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The Vanished Village

By Rich Oswald

Fiddler’s Green was, for most people, a happy place, not far from the village, near the intersection of Valley Road, an open meadow tucked snugly in behind the church situated on the corner off Cannelton Road. It was loosely rimmed by several shelters, a rather large gazebo near the church on the southern perimeter, and a raised dais centered as much as possible used by local entertainers, fiddlers mostly, and thus the name—fiddler’s green. Saturday evening throughout the summers and warm part of the fall featured festive entertainment to the delight of residents and visitors who came for many miles for a good time. More often than not, revelers spent the night in the out buildings and attended services at the church on Sunday morning.

It was during one of these times during the Great War in Europe that one young man, Thomas Grant by name, had by chance driven by in his 1915 Ford and was immediately drawn toward the merrymaking he witnessed at Fiddler’s Green. Tom was one of those people who made friends easily and quickly joined in with dancing, drinking, and jubilant socializing. By midnight, Tom, exhausted from several hours of strenuous activity, figured he had achieved his own personal goal of dancing with at least once with every pretty girl he could find there that night. As he leaned casually against the wooden column of one shelter, he became aware of the unmistakable softly-curved silhouette of a woman. Tom was amazed he had somehow never noticed this lass all evening.

How could he have missed this girl? She was a real gem! As she stood by herself in the shadows, her dark silky hair, reaching delicately to her waist, glistened in the lights strung in the nearby shelter. Tom could not bear to leave this beauty unconquered.

“Hello, my name’s Tom, Tom Grant” he blurted out.

When the woman turned to him, his heart melted. Even in the dim light, her blue sapphire eyes disarmed him. Her pallid freckled complexion was further brightened by a broad even-toothed smile.

“Chloe Ann. Chloe Ann Cummings. And how are you sir?” she offered melodically with a slight curtsy. Her Irish accent was rather heavy but stirred Tom even more.

“I’ve danced with all the girls tonight but never saw you here. Have you been here long?”

“Yes, yes. Long. I’ve been here quite long.” Chloe Ann seemed to be speaking distantly as though in deep thought.

“Do you mind if I sit with you for awhile? Maybe you’d care to dance?”

“I’d like to talk, but if you do not mind I’d rather not attempt to dance. Some say I have not the legs for dancing,” she answered her eyes raised pleadingly.

Tom Grant would have preferred to dance, just to get his bearings so to speak. He felt he could often assess a woman better on the dance floor and this girl was presently a big mystery to him. In any event, he was tired and a long talk might be just what he needed.

For over an hour, they exchanged information with each other about where they lived, what they did, and what they liked. As it turned out, Chloe Ann indicated she lived nearby, a few miles west from here in a little town named New England.

“Originally Nova Anglise,” Chloe Ann revealed. “It was changed later to sound more English.

By this time there were few people left on the Green. The musicians had already packed and gone. A few men were asleep in the gazebo.

“Where are your folks, Chloe Ann? It’s a little late for a girl to be out,” Tom said.

“Oh I came myself, Tom. As I do many Saturday evenings. The way is not long,” she said with a lilting voice. It seemed to Tom she was hinting that she needed a ride. Tom could not expect anything better! After the time spent together, Tom found Chloe Ann to be the most interesting and alluring woman he had ever met and he had hoped to develop a relationship with her.

“My car, I think you would like it, Chloe Ann. It’s a new V-8! I could have you home in a whiz!”

Chloe Ann smiled and nodded slightly.

“I would like that Tom Grant. You and your V-8.”

Tom took Chloe Ann gently by the arm to his car, where she glided silently across the leather seats. When Tom got in, she laid her head on his shoulder as Tom backed out and turned right on the main road. Tom would normally want to show off the power of his new car, but for once he wanted to enjoy every minute of this experience. The ride normally was little more than ten minutes away, but that night the ride took more than a quarter of an hour.

Finally Chloe Ann directed Tom to turn right and they followed a winding road that ended among a scattering of small cottages that Tom thought looked like pictures he had seen in brochures of picturesque houses in Ireland. Very quaint. Somehow the cottages reminded him very much of Chloe Ann. Then he went around the car opened the door for the girl and they walked together up a flagstone walkway to one of the cottages.

“Can I see you again, Chloe?” Tom whispered anxiously.

