Singleton tells of ghostly happenings at old, abandoned farm house

'Several huge mimosa trees in full bloom shaded the old house...' 

(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 “Strange events center around Wilcox Count house” was originally published in the May 26, 1994 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

This past week, I received a telephone message from our neighboring county of Wilcox. The message stated that if I was interested in a good story about the supernatural, I was to follow the directions given to me.

The message went on to say that before the day was over, I would have witnessed something that would make my hair stand up on end. It said I would remember this excursion for a long, long time.

I was to call a certain telephone number in the town of Camden and leave a message, stating the date and time that I would arrive at a certain crossroads. I would be met by someone who would guide me to the location and give me the details as to what I might expect to hear or see at this old house place.

I could hardly wait to get started on this venture, since I am very interested in researching the supernatural and that this was supposed to take place in broad open daylight.

Clear and beautiful

The weather was clear and beautiful as I mounted my motorcycle and headed in a northwestwardly direction. The crisp morning air caused my cheeks to tingle as I sped up the highway. I couldn’t wait to see what was ahead as I left the highway and turned westward on a blacktop country road and headed in the direction of the river.

As I neared a certain crossroad, I saw a pickup truck parked beside the crossing. As I approached, the pickup pulled out in the road ahead of me; a motion from the driver directed me to follow.

About two miles down the road, the blacktop gave way to red clay and gravel. Another mile was covered before the truck ahead of me slowed almost to a stop. Then turning directly to the left into a lane that led up to an old house, the drier pulled over and stopped. As we talked, my new friend requested that he and the location of the old house remain anonymous due to various ones who might come this way and pillage and destroy the abandoned farm house.

Informing me that he had been called to come in to work, due to sickness of one of his fellow workers, he would be unable to stay with me. My newfound friend gave me instructions as where to go. He told me to go to the back steps and side down on the old passageway, or dog trot as it was called, that leads to the kitchen. He told me to stay as long as I liked; he requested that I call him that night and relay to him what I had heard or seen.

Parking my motorcycle near the ragged and decaying old yard fence, I made my way around the ancient farm house. Several huge mimosa trees in full bloom shaded the old house and the kitchen as though a huge colorful blanket had been spread over the house and yard. You could tell that many years had passed since this place had heard the sounds of laughter from within the walls and around the two huge fireplaces at each end of the large old log house.

Making my way through the tall weeds and grass, I opened the ancient yard gate and entered the back yard. The sound of the old gate opening reminded me that it had been many moons since the old gate had been used. Not realizing just what I was doing, I closed the ancient yard gate as though expecting it might keep an unseen child from leaving the yard or perhaps keep an animal from entering.

After walking through the old house to reassure myself that there wasn’t anyone else there, I began to look for a place to wait. Sitting down on the old kitchen porch, I leaned against an ancient post that supported the roof that covered the porch. I sat facing the dog trot that led to the sagging old door where one entered the house when returning from the kitchen.

Facing the house, I knew I could see or hear almost anything within the old house. Making myself as comfortable as possible, I began the wait for something that I didn’t know for what I was waiting.

As I looked through the back door of the old house, I became aware that the sagging old front door had closed. The sound of the closing door echoed around and around the large room where one of the ancient fireplaces was located. I looked across the large room again to find the old sagging door was now open. This was strange because the top door hinge was not connected to the door facing; the old door hung at a crazy angle with its bottom resting on the ancient boards of the decaying front porch. I assured myself that I was just imagining this; the old door would have had to be lifted up, even to move it.

Before I had solved the mystery of the closing front door, from within the large room off to my left, the sound of footsteps could be heard on the old plank floor. They seemed to be coming toward the rear of the house. I wasn’t sitting on the old porch anymore. I was now standing, getting ready to make a dash for the old yard gate. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the sounds of the heavy footsteps ceased. Silence settled once again across the floors of the old house.

Deciding that I would wait a few more minutes, I sat down again against the old post. As I was sitting down, I became aware of an unusual odor that seemed to come from the old kitchen. I knew it wasn’t the odor of the full blooms on the large mimosa trees around the old house; this smelled like food cooking on a wood-burning stove. The strong smell of wood burning mixed with the odor of cooking food filled the air there on the back porch of the old kitchen.

Stone chimney

Making my way off the old kitchen porch, I looked up at the top of the old stone chimney that stood above the roof of the aged kitchen. I almost expected to see the smoke from the morning cooking fire making its way up through the high mimosa branches. The delicious odor of cooking food now filled the back yard.

As I made my way back through the tall weeds and high grass, I reached the ancient yard gate. After stepping through the creaking old gate, I turned to close it as I had before. To my total amazement, the door to the old kitchen, that opened out on the sagging kitchen porch, was now tightly closed. The delicious odor of the cooking food had disappeared from the morning air, just as though it had never been there. The sweet smell of burning wood had faded also.

Making my way around the old yard fence to my waiting transportation, I felt as if I was being watched by someone or something. Fastening the strap to my riding helmet, I looked one last time at the front of the ancient farm house.

Across the opened front door, a shadow stepped – stepping away from the opening as though it had been standing there, watching me make ready to leave from the corner of the old yard. Slowly, I made my way down the old abandoned lane that led to the gravel road.

(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 to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. 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.)