Boots street, a neighborhood that has, sadly, fallen the way of so much of the ret of this once-pleasant Hoosier burg. It is a tale retold by Mark Marimen in his excellent book Haunted Indiana 2, and recounts the childhood memories of a woman who grew up in a house that she claimed was, malevolently haunted.
One of her earliest memories is of just experiencing a general feeling that there was something “not quite right” about the environment in which she was growing up. One of the worst aspects of the whole house for her was descending the old oaken staircase, which was light only by a singly light from a drawstring above (which, being a youngster, she could of course not reach). “Marie Dudeck” explains that she often felt a sense of fearful presence when descending this particular staircase in the dark. Even as a child, “Marie Dudeck” explains to Marimen, “…I remember feeling the cold and knowing I was not alone of those stairs. It was a frightening, threatening feeling.”
As well it should be. “Marie” recounts her father, one night, very carefully closing the closet door in his bedroom, with a worried expression on his face. He explained that one night, just before settling down to sleep, he had forgotten and left the closet door wide open. He had drifted off to troubled slumber when, at an ungodly hour of the morning, something stirred him to wakefulness.
He was stunned and horrified to see the dark apparition of a woman emerge from the closet, her finger pointing out, meaninglessly, in front of her, as if she were staring at something in the distance. Whatever it was, he couldn’t guess, but “Marie” was certain it was a story her father hadn’t made up just to try and amuse or frighten the kids. She tells Marimen, “Dad obviously believed it and he repeated this story to us often.”
It was not to be the only manifestation of a ghostly presence in the unidentified old house on Boots street (which, truth be told, is rather rife with crumbling old houses). In time, several older aunts finally moved out (perhaps to nursing care?), and the family now found themselves the sole owner of the old place. The girls. “Marie” and her sister, were moved to a disused downstairs room that was converted into a bedroom. It had formerly been servants quarters during the bygone era of opulence when such arrangements were commonplace.
Much to the chagrin of her mother, she often swore she could hear “Marie” walking about downstairs at all hours of the night. When confronted with this, or when angrily asked to “Get back in bed and go to sleep!”, an awakened Marie could often be counted on to come to her bedroom door and confess that she had been in bed the whole time. Apparently, someone was making footsteps, often, all night downstairs. Whoever it was though, was not one of the girls.
The most terrifying incident, however, happened not to Marie, but to her sister, who, while going to the bathroom one night, saw something in the parlor that caused her to let out peals of screaming fright, waking up the entire family.
Apparently, downstairs, the way to the bathroom led past the empty, darkened parlor. Cheery enough by day, but at night, when suddenly the hustle and bustle of living energy has reached a low ebb…it could have as sinister and unwelcoming a feeling as the rest of the sleeping home.
The sister (who took much time and coaxing to calm down) swore that, as she was walking down the darkened hallway to the bathroom, she looked over in the parlor. Sitting in the parlor was the figure of a woman dressed in black.
We take it such an intruder would be enough to unnerve even the boldest among us. To the young girl, it might have seemed as if hell itself had flung open a gate and let loose a revenant.
Strange figure and phantom footsteps soon led the family to realize they were sharing their domestic tranquility (or, perhaps, lack thereof) with a very special guest. It wasn’t until sometime later that the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together for Marie, but not until she discovered a hidden interest in genealogy.
She began to consult the elderly aunts about the history of the family, and she got quite an earful. She could name all of her most distant relatives in time, but she kept zeroing back to the issue of the family house, and the history of who had lived and, most assuredly, died there.
One name that was mentioned was “Great Aunt Margery“, but it was a name without many details attached to it, and Marie’s elderly relatives refused to elaborate. It would not be until next summer, while, when visiting some more distant cousins in Florida, Marie would finally begin to unravel the tragic history of the house and the woman who had died in the very bedroom in which she now slept.
Although at first reluctant to open an particularly aged and corroded can of worms, an elderly relative (described as being very “forthright”) confessed that Great Aunt Margery had died of “peritonitis” while screaming in an agony of pain and fury in the back bedroom of the old house. She delivered, perhaps ominously, imprecations to God, begging his forgiveness, but knowing he could never forgive her for all the evil she had enacted in her short, bitter life.
And to what, pray tell, was she referring?