“I guess that’s up to you Tom Grant,” she said coyly. “I’m not planning on going anywhere. I’ll be somewhere around here if you want to find me.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow then,” Tom replied nervously as he looked away, not wanting to reveal his true feelings so easily. In reality Tom desperately wanted to kiss Chloe Ann, but by the time he turned back, Chloe Ann was gone.

Tom was ecstatic over his new love. That night, instead of driving home, he slept in his car near the Creek, awoke the next morning, bathed in the Creek, went into Cannelton Inn and had a breakfast of ham, eggs, and fried potatoes. Refreshed and determined, he set out for the village of New England. The night before had been dark but Tom was sure he remembered every inch of the way. But when he turned up the lane off the main road, he did not remember how washed out the road had been, and it worsened as his car climbed the winding road to the town. Suddenly he was in the open—no village, nothing! He was sure he had made the right turn. Tom got out of his car and looked around. He immediately recognized the excavations associated with coal stripping.

This place is nothing but a strip mine! Where did I make the wrong turn?

For several hours Tom traced and retraced his route but he could not locate the town. As a last resort, he knew he would have to ask someone for directions. On his way back, as he passed the church, he noticed a few people on the grounds at Fiddler’s Green. With a spray of gravel, Tom spun his car into the parking area and braked near an old man raking shredded paper into a basket.

“Say there, my man, could you help me? Could you tell me how to get to New England?”

The man looked up sadly but did not answer and went on with his work.

Tom was bothered that the man was ignoring him.

“This is quite important,” Tom persisted to the man. “You see, I’ve met someone there, and I’ve got to see her again. I-I think I’m in love. You’ve got to help me.”

The old man leaned his rake against an oak tree and turned solemnly. “Sir, you are not the first to be won over by this particular young lady’s charms. She is well-known around Fiddler’s Green. Every now and then she meets someone here and they take her home – to New England.”

“Yes, yes, that’s the one. So where is New England?”

“It’s right where you thought it was. There on the top of the hill.”

“But there’s nothing there but strip mines,” argued Tom.

“That’s right, sir. And once, thirty years ago, there was a New England right there, but now it’s gone. Purchased and covered over.”

“But what about the girl I met…” Tom started.

“Chloe Ann Cummings…” began the man.

“Yes, yes. Chloe Ann Cummings,” repeated Tom now shaking. “How did you know her name?”

“I know this will be a shock to you, friend, but the young lady’s been dead now for over twenty years—killed in a horrible accident by a freight wagon carrying brick along the road as Chloe Ann walked this way. Both of her legs were cut off in the accident. She was on the way to Fiddler’s Green you know.

She’s hitched a ride home so many times now. And every time the gentleman has come by looking for her.”

Tom Grant was stunned, speechless, felt faint and weak. A few minutes later he was on his knees in the dust of Fiddler’s Green and was violently sick to his stomach

A note by author Rich Oswald: This story was related to me in 1981 by Mr. Jared Blue previously of Valley Road, then in his 90’s and now deceased. He swore the story was true and once claimed to have one night taken Chloe Ann home to New England himself.

Transcription courtesy of Michael Kishbucher.

It’s Just a Dream…Isn’t it?

                Icy hands clenched like a vice on her throat.  The girl choked..gasped desperately to breathe. She tried to reach out but her arms were unable to respond.  As she looked to her tormentor, his yellow demonic eyes relished her helplessness.  The dark lips of his  cruel scimitar mouth parted slightly, the putrid smell of rotten flesh. Somehow she managed a strangled scream, and she was once again awake and alone in her bedroom.

                This scene had repeated itself over and over almost every night since Carol had moved into the trailer in Cannelton with her younger fourteen year-old sister Colleen–the same trailer her parents had purchased and rented out to numerous tenants over the past five years. It was their attempt at a bit of independence from Mom and Dad. It seemed a good thing at the time…but now Carol was not so sure. These recurring nightmares were so real. There were times she woke up with red finger marks on her throat. She convinced herself that somehow she must have done it to herself in her sleep. Eventually the marks would disappear.

                Then there were the visions.  They seemed so real.

                There were times Carol would wake up in her bed with the distinct feeling there was someone in the room with her. She could smell the musky perspiration that pervaded the place…the dank odor of a man who had not bathed for days. Carol wanted to close her eyes and will away the image that she knew was to come, but she knew she had to look. Ignoring  the presence of the awful  man in the room would not change a thing.

