The old house. Most people who live in haunted houses are aware that the
houses are haunted, as are any people in whom they have confided. Occasionally,
a house will gain a reputation, and stories about it, composed usually
of skeletal facts and a huge, fleshy body of embellishment, will spread throughout
a community. In some rare a haunted house will become famous. The following
tale has been passed through one generation to the next for a century now and
shows every intention of being carried on. It is the story of an abandoned
farmhouse about three miles from Carlton and the eerie family that once lived there.
According to Zanita Parson's Fowler's nineteen eighty three book Ghost Stories of Old Texas he
can Press, it was an old house and had been empty for some time.
When word was spreading that a family had moved into the place. The
people of the community were happy to hear it. A small group of well
wishers went out to welcome their new neighbors, taking a few groceries as gifts.
The kind people ended up feeling that their gesture was less than appreciated.
The mother, father, and three children they found living in the house were
unfriendly and uncommunicative. The visit was brief and silent, and the only information
the group gathered about the family was learned from what they saw. They were
poor, that was obvious. The clothing they wore was held together with patches
upon patches, all worn and faded as scarecrows, and the children's eyes were
haunted by black circles. The house itself seemed to contain nothing but the bare
essentials. There was no attempt at decoration and no suggestion of comfort. It
was difficult to not pity the family despite their rude reception. After a few
days, the local preacher decided that he would ride out to the house and
extend a welcome on behalf of his congregation. He introduced himself to the cheerless
husband and wife, and was invited in for tea. For the remainder of
the visit, the family sat in stony silence. The preacher's discomfort was overshadowed
by his concern, however, the children appeared so undernourished and the old home
was so barren. For days after, he fretted over how to address this
case of obvious need in a family that was so intensely private. Finally,
he decided that another visit was in order. Perhaps he could coax a bit
of conversation out of the people and learn more about their situation. The preacher
rode back out to the farmhouse one afternoon, only to find that no one
was home. Certain that they would return soon, he made himself comfortable in
the shade of a nearby tree. The preacher was so comfortable, in fact,
that he soon dozed off to sleep. When he awoke, the hour
had grown late and there was still no sign of the family. The preacher
got up, stretched and a wander around the scrubby farmyard. The family's wagon
still sat by the barn, so surely they could have not gone far.
The preacher decided to try knocking on the back door of the shack. When
his knuckles touched the wood, the old door swung open. He decided to
step inside. Hullo. The words sounded hollow and the near empty rooms.
The preacher walked a little further into the house and called out again. There
was no answer. It was then that he noticed the old stand kitchen table.
It had been set for a meal and meager servings of playing food sout
on each of the five chipped dinner plates. None of it had been touched,
though, and a few flies buzzed lazily over the bits of potato and
slices of greasy meat. The preacher could smell that the food was beginning to
turn. It had been out for some time. Suddenly he was very concerned
for the safety of these poor, quiet people. Then as he turned to
leave the house, he grew concerned for his own safety. The fine hairs
on the back of his neck stood up, and the preacher could feel eyes
upon him. The sensation of being watch was overwhelming, and the man hurried
to leave the house. Within moments he was on his horse and off the
property. The preacher could not banish his concern for the family, and eventually
organized the search party. No clue was ever found, However, finally the
abandoned building was struck by lightning and burned to the ground. It seemed to
be the end of the story, but of course it was not. Some
time later, a traveling salesman was driving past the charred remains at the house
at sundown. He thought he heard something and stopped his horse so that he
could listen more carefully. There it was, though sorrowful sound, of a
child crying. The man squinted in the fading light and was able to make
out the shape of a young boy standing in the clearing. The child looked
then and lost, little fellow. You need some help, a man called.
He received no response, but suddenly there were two older children standing beside
the first youngster. They was all scan and bones, the salesman would later
say, and dressed in rags to boot. He wanted to help them and
called out several times. The children simply stood and stared, though they could
not be coaxed into the comfortable wagon. The sky was growing more dimned by
the minute, and suddenly the man fell to chill. He was being watched.
He was certain of it. There was something or someone in the bushes
observing him, advancing on him. The man turned away from the children,
snapped his rains, and hurried into Charleton. Three lonely forms stood in the
silhouette against the evening sky, watching him go. The salesman made it safely
to town, where he told a number of people about his creepy encounter.
His honesty seemed to encourage others to come forward and report similar experiences. By
the old burned out shack soon everyone knew that it was a sight to avoid
and be weary of. Some say it still is. When the wind is
calm and the daylight is fading from the sky, be careful on the quiet
back roads near Charleton. Along one of them you may find three crying children,
dressed and rat drawing your sympathy. And then, when you're suitably distracted,
drawing some distance away from the safety of your vehicle, you will fill
the eyes upon you