Thomas White: The Pig Lady of Cannelton

Supernatural Lore of Pittsburgh

Headless ghost haunts former homestead, Cannelton area

John M. G.’s Story – Pig Lady

‘The Pig Lady’ – And other tales of Haunted Cannelton

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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. 

The Fiddling Ghost of Mahoning Valley

Two men who worked on the Rochester & Pittsburgh railroad being built through 19th century Indiana County shared a small house. One of them was an avid fiddler who played the local dances, barn-raisings, and other social events of the day.

He played his tunes at home, too, early in the morning and late at night. He showed no consideration at all for his roomie, who apparently didn’t share his love of fiddle music.

The manic fiddler was found stabbed to death one day by fellow railroaders after he didn’t show up for work. His fiddle was smashed to pieces and the bow snapped in two. His roommate was nowhere to be found, no doubt off to quieter (and further from the long reach of the law) locales.

It’s said you can see the old fiddler on the roof of his deserted house, still sawing away to this day. You can even hear his weird, eerie melody floating through the air. He’s been called the noisiest ghost in Indiana County.

One report places this haunting in Smicksburg, but the original site of the town has been razed so the spook doesn’t have a roof left to fiddle from there. Besides, it’s not likely the Amish farmers would be hosting English railroaders in their tight knit community, though they may still be tapping a foot to his tunes.

Many of the region’s folk tales, including this one, are set down in That’s What Happened by local folklorist Frances Strong Helman. Regional historian George Swetnam also related this story in a long ago edition of the now defunct Pittsburgh Press.

Source:  Pennsylvania Haunts and History

Beaver Creek’s Ghost Town

Hey, if you’re in Youngstown and head south to East Liverpool, you’ll run into Beaver Creek State Park. And though it’s a sweet piece of land, with the creek and trails and all the other good stuff, it’s really known as spook central in southeastern Ohio, and especially the area around Spruceville.

Fittingly, Spruceville is a ghost town. It started out in 1837 as a canal town, built to serve the needs of the Beaver and Sandy Creek Canal. The canal opened in 1848, but wasn’t the success it was planned to be. A dam burst, seriously damaging the canal, and the railroad took advantage to skim the business.

The canal never recovered, closing in 1852, and the hamlet soon followed. It was completely deserted by 1870. But some of its residents never moved on.

The most famous ghost tale is that of Esther Hale. She was engaged to be married to a soldier, and when the big day arrived, Esther put on a white gown and waited for her beau, who never showed. Some say the man died in action, while others claim he got cold feet.

Hale refused to give up hope. She sat in her house day after day, still wearing her gown and awaiting her fiance. She never changed a thing in her home, and eventually it got kinda messy inside, but she would chase away anyone that came over to help her clean up or get on with her life.

Hale also used to walk the town, a forlorn sight in her tattered gown, looking for her AWOL significant other.

The guy never did show, and she passed away from a broken heart. Legend claims that Hale reappears every year on August 12, the day of her planned wedding.

It’s said that if she brushes your skin, you will die on the spot and her skeletal figure will rejuvenate. Others who claim to have seen the misty lady in a white dress say that she does nothing but sadly keep her eyes on the ground.

She’s usually seen at Hambelton Mill, one of the two remaining structures from Sprucetown days, or its bridge. Locals claim to have seen her in the headlights of their car, and some say that their cars will sometimes stop running when they pass the old mill.

Gretchen’s Lock is haunted by its namesake, Gretchen Gill. Hans (or Ed) Gill came to America from his native Holland (some say Ireland; at any rate, it was from across the pond). Gill was one of the engineers who helped design the locks used on the canals. He brought along his young daughter Gretchen, his wife being departed and buried in the old country.

Gretchen contracted malaria from the mosquitoes, which seem attracted to canal-building and its standing pools. She died, and her last words were “Bury me with my mother.”

Her father temporarily buried her in one of the locks. When his job was done, he raised the casket and caught a ship home with his daughter’s remains. But for poor Gill, if it weren’t for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all. The ship sank during the voyage, and the bodies of he and Gretchen were never recovered.

Gretchen’s luck wasn’t much better. Not only did she not join her mom, but she’s trapped in the lock that served as her resting place. Legend claims that a young woman in a long white dress walks along the canal, screaming at anyone who comes close. Others say she just sobs.

