Singleton tells of creepy trip to family cemetery and old, decaying house

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 “Memories lie along the paths of yesterday’s footsteps” was originally published in the Oct. 22, 1992 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

The 12th of October was a beautiful day. The cool fresh air of the early morning started the vagabond blood racing wildly through my veins as I pondered the route I would choose for the day’s travel.

I knew that I had to go somewhere. There wasn’t enough chains around to bind me in one place on a beautiful day such as this. I remembered that it had been a while since I had visited the old home place of my maternal ancestors. The open road was calling to me.

As I sped westward on Highway 84 the crisp morning air beckoned me onward. As I raced across the new river bridge at Claiborne, I realized that today, 452 years ago, about a mile downstream, history had been made.

Just about this time of the morning, Hernando DeSoto and his army had begun crossing the mighty river. Today was Monday; the crossing had actually taken place on a Tuesday. Glancing across the flat pasture land I could picture in my mind the activity that took place there that day so long ago.

As I sped in a northwestward direction, I realized that I was exceeding the speed limit. Telling myself that I wasn’t on a time schedule, I began to appreciate and enjoy the changing colors of the approaching autumn.

The beauty was breathtaking as I passed the historical marker where the site once was known to the early Indians as Choctaw Corner. I was entering another time; I was about to be up to my ears in early family history. I couldn’t wait; I had so much to see and only a day to see it in. I realized I was acting as if I had never been to the places I was about to visit; I had to get control of myself.

My first stop was the old cemetery where my paternal ancestors were buried. A quick check of the dates on the tombstones reminded me again that my great-great-uncle had gone off to the dreaded Civil War at the early age of 14. And, I remembered, too, that my great-grandfather had gone off to the war earlier. My great-grandfather never returned. The story is that the great-great-uncle enlisted to avenge the death of his older brother. Perhaps he did; he had been awarded the Southern Cross of Honor.

Turning off Highway 69, I was reminded again that I was retracing the footsteps of history. I stopped for a moment and re-read the historical marker that told of the McGrew massacre. The McGrew family, along with some others, were ambushed and killed by a raiding war party of Indians near this spot in 1813. The marker made mention also of the twin brothers who died that day in the massacre many years ago.

The small, shaded cemetery where my maternal ancestors sleep rests in the deep woods, a considerable distance from the little traveled public road. Unless you know the location of this small burial place, you could easily pass it by, not knowing that it was there.

As I visited the graves of my grandfather and grandmother, memories of a tall, dark-haired woman came to mind. I remembered a woman who, despite her age, was very handsome. I remembered how she used to take her long, jet-black hair down out of the roll in which she wore it. She would entertain her grandchildren by sitting on her hair. I remember how amazed I was when my grandmother did this, although I had seen her do it many times before.

Standing at the tomb of my maternal great-grandfather, I remembered the story of how he returned home from the dreaded war a wounded and sick man. I remember being told how he rode into the yard of his home, and not being able to dismount, fell off his horse. As my great-grandmother stood on the front porch, not recognizing her husband, she refused to speak to him. And the children, not knowing their own father, hid under the house until he told them who he was.

Nearby, was the grave of my great-great-uncle. He too had worn the uniform of the Confederacy. And he had been wounded during the bitter fighting somewhere in the state of Tennessee, but his wound had been less serious.

I remembered being told just a few years back during the family’s annual reunion here at the small cemetery, how he turned to riverboat gambling. I remembered being told how he almost won the river boat from its owner in a poker game.

I remembered the stories about how well he dressed and the fine horses he rode, while everyone else labored in the fields for the meager living that was to be found here.

As I left the small burial place of my maternal ancestors, I stopped for a few moments to visit the old home place that now stands in ruins only a short distance from the old cemetery. As I carefully made my way up on the old front porch, I turned to the front yard, now grown up with tall weeds and bushes. I could visualize a dirty, shabby seriously wounded Confederate soldier as he sat his horse there in the yard, begging to be recognized by his family who didn’t know him.

As I carefully made my way across the rotted porch floor, I remembered the story about the front door that wouldn’t stay closed. The shabby old door hung at a crazy angle.

Making my way inside, I slowly closed the door and turned the old wooden latch in place. As I made my way across the decaying plank floor of the large room toward the huge fireplace, I heard the sound of the ancient wooden latch turning.

Then, I heard the creaking of the worn rusted hinges as the door slowly swung open, as though it had been opened by some unseen person, or by a spirit from years long passed.

Climbing off the decaying front porch, I felt that I was being watched as I made my way across the grown-up front yard. Perhaps the spirit of my great-grandmother or the spirit of my wounded great-grandfather yet roamed the old house, searching or waiting for something or someone, known only to them, from the pages of yesterday.

Or just maybe they wanted to see more of a great-grandson who they never knew in real life. The secret still dwells within the decaying walls of the old house; I doubt if I will ever know. The winds of tomorrow hold the answer.

(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.)