It may seem strange to us in the present era of loose mores and non-traditional virtue, but at one time the idea of a young, unmarried woman becoming pregnant was considered a moral and social blight from which virtually nothing could redeem the transgressor. Margery, having slept with a married man, had made it all doubly worse, and was now caught in the middle of something she was not, in any way, prepared to deal with at her tender age. She made a decision that was both rash, and in those days, illegal.
It would also prove fatal.
She procured the services of a quack abortionist, a man whose name is lost to this record, but who must have been sorely qualified to endeavor the particular medical task he was entrusted to perform. We do not have any record of how much he was paid. If it was even a pittance, it was far too much.
Somehow, the operation was botched, and Margery grew gravely ill. She was put, like a dirty secret in the disused back bedroom, and tended to as best the family were able. However, it soon became apparent that there was little chance for her recovery, and funeral preparations must have been hastily drawn up.
She raged and ranted, as we mentioned before, begging the forgiveness of God. Whether or not she found it is a matter of strict conjecture. Depending on what one, personally, believes concerning the possible nature of ghostly manifestations, the answer could very well be…no.
Marie (who must have returned home with her head swimming of images on the “old days”, and not a little bit of unsettled fear mixed with curiosity), settled down along with her sister in the room one night, trying, as best she could, to relax to a troubled sleep.
She was not long to remain confined to the realm of portents and uneasy dreams; for, in due time, she felt a coldness steal over her, even in her sleep, and she awoke to a sight she would never forget, again, for the rest of her life.
Standing before her, dressed in a flowing, black, Victorian gown, was the apparition of a cadaverous woman. Marie was paralyzed with fear (a common enough occurrence, actually, during such “bedroom visitations” whatever they look like or however they present themselves). She closed her eyes tightly, bit her lip, trying to make doubly sure that this wasn’t the residual image of a half-remembered nightmare. No dice. She opened her eyes, and the ghost was still there, staring off into a space beyond, beyond anything any of us could imagine, possibly.
Then she vanished…as quickly as she had come.
That was the last, most terrifying encounter Marie had with “Great Aunt Margery”, but it was not the end of the manifestations of Margery. The strange footsteps often continued, long into the night, and the feeling of “presence,” of a cold, angry, lonely woman who was trapped, in a metaphysical sense, in a kind of locked groove of being from which she could not escape; perhaps she was looking for a way out, and couldn’t find it. Perhaps she still is.
Marie told Marimen that, years later, she returned to the house to take pictures of the outside. It had long ago been sold to a landlord, who converted it into upstairs and downstairs apartments,. Curiously, he was never able to rent out the upstairs.
He related an amusing story, while confiding that the house seemed “funny” somehow, that the tenant in the downstairs apartment one day called him, asking him why he had not been informed that the upstairs rooms had been rented. He assured the troubled tenant that, indeed, they had not. Which distinctly troubled the man, as he had been subject to loud footsteps echoing from the empty rooms upstairs, many, many nights in a row now.
Marie relates to Marimen that she believes that, just because the ownership of the house had changed, did not mean that Margery was going to “move on” or quit her frequent, troubled perambulations.
“It was her house, and she was everywhere in it. It was not a pleasant thing at all.” Marie was quoted as saying.
For our last spine tingler on the terror-trail, as the moon dips low and the first, chilly, ghastly rays of the hated daylight peep just above the horizon, we must turn back the clock to tale of wild ghostliness the likes of which may leave the reader stone mad with horror. Or, at the very least, leave them feeling cold as a stone.
We make no promises or apologies, one way or the other.
Our scene can be set thusly: Mr. William S. Lingle, Editor of the Lafayette Evening Courier, played host and bon-vivant to a number of distinguished men one evening in 1872, including Judge J.K. Higginbotham, and a “Professor Amos Dillington” of a distinguished university. Two other men were reported as being present, both of them minor newspapermen from elsewhere in the state. It was the middle of June.
After dinner, the men must have repaired to the “gentleman’s smoking room” for a few cigars and perhaps a few glasses of brandy.
The subject, for some unfathomable reason, turned to the supernatural, and Professor Dillington confessed himself quite an enthusiast on this particular subject. Lingle, feeling perhaps mischievous as well as adventurous, suggested an outing to a house he knew of that was, reputedly, haunted. It was a two-room house, much fallen to ruin, with no upstairs and a dirt floor. It was around a mile outside Lafayette city limits, and without much further goading, the men were convinced to take off in separate carriages at around 9:00 that evening, finally following Lingle’s coach to the dilapidated old place.
