Haunted Kingsport

Ghosts of Tri-City Tennessee

Pete Dykes

• Publisher: The History Press
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9781596294943
• eBook ISBN: 9781625843678
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: North American History
• Index: History

From a devil cat to a Rebel ghost to the possible resting place of Big Foot—the Kingsport/Johnson City/Bristol region gives up its supernatural secrets.
 
Summon the necessary courage and dare to explore the haunted history of the "mountain empire." Tales of ghostly spirits envelop the northeast Tennessee landscape like a familiar mountain fog. Join Pete Dykes, editor of Kingsport's Daily News, as he offers up a collection of spooky local stories and legends from centuries past, including such spine-chilling accounts as the foreboding ghost of Netherland Inn Road, spectral disturbances at the Rotherwood Mansion, devilish felines, ruthless poltergeists in Caney Creek Falls, the tortured cries from fallen Rebel soldiers still heard today and—could bigfoot really be buried in the woods of Big Stone Gap?
 
Includes photos!

ANCESTRAL HOME

From a manuscript found in 1926 in an old home near the Kingsport suburb of Sullivan Gardens. The writer is unknown.

I don’t know how much more of this I can stand. I’ve always considered myself a modern, free-thinking, broad-minded person, willing to accept new ideas and different points of view, and my educational background is nothing to be ashamed of. I earned two college degrees, and have continued to be well-read and informed, a modern thinking individual in this modern group-effort world, apart and yet a part of the masses.

I have never believed in supernatural nonsense, nor curses, nor the occult and other such balderdash, and I certainly have never accepted as possible any of the local old wives tales about ghosts, which can be nothing more than figments of the imagination or reflections and shadows that frighten a weak mind.

Yet, there is something strange about his old house, something real and terrible that defies logical explanation and seems to create even a physical reaction from my body itself, completely apart from my mind.

I purchased the old house on a whim, simply because it once belonged to an ancestor of mine.

That was more than a hundred and fifty years ago, before the family lost their fortune and fell from grace insofar as society and prominence in the area is concerned.

That terrible war between the states wrecked my family’s fortunes, lost to them their lands and properties, including the vast number of servants they had gained through diligence and careful management, not to mention hard work.

The main house was destroyed long ago, along with the dormitory-like servants quarters and other outbuildings, in a devastating fire, set by enemies bent on destruction and death which stemmed from jealousy and hate.

As a result of this staggering loss, my poor ancestor was forced to flee the countryside, and leave behind the shattered remnants of his one-time plutocratic estates. In fact, family traditions have it, he was fortunate to be able to escape with his life, for those who rose against him were determined to see his end.

Escape he did, however, and made his way to a large city, where he worked at menial tasks and toilsome labor to eke out an existence for himself and his little family until such time as he might be able to return to the estates and wealth that were rightfully his.

That day, alas, never came.

Unable to gain surplus wealth ample to achieve his goals, the unfortunate outcast lived out his short span of years a broken and regretful man.

His son, in turn, tried to rebuild the family fortunes, but without much greater success. Times were hard, and both money and opportunity scarce. But he was able, by sacrifice and pinch-penny skimping, to educate his son at a fine university.

Because monetary success often clings to those who gain sheepskin-parchments and other such accredited bits of paper, the third generation distant from my tragic ancestor began to rebuild wealth and prominence for himself and his family and aided by careful investments made on the recommendation of friends [nowadays often called insider trading] he regained much of the position that had been earlier lost.

A couple more generations added greater wealth and prestige to our holdings, and by my time, our family’s wealth and position perhaps surpassed that which had been lost so long ago.

We had never returned to the ancestral grounds, regretfully, for more attractive opportunities seemed to present themselves in other places.

On receiving my own inheritance, however, I determined to move South again, and to re-locate our family name, by my own presence, as near to the old family holding as possible, and to attempt, through careful maneuvers, to regain at least a part of what had been my ancestors estates.