It’s said that you can only see her on the anniversary of her death, August 12th. So hey, if you’re looking for a two-for-one spook sighting… But there are others.

It’s alleged that Esther Hale has to share Hambelton Mill every Christmas Eve with a lady Quaker preacher whose ghost appears then and writes the word “Come” on the stone walls.

Jake’s Lock is spooked by Jake, who worked on the canals as a night watchman, making his rounds with a lantern. One dark and stormy night (sorry, I had to work that in) Jake died when he was struck by lightning while walking the canal.

Local lore claims that he still makes his nightly rounds, and you can see his lantern moving down the canal, and reflecting on the water. Jake’s a little shy, though. It’s been reported that whenever his presence is nearby, no camera will work.

The other remaining standing Sprucevale building is believed to be haunted by a young boy who hung himself from the rafters. The legend says the spirit doesn’t like company. Some who have walked inside claim to have been chased off by his unseen presence. (Scratch the standing part; one of our readers wrote in and said that the building has been demolished. No word on whether the surly little specter is still around, although they did leave a historical plaque to mark the spot.)

Beaver Creek State Park is also home to a spook known simply as the Mushroom Lady. She fell in love with a guy that didn’t love her. Ms. Mushroom lived in the woods and was familiar with all the local veggies and herbs.

One night, she ran across him and his flame. She took a pot of mushroom soup to his home, for him and his honey. Yah, you guessed it – it was made of poison mushrooms. If she couldn’t have him, no one could. They died quickly, and she buried their bodies in her garden.

The Mushroom Lady is said to still roam the woods. Some claim to see a woman in black moving through the trees, and others have seen a shadowy female in photographs they took in the park.

And add a celebrity spook to the cast – Public Enemy #1, Pretty Boy Floyd. He often passed through East Liverpool and stayed at the Conkle Farm. The coppers found him there, and shot him down as he tried to escape through a farm field. His ghost has supposedly been seen around the area, and many people have captured his voice on EVP recordings.

So if you’re ever in East Liverpool with nothin’ to do…

Source: Ron Ieraci, Pennsylvania Haunts and History

Judge Reddick’s Grave

Beaver County’s Old Judge Reddick loved his horses. He often bragged that his steeds could beat the best anyone else owned. His braggadocio eventually reached the ears of Satan, who took up the challenge – gold if the Judge won, John Reddick’s soul if old Scratch won. Reddick couldn’t resist the dare, and the race was on.

They met at midnight, and every time the Judge’s horse pulled ahead, the Devil’s mount blew fire on it. Guess who won? When Reddick was ready to give up the ghost and was nearing Satan’s service, he made a strange request of his family.

He wanted buried squarely between the Pennsylvania and Virginia border (The West Virginia Panhandle, which reaches north to the Ohio River, was then still part of the Old Dominion).

That’s when the lawyer in Judge Reddick came through. When Satan came callin’ for his soul, the Judge demanded extradition papers. After all, where he was heading was well out of the state, right?

When the Devil got the Pennsylvania papers, Reddick rolled over to to the Virginia side of his crypt. When he came with Virginia papers, the Judge rolled over to Pennsylvania. This went on until the statute of limitations ran out on Satan’s contract.

Did it really happen that way? Well, when you cross over, go ask the Judge. He did exist, serving on the bench from 1804-1830 while living on his Hanover Township farm. His tomb still sits alone on PA route 168, resting a few hundred yards west of Kendall, on the Pennsylvania – West Virginia state border by Raccoon State Park.

(The tomb is a few hundred yards south of the road leading west from Kendall, on Pa. 168. It’s made of cut sandstone and is about 4-10′ square, on a hill a short distance from the Swearingen burial ground.)

And it ends up that Judge Reddick really did outsmart Ol’ Scratch. When surveyors came around to verify the new West Virginia – Pennsylvania line, they found out that Reddick was actually buried 10 feet inside the PA line. His soul was Satan’s for the taking all along, proper papers or not.

Geez, you’d think with all the lawyers collected in Satan’s realm, he would have been better served. Good help is so hard to find, even in the fiery pits. But hey, now we know there’s at least one barrister whose soul wasn’t claimed by ol’ Nick. Judge Reddick may have lost the race, but he won the eternal marathon.

Source: Ron Ieraci, Pennsylvania Haunts and History