Upon their arrival, they looked over the house carefully, noting the boarded-up windows and the general air of disrepute and decay which hung about the mournful old dwelling. Choking back the dust behind hands holding kerchiefs and shivering with a little chill (and a little fright, perhaps?) the men settled themselves on the scant, moldy furniture, and waited,. They had not long to sit.
In a short time, according to the account published by Mr. Lingle in the pages of the Evening Courier (and reported later in the excellent book Hoosier Hauntings by K.T. MacRorie), a strange, smoky light began to play in the darkness, and several men had to lean over, adjusting their spectacles to make sure that they weren’t hallucinating in the moonlit dark. The light grew to a strange, dancing, luminescent fire, and began to metamorphose into the form of a great white wolf, who seemed to be running in mid-air. He then stopped, as if exhausted, and the swimming mist (or ectoplasm) from which he was formed began to swirl and change again, until it was now something quite hideous and bizarre to behold.
It was a creature not unlike a large frog, with the jaws of an alligator, and sporting a tail like a kangaroo. Very loathsome, indeed, and it floated in mid-air for what seemed several minutes, much to the amazement of the assembled.
Then, yet again, the cloud of ectoplasm shifted, until, finally, it took the form of a Native American warrior, holding a tomahawk and a torch. This strange figure stood, seemingly amazed himself at his condition, before turning, running into the darkness, and disappearing into a solid wall.
The men suddenly broke into a tumult of confused wonderment and fright, and it was everything Mr. Lingle could do to calm the terrified company and get everyone back to their rightful senses. Professor Dillington, who suddenly confessed to being a “learned practitioner” of the occult, decided that they should return later that night (or at least, all those willing to return should do so), and that he would endeavor to contact this bizarre spirit, and henceforth see what the fellow was all about.
Professor Dillington (who carried his very own “magic wand”, it turned out, in a leather carrying case), followed the men back to the abandoned haunt, and, going inside, still choking from the darkened dust, proceeded to draw a circle with his wand on the dirt floor, dividing the circle with various 45 degree angles and inscribing therein a series of cryptic runes, Enochian writing, or perhaps regular old Hebrew lettering.
He then placed a tripod and lamp with a strange burning sort of oil inside, and the astounded men settled down once more to wait and see what would transpire.
In the stinking smoke and light of the lamp, the ghostly image of the Native began to slowly appear. Professor Dillington (apparently an old hand at spiritualistic séances) , began to speak with the spirit confidently, asking it why it was too disturbed to move on , to the “Happy Hunting Ground”.
The Native warrior, who spoke in a combination of French and English, answered that it was the spades and shovels of the settlers, the building of a city that was growing exponentially, which had disturbed his slumber. Apparently, his remains had been disturbed, the land was hallowed, and hand been desecrated by the new building that was going on. “White Wolf” (which was how he identified himself) was not at all pleased by this.
On his arm, incidentally, was a tattoo of the strange creature he had metamorphosed into before, the frog-like creature with alligator jaws. When asked about this, he explained that this particular Slithery Something had once existed in vast numbers in the lakes and swamps of the land, but had long since gone extinct.
“White Wolf” whose remains were buried in the Longlois reservation northeast of Lafayette, spoke for a little while longer, but he grew increasingly weak, and finally faded from sight. As to what could be done to preserve his disturbed remains, the men had not a clue, but the story of their strange encounter was much read and discussed by readers of the Lafayette Evening Standard for quite some time, until the events themselves took on the auspices of a local legend.
One young man even claimed to speak (in spiritualist séances) with the spirit of White Wolf, and claimed that he could not rest until a fence was built around Spring Vale Cemetery. Apparently, though, the young man was not much believed.
As to the location of the old house, although we wouldn’t advise our readers to go poking around anyplace they are not welcome (by man or…otherwise), reportedly it now rests possibly east of Murdock Park, in the vicinity of the ironically named Sunnyside Junior High in Lafayette.
As for White Wolf himself, who knows? Did he find peace, and move onward? Only God could say for certain.
However, our personal “jittery jaunt” has now taken us through the halls of night, the forests of fantasy, and memory, and history, onto the shores of time, and left us all the better for having toured the dust-shrouded corridors of Haunted Hoosier History. Time to shuffle on our “mortal coils”, and walk the world as men, in daylight, once more.
Haunted Hoosier History…
Hey, that’s not a bad title, is it?