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| George 'Buster' Singleton |
(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator
George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere
in Time.” The column below, which was titled “The ghost of the circuit-riding
preacher visits,” was originally published in the Oct. 27, 1994 edition of The
Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
Journey with me into the back roads of northwest Marengo
County. The sun is about to set in the western sky, and there is no traffic
along the narrow dirt road that winds its way through what used to be a
thriving farm community.
The farm houses that used to dot the landscape have vanished
from the scene as the rich, fertile fields that used to grow an abundant amount
of cotton and corn now are planted in thousands upon thousands of pine trees.
The deep, heavy sand that makes up the old road bed was once
marked by the wheels of the local farmers’ wagons. As the families traveled to
the grist mill and the country store for their meal to be ground and to
purchase the few needed supplies, many happy memories waited around almost
every bend in the country road. Laughing children ran along behind the wagons,
jumping back on and off as they grew tired of running or the deep sand grew too
hot for their bare feet.
But down the road a ways, all would jump into the wagons and
sit down in total silence as the slow wagons made their way by a small log
church that sat atop a steep hill near the narrow road. All in the wagon would
turn their heads and look in silence near the sagging front door of the small
log church. Leaning back against the log wall of the church in a rough,
handmade straight chair sat the preacher.
The preacher was dressed as usual. He had on his tall stove
pipe hat and his frock-tail coat. His long snow-white beard covered his face so
completely until all that could be seen was his piercing dark eyes that seemed
to look straight through you. And, as he stood behind the crude hand-carved
pulpit while delivering his sermons, hell fire and brimstone were always his
subject and the order of the day.
No one really knew for sure where the preacher stayed during
the time he was in the area. Some said that he slept in the loft of the old log
church. Others said that he camped down the hill behind the church beside a
large, freshwater spring.
Once in a great while, he would appear out of nowhere at one
of the local farm houses at meal time for a free meal and some feed for his
horse. Then, he and his gray horse would seem to disappear into thin air for a
few weeks or so. But, he would always return to the small log church and his
crude straight chair that rested by the front door.
Rumor had it that he had been married at one time to a very
rich lady in northeast Alabama. No one knew for sure. He never talked about his
family. The rumor went on to say that one day when he was away on one of his
circuit preaching tours, his very rich wife disappeared from the area, leaving
only a goodbye note bidding him farewell. The note went on to say that he need
not look for her, she was never to return. The story goes on to say that the
life of the circuit-riding preacher was never the same from that day forward.
Years would pass, but the old man continued to ride his
horse around the countryside, preaching wherever he could in the small churches
that would permit him to do so. Always, he would return to this small log
church to sit for days in the crude old chair and stare down the narrow dirt
road at those who passed.
The small church had now been almost abandoned since a large
newer one had been built nearer to the center of the small community. Large
holes appeared in the wooden shingle roof of the small log church. Rain poured
in on the crude church pews. The large oaks that grew next to the old church
shed their leaves to almost cover the small log building.
An air of mystery seemed to have settled around the aged log
structure. Many times, there would be no one for Sunday service but the old
circuit rider preacher and one other old man who lived by himself down the road
a ways. But regardless of the number, the sermons were said to be preached as
if the church was packed full.
Seen for the last time
Then one morning the old preacher was seen for the last time
as he slowly mounted his thin gray horse in front of the abandoned log
building. Over a year would pass before word finally reached the small farm
community that the old circuit rider preacher had been laid to rest in a small
family burial ground near the town of Centreville.
By now, the decaying log walls of the little church had begun
to crumble and sag. No one went inside for fear of being hurt by pieces of the
falling roof or the decaying walls. But, outside the sagging front door, the
rotted and broken old chair leaned crazily against the crumbling log wall.
Word began to circulate in the small community that the old
circuit rider preacher had been seen as he sat in his old chair in front of the
church, there by the door. He was dressed in his tall, stove-pipe hat and his
frock-tail coat. Both feet rested on the chair round as was his usual custom,
and over under one of the huge oak trees, the preacher’s tall gray horse was
tied to one of the tree limbs. And down under the hill, near the large
freshwater spring, the smell of a burned-out campfire filled the early morning
air.
Very few of the community would travel the narrow dirt road
by the old log church during the late hours of the evening. Stories were told
about those of the community who had passed the abandoned log church on
horseback during the hours of darkness. These frightened riders told of
suddenly feeling someone or something sitting behind them on their horses as
they approached the ruins of the abandoned church. The ghost or spirit of the
old preacher would ride for a distance of about 200 yards before it would disappear
from behind the rider as suddenly as it had appeared.
Walk with them
And those who had to travel on foot by the old church during
the night hours told of seeing the ghost of someone dressed in a tall
stove-pipe hat and wearing a long frock-tail coat. The ghost of the old
preacher would walk alongside them for about the same distance as reported by
those who had ridden by.
Those brave enough to glance up the hill at the ruins of the
old church reported seeing the faint light of a small coal oil lamp that had
been used to furnish the light for the evening services all those many years
ago.
If one dared to linger for just a moment, words of hellfire
and brimstone rode the winds of the evening around the crumbling old pulpit and
throughout the ruins of the small church.
A few days back, I traveled the narrow dirt road through
this once thriving farm community. Nothing remains of the small log church but
a pile of rotted timbers and old wooden roof shingles. The fallen limbs of the
aged oak trees has only added to deepen the solitude of an era that has passed
almost into oblivion.
Parking my motorcycle, I ascended the hill up to the pile of
rubble that once was the small log church. The remains of the crude,
straight-back chair yet rested by what was once the small door of the front
entrance. Looking around for a while, I started down the hill to where my
transportation awaited.
Turning back and looking up the hill at the pile of rubble
where the remains of the crude old chair yet stood, my blood ran cold. There,
leaning back against the wall in the rickety old chair, sat a shadowy
ghost-like figure of someone with a long snow-white beard. He was wearing a
long frock-tail coat, and on his head, he wore a tall stove-pipe hat.
The stories were true. The old preacher had returned.
(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and
Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime
resident of Monroeville, he was born on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County and
served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from 1964 to
1987. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and
all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the
microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville.
Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship
purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)
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