                The girl would then force open her eyes, hoping…just this one time…he would not be there. But each time, there in the corner of the room, stood a dark hulking figure, wearing an oversized, misshapen  floppy-brimmed hat. Sometimes she saw the evil  flash of his eyes, but mostly he was the same dark shadow that took up the corner nearly to the ceiling. The man, for a long time would just stand there motionless. Carol knew from her past experiences it was useless to flee. She had tried on many occasions, but her legs as well as her arms would not move.  Then the figure would slowly advance toward her and she could see his features more distinctly. His face…it seemed the same size and shape of a ham…was shiny with sweat. His matted beard and long stringy black hair tied back by oily leather thongs were slicked with some kind of foul-smelling greasy crud.  It was then that Carol’s insides turned to jelly.

                From beneath his heavily soiled cloak, he drew a knife–with the largest most wicked-looking blade she could imagine.  With a crooked smile and a tilt of the head, the man would make a harsh whistling sound between his teeth like a steaming tea kettle. Then he would be looking eye to eye with his victim.

                Heh heh heh I got you now! it would rasp malevolently.

                Carol had many times convinced herself this was all a dream–a rather realistic and scary one for sure. Staying at the trailer together this summer with Colleen had been a bold move on her part–living without their parents for the first time.  Surely the anxiety of this transition was playing havoc with her imagination.  Of course, she convinced herself, that was it.  But Carol knew she was just lying to herself.      Sometimes she wondered if she was going insane.  That would have been the perfect explanation.  But Carol really didn’t think there was anything wrong with her mentally.  Everything was normal in her life–until  dark that is. 

                She had convinced herself that maybe the best thing would be to tell Colleen what was going on and  get out of this place, but her ego stood in the way. How could she admit to little sister that she could not cut it away from Mom and Dad? And besides, this was just a dream. Right?

                After several weeks of the same thing–night after night, Carol’s nerves were frayed to the breaking point.  It was then she, just by chance, had the occasion to talk with Frank, the custodian at the trailer court one evening around twilight.

                “Not a good idea to be by yourself here, now is it young lady? People see strange things around here what with the cemetery and all.”

                “Cemetery? What cemetery is that, Frank?” asked Carol.

                “The one right across from here. Over there…” Frank pointed to a low hill with a grove of trees across the road from the trailer court.  “They say it’s haunted. Lots of people say it.”

                “You’re kidding of course,” whispered Carol.

                “Not at all.  You’ve heard of Barbara Davidson I presume?”

                “No, I haven’t.”

                “Well that’s where she’s buried. No head, they say?”

                “Pardon? No head?”

                “Right. Had it cut off. They say she floats around here some nights lookin’ for it.”

                “Say,” Carol pursued a bit nonchalantly, “there aren’t others around–like a huge man with  knife?”

                Frank turned to her, a bit pale it seemed. “You’ve seen this man?”

                Carol laughed nervously. “Only in my dreams, I think.”

                Frank shuffled his feet and looked across at the old cemetery. “Did you ever wonder why your folks can’t keep tenants in their place? Every one of them has had some bad experiences. None last more than a month or so.  If I were you I’d get out and have your folks get rid of the place.”

                A cold chill ran up Carol’s spine. Could this dream be real?

                Suddenly a curdling scream came from the direction of the trailer–a scream that she knew could only have come from her younger sister who had been asleep in her room. 

                “Oh no, God, no, not Colleen!” 

                Carol was across the vacant lot between her and the trailer so fast she didn’t remember her feet touching the ground. For what seemed like an eternity she pulled frantically on the front door that seemed frozen shut. Finally she and Frank opened the door to a pale-faced Colleen.

                “Oh Carol, it’s so awful!  It’s a terrible man in my room and he wants to kill me. I just know it!  He has a knife and he says he has me now!  It’s not a dream–I know it’s real!  I don’t want to ever go in there again, I’m so scared!”

                Both girls were shaking, locked in a strong embrace. Frank had a large sliver flashlight and its beam was flashing back through the darkened bedroom.

                “Nothing–nothing in there girls…”

                When Frank turned both Carol and Colleen were getting in Carol’s VW. The engine whined to life and the two girls disappeared, wide-eyed toward home.

                That trailer was never rented again.  The two sisters often related their experiences afterward and have wondered many times about the other spirits that were said to be haunting the old cemetery near the trailer court.

This tale was tolkd by Rich Oswald and transcribed by Michael Kishbucher.