As I said earlier, the main house and its surrounding buildings had long ago fallen victim to a raging fire, and nothing of them, not even a local memory, remained.

One old house, however, a house my ancestor had built and lived in before he moved to his magnificent estate-house, continued to stand.

Made of hand-formed brick, baked on the site by a hundred sweating workmen, the old house had fallen into ill repair and disuse. Its last tenant or owner, a heart-broken widower who made no repairs, had allowed it to deteriorate to such an extent I almost despaired at the Herculean task of making it once again habitable.

But I was determined, and was able to purchase the building and its small acreage at reasonable cost, moreover, perhaps, because its terrible condition made it extremely unlikely that anyone else would even consider an attempt at rebuilding, which led the owner to price it in accordance to the value of its acreage alone.

Having achieved my goal of purchasing at least a small part of the property once lost by my ancestor, I brought in expert workmen for repairs and remodeling, and within a short span of months, had the old house in modern, livable condition once again.

New wiring, roofing, flooring and wall-paneling had been added, as had a modern kitchen and two baths, and decayed, missing brick as well as rotting wood had been replaced and repaired to make the house livable indeed.

Central heating and cooling and other modern conveniences had been included, installed cleverly in unneeded portions of the original structure to conceal their existence and leave the entire house as much of its antiquity and original charm as possible.

All in all, I was well satisfied with the project, and estimated that I could even sell the property at a handsome profit, should I ever decide to do so.

With a great deal of pride and personal satisfaction, I moved into the house, my permanent abode, I thought, and set about making myself a regular member of the community.

But the people, usually open and friendly, seemed to have a strange mistrust of me, and a stand-offish attitude that excluded me from their local society.

Ridiculous! I told myself.

I, a man with friends on two continents, companion and confidant to some of the nations most rich and powerful leaders, the trusted advisor to men who make decisions that shake the world to its very foundations, find that I am shut out of this local, primitive, clannish, companionship of local residents.

But it was so. They were polite, they spoke when spoken to, or replied when I spoke to them. They answered my questions and courteously filled my order at the local stores, but they made it very clear, by their very politeness that I was, and would always be, an outsider. Thus rebuffed in my efforts to fulfill my plan of regaining what my ancestor had lost, I spent more and more time inside my magnificently remodeled house. I extended invitation after invitation to those persons I came in contact with at the local stores, government offices or other businesses, to visit my home and see what my efforts had accomplished, but none ever accepted. They were all eager to hear my comments and descriptions of work I had done on the structure, and seemed filled with curiosity and desire, but no one sat foot across my threshold.

It was as if they burned with desire to see what was inside my house, but were engulfed with a greater flame of fear which prevented them from coming to bear personal witness.

And thus it was that I became isolated within a friendly community, a lone and lonely man, forced to keep company with two cats and not much else.

It was shortly after these events took place that I first heard the mysterious sound of clanking chains.

I had retired, and was reading a selected volume from my library when the noise attracted my attention.

At first, I had the sudden wild thought that one of my shy neighbors had found the courage to enter my house, and was carrying a heavy chain of some sort, for reasons I failed to understand.

Upon instant reflection, however, I realized this was highly improbable.

It is a trick of the wind, I told myself.

Some farmer is taking his log chain home, dragging part of its length behind him, and the sounds have carried through my door and up the stairwell as though they came from a presence in the house.

But then the chain-sound began climbing my stairs, tediously and tiredly, as if the maker of the sounds was greatly weary from long and hard physical exertion.

I confess to a moment of panic at the startling and unexpected sound.

But I have never been a cowardly man, and I leaped out of my bed and raced to the door, throwing it open wide to observe who or what this unexpected guest, arriving uninvited at this strange hour of the night, could be.

Nothing was there.

There was no visitor, no chains, no presence of any kind on the stairsteps, although I had distinctly heard it only moments earlier, and had been able to clearly identify the location from which the sounds came.

Puzzled over this strange, unexplainable event, I returned to bed and my book, although I admittedly kept an ear cocked for strange sounds for the duration of the night.

