George Singleton describes encounter with ghost of Nancy Haines

The Old Bradley House at Franklin, Ala.

(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 “Fall graces Monroe County with a serene beauty” was originally published in the Sept. 5, 1991 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

On Wednesday, Aug. 21, the sun rose with a tinge of fall in the air.

As my friend and I made our way northwestward on motorcycles, the light jackets we had worn felt mighty comfortable. The low land and deep bottoms along Alabama Highway 41 gave the feeling that perhaps a little bit of late fall had crept in a bit early, and a touch of old Jack Frost rode the morning winds.

The crossings of Limestone and Flat creeks and the chilly air to be found there reminded me that I should have worn my riding gloves. My hands seem to be frozen to the grips of the motorcycle handlebars.

Riding over the high hills eased the chill just a little, but the beauty of our surroundings made me forget all about gloves and such things. As we descended the winding hill to Flat Creek, the pulp mill in the distance reminded me of a giant ship suspended on a sea of clouds there on the horizon.

Favorite spot

After crossing the creek, a sharp left turn headed us in the direction of the Alabama River and toward one of my most favorite spots in the area. Smoke trailed from some of the chimneys as we sped past the rural homes along the road that passed through the Wainwright community. The absence of traffic and the stillness of the passing countryside gave the feeling that we were almost alone as we sped onward toward Nancy Mountain and the ferry that would take us across the mighty river.

The breathtaking beauty of the Rutherford home and the cherry orchard nearby almost seemed that we were entering another time, a time long since passed. A quick glance at the old majestic house, with its tree-lined drive, made me expect to see an open-top surrey drawn by two prancing horses coming down the lane.

As we slowed our machines down to make the turn on the gravel road that would carry us across beautiful Nancy Mountain and down the long, winding hill to the ferry and the river, I made a quick glance to the right and saw the old Bradley homestead. Remembering the high ceilings and the old hallway, the stories of ghostly footsteps at night in the hallway and the rattle of the door chains caused a slight tingle to move up my backbone.

Behind the old house, the tops of the huge magnolia trees that stood guard over the family burying ground appeared as two huge green cones above the housetop.

Huge golden eagle

Always, as I approached Nancy Mountain, I remembered the thrill of looking out over the huge valley, out over the river, always hoping to see my friend, the huge golden eagle, soaring high above the tree tops. And, too, the thoughts of waiting in the bushes along the old and abandoned road that leads to the river.

I remembered the cold nights and the many hoot owls that kept me company as I waited to see if the story was true – of the ghost of Miss Nancy Haines, walking ever onward during the nights of the full moon. I remembered how she walked right past where I lay crouched behind a bush, as I sat covered with a poncho liner. I remembered the bonnet she was wearing. I remember the pail that she carried in her left hand.

As we made our way down the winding hill, I found myself wondering why many of our county’s people go elsewhere to see places that aren’t anywhere as beautiful as some of the views right here at home. Just don’t understand people.

The branches over the old ferry road were breathtaking as we approached the river. The ferry operator signaled for us to board the small ferry that would take us to the west side and into the old settlement of Packer’s Bend.

Only ferry in state

As the ferry backed away from the east bank, I thought how lucky I was, being a part of this day. We were aboard the only river ferry still operating within the state of Alabama.

My friend and I discussed the probable number of our county’s citizens who had never made this trip across the great river on a ferry boat. I found myself wishing the trip would last at least a couple of hours. But, much too soon, the west bank was upon us. Such a wonderful experience, the paddle wheel of the ferry stirring the deep water as we chugged across, reminding us both of how beautiful life really can be.

As we started the engines of our motorcycles and waved goodbye to the ferry operator and deck hand, I remembered the surprised look on the deck hand’s face after asking where we were going. I don’t think that he believed us when we told him that we had no earthly idea where we were headed. But we were telling the truth, today was the day of the vagabonds. We would know at day’s end where we had been.

Climbing the west bank and up on the road once more, we found ourselves right smack in the middle of Packer’s Bend. Over the years, I had been to this area a number of times to visit a friend.

Parties and dances

I remembered the old King home that used to sit nearby. I thought of the many parties and dances I had attended in the huge old house, which at that time was owned by a descendant of the original owner and builder. I remembered the story of its owner, Rufus King, going off to the Civil War before the house was finished. As he made his way up river after the war, he contracted yellow fever and died somewhere near Claiborne on board a river steamer.

I remembered the lane that led from the house to the river, bordered on each side by a row of beautiful magnolia trees. I remembered the old Morrisette family cemetery and the many stories of the early families that had settled this area in the early 1800s.

So many beautiful memories. Before I realized it, we were leaving Monroe County. The county line was behind us. Where were we going? Well, believe me – that’s another story.

(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.)