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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 “Listen to the voices that speak
in the night” was originally published in the Nov. 1, 1990 edition of The
Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
There are many strange happenings that I have encountered
during my sojourn in Monroe County.
I have spent many occasions braving the cold nights and
suffering through many surprise rainstorms. I know that no one made me expose
myself to the harshness of the elements. I have had the living daylights
frightened out of me during some of my ventures throughout the area. But, all
in all, I have enjoyed every minute.
There are those who say that one is not too bright when one
brings on hardships such as I have experienced. But those times have been
exciting, and the fond memories have made it worthwhile.
Abnormal things
Just a short time ago, I was told about a place where
abnormal things were happening. As has happened many times, I promised that I
would not disclose the exact location because this individual didn’t want
anyone going across his property and littering and wrecking the area. So I
agreed to keep the immediate area a kind of secret until such time this
landowner saw fit to disclose it.
I was shown the area and the easiest way to get into it from
the highway. I always like to become familiar with the terrain. (I tell
everyone this is so I won’t hurt myself if I decide to do some serious
running.) I was told by the landowner that the unusual happenings would
probably begin shortly after sundown. So, a few evenings back, the right time
presented itself and I was on my way.
After riding my trail bike almost to the spot that I had
been shown, I turned it around and headed it out toward the highway. Slowly, I
made my way down the trail. I had planned to pick out a secure place where I
could hear and see.
The dark shadows of the evening were slowly creeping across
the few open spots among the timbers. I thought of myself as being early for
the gathering of the supernatural. But I was jolted to my senses to hear voices
talking rapidly as I started to sit on the ground.
No one to be seen
I looked all around me, expecting to see a group that had
gathered here to play a trick on me or try to scare me out of my wits. The
thought passed through my mind that I had been set up for a big, funny joke.
But there was no one to be seen. I listened closely as the talking continued.
Strange, I didn’t recognize any of the words; they were of an unfamiliar
language. The sounds were short, as though many of the words were just grunts.
I continued to listen, hoping to recognize something or anything.
I stared into the gathering darkness, hoping to see a
movement or anything that might be familiar that I could associate it with the
voices. The voices floated across the opening, as though a quarrel of sorts was
about to take place. Then the voices grew quiet, as a lone, heavy voice seemed
to take control of the group or gathering. This voice continued to speak for
about two or three minutes. Then all was quiet. I looked at my watch; the time
was 8:10 p.m. The stillness seemed to reach out and touch me as I sat very
still. The hairs on my neck stood up against my shirt collar.
I began to listen for the usual night sounds of the woods.
There were none, not even the sound of a leaf dropping from a tree. This was
highly unusual, I thought. I would have welcomed the sound of a worrisome
armadillo, but the stillness continued to creep over the area.
Just one voice
Ten minutes passed, then 20. I was about to ease myself up
the path and to my transportation. As I rose to one knee, I was aware that the
talking had started again. I eased myself down to the ground. The talking was
again in that strange tongue. I listened ever so closely; this time the lone,
heavy voice continued to speak. There
were no other voices.
The talking lasted this time for about three minutes. I
wished more than ever that I could make out even a single word, but to no
avail. I searched my memory for something that I might could compare the words
with. I had traveled through many of the Indian reservations throughout the
Southwest; I had spent quite some time with some of these people, but none of
their languages were similar to what I had just witnessed.
As I sat in deep thought, trying to compare that which I had
heard with something that I could identify with, I became aware of all the
night sounds. Off to my right, a large owl hooted; over in front of me, the
call was answered. As the night sounds grew and the rustle of the fallen leaves
began to stir in the night breezes. I knew that the time had come for me to
depart this place and leave yet another mystery to ride the night winds of the
unknown and the supernatural.
As I rode toward home and a warm bed, I knew that I would
return. Who knows? Next time, things may be different. Next trip, they may just
be speaking my language.
(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 Monrsoeville 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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