It was not until the following night the sounds reoccurred.

Again, I raced to my bedroom door and threw it open, fully expecting to confront the sound-maker, only to find the stairs, once again, void of any presence or personage.

Night after night, the thing occurred.

After numerous tries, I gave up trying to see or catch the soundmaker, and remained in bed when the clanking chains began to move up my staircase.

That time, the sounds continued to the head of the stairs, proceeded down the hallway to a room next door to mine, and then stopped.

I lay in bed, straining to hear, but nothing followed.

Night after night, the clanking chain sound repeated itself.

I suspected rats, brought in the rat-catcher and had the entire house cleared.

The sounds continued, as before.

Could it be a fault in the building? I had workmen in to check the walls (while I carefully examined them, much to the installers puzzlement).

Nothing could be found that would account for the sound of clanking chains.

There is absolutely nothing there, yet I heard the sounds distinctly, night after night.

Although as I stated earlier, I do not believe in the supernatural, nor in ghosts, nor in spirits nor other such nonsense, there is a chill growing around my heart, and an unexplained feeling of panic flooding my mind.

I have come to dread the nightly sounds, and can now face them only with the courage found in a bottle. My health is rapidly failing, my nerves shattered, my brain feverish and restless with a strange and anxious foreboding I cannot explain.

There is something in this house besides me, although I know that cannot be.

There is a presence, unseen and unheard, save for the nightly clanking of chains as it laboriously climbs the stairs, and moves painfully down the hall to the doorway of what may have once been the master bedroom.

What is this horrid, heart-chilling reflection from the past? Can it be an echo of one of my ancestors, restlessly trying to shake the chains of earthly sin and find rest? Can it be the shade of a mistreated servant or other person, locked forever in the agony of bondage, symbolized by the heavy chains?

All of my education and knowledge stands against the sound I hear, and logic and reason are struggling within my mind against uncontrolled panic and terror that seems to grip my very soul.

It cannot be, but it is.

If I live through this night, I shall leave this place tomorrow and then I shall meet…

The manuscript ends abruptly here. The brittle, flimsy pages are yellow with age; the faded ink is still readable, but a dark brown stain has spread across the lower part of the last page.

THE CURSE OF CALVIN KEEN

Not far from our city, in a woodland glade seldom visited by living creatures other than woodland beings, there is a strange little indention in the earth at the top of a creek bank. For all the world it looks like the cave-in of some small animal’s burrow, or the collapsed creek bank after a hard spring rain.

There is nothing much unusual about the depression, save for the fact that it cannot be filled.

You can pile brush in it or fill it with dirt, and the very next day, if you go to check it out, the depression will be swept clean, as if a new broom had been energetically applied to its surface.

You can heap up rocks in the depression, filling it to overflow, and, within twenty-four hours, the rocks will all have disappeared as though swallowed by the earth itself.

A trapper who lived in the area once hit upon the idea of setting a steel trap in the depression, hoping to capture whatever it might be that clears the little expanse so diligently. The following day, his traps, stake and all, were gone!

Not many people know the story of this strange little depression, but you will so...

Table of contents

• Front Cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Unseen Force
• Henley’s Haunted House
• Death Crowns on the Pillow
• Amos’s Hollow
• Folks Feared Felines Could Cause “Go-Backs”
• Devil Cat
• The Legend of Cracker’s Neck
• Bones in the Woods
• Jade Whetzel’s Wake
• They Are Out There
• It Waits for You
• By Dawn’s Gray Light
• Bill Hankins’s Hand
• Ancestral Home
• The Curse of Calvin Keen
• The Man Who Hated Cats
• Ephriam Dodd’s Curse
• The Gray Ghost of Netherland Inn Road
• Caney Creek Falls: Haunting Spot in Hawkins County
• The Ghost Who Was Lonely
• Rebel’s Ghost at Piney Flats
• The Reverend’s Ghost
• The Ghost of Rotherwood
• The Fury of the Flies
• Holiday of Horror