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Agents Folklore:

Connecticut

The Black Dog of Hanging Hills

He smiled as his sipped at his coffee. It had been an excellent hike. He was glad his
friend had recommended coming to the Hanging Hills in Connecticut; not the first
place that had come to his mind when considering a vacation. But it was beautiful here. When his friend arrived tomorrow they would tackle some of the more challenging
terrain.

“Did you have a nice hike?” asked the innkeeper as she refilled his cup.

“Yes indeed. I had some unexpected company,” he said with a smile.

“Really? I thought you were the only one crazy enough to go hiking in the rain,” she
teased.

“It was a little black dog,” he said. “Cute fellow. Followed me all the way up the mountain and down again.”

He looked up from his coffee to see the innkeeper’s face had gone pale.

“A black dog?” she asked. “That’s not good.”

“Why not?”

“We have a saying around here,” she replied. “’And if a man shall meet the Black Dog once, it shall be for joy; and if twice, it shall be for sorrow; and the third time, he shall
die.’” He laughed. “That’s just superstition.”

“That’s what Mr. Pynchon said. He saw the black dog twice. The second time he saw
the dog, the friend he was climbing with fell to his death. And later, Mr. Pynchon
decided to climb the same mountain, and he died too. Everyone here believes he saw the dog just before he fell.”

“Nonsense. It was just a cute stray,” he said uneasily. She shrugged and took the coffee pot over to her other customers.

His friend arrived the next morning and they both laughed about the story of the black
dog. They set out on their climb. About halfway up the mountain, he looked up and saw the black dog.

“There’s the dog,” he called to his friend.

And then his foot slipped and he plunged down the side of the hill, desperately grabbing at saplings and rocks, trying to halt his descent. It seemed to take forever for him to stop sliding. There was a stabbing pain in his leg. When he looked at it, his head swimming, it was bent at an odd angle. They had to send in a mountain rescue team to get him down.
At the hospital, they told him his leg was broken in two places and he was very lucky it wasn’t worse.

“You know, that was a very strange fall,” said his friend uneasily. “You don’t really think it had anything to do with that black dog?”

He looked down at the cast that extended all the way up to his hip.

“I don’t know. But I don’t really want to find out. Next time, let’s go to Colorado.”

Army of the Dead

A laundress, newly moved to Charleston following the Civil War, found herself
awakened at the stroke of twelve each night by the rumble of heavy wheels passing in
the street. But she lived on a dead end street, and had no explanation for the noise. Her husband would not allow her to look out the window when she heard the sounds, telling her to leave well enough alone. Finally, she asked the woman who washed at the tub
next to hers. The woman said: "What you are hearing is the Army of the Dead. They are Confederate soldiers who died in hospital without knowing that the war was over. Each night, they rise from their graves and go to reinforce Lee in Virginia to strengthen the weakened Southern forces."

The next night, the laundress slipped out of bed to watch the Army of the Dead pass. She stood spell-bound by the window as a gray fog rolled passed. Within the fog, she could see the shapes of horses, and could hear gruff human voices and the rumble of canons being dragged through the street, followed by the sound of marching feet. Foot soldiers, horsemen, ambulances, wagons and canons passed before her eyes, all shrouded in gray. After what seemed like hours, she heard a far off bugle blast, and
then silence.

When the laundress came out of her daze, she found one of her arms was
paralyzed. She has never done a full days washing since.

CALIFORNIA
" The Bloodstain"

The Phelps place was an old, abandoned property with a monstrous,
decrepit Victorian house that was supposed to be haunted. It should have
been a good resting place for the local deer hunters, but they would not go
near it.
A few that tried came away before midnight with tales of ghostly thumping noises, gasps, moans, and a terrible wet bloodstain that appeared on the
floor of the front porch and could not be wiped away.

Phelps was an Englishman who had purchased land some 20 miles off the Mendocino coast in the 1880s. He had built a huge, fancy Victorian house all covered with gingerbread trimmings and surrounded by lovely gardens.
When everything was arranged to his liking, he sent out party invitations to everyone within messenger range. It was the biggest social event of the year, with music and dancing and huge amounts of food. Sawhorse tables were
set up with refreshments, and drinks were set out on the front porch. People came from miles around. The only one missing was old man McInturf's son-in-law. They had had a terrible fight that afternoon, and the boy had
stalked off in a rage, threatening to get even with the old man.

Around midnight, the musicians took a recess and old man McInturf went out
on the front porch with some friends. Suddenly there came the thunder of
hooves rushing up the lane. A cloaked figure rode towards the lantern-lit
porch. McInturf put down his drink. "That will be my son-in-law," he told his friends as he went down the steps. The cloaked figure stopped his horse just outside the pool of lantern-light. There was a sharp movement and two loud shots from a gun. Old man McInturf staggered backwards, shot in the throat
and the chest. The cloaked man wheeled his horse and fled down the lane
as friends ran to the assistance of the old man.

They laid McInturf down on the porch. He was bleeding heavily and they were afraid to move him much. There was some talk of fetching the doctor, but everyone knew it was too late. So much blood was pouring from the old
man's wounds that it formed a pool underneath his head. McInturf coughed, once, twice; a hideous, gurgling, strangling sound that wrenched at the
hearts of all who heard it. Then he died.

McInturf's body was laid out on the sofa, and the once-merry guests left in stricken silence. The servants came and wiped the red-brown bloodstain off
the floorboards. The next day, a wagon was brought to the front of the house and McInturf's body was carried out onto the porch. As the men stepped
across the place where McInturf had died, blood began to pool around their boots, forming a wet stain in exactly the pattern that had been wiped up by
the servants the night before. The men gasped in fear. One of them staggered and almost dropped the body. They hurriedly laid McInturf in the back of the wagon, and a pale Phelps ordered the servants to clean up the fresh
bloodstain.

From that day forward, the Phelps could not keep that part of the porch clean. Every few weeks, the damp bloodstain would reappear. They tried repainting the porch a few times, but the bloodstain would always leak through. In the county jail, McInturf's son-in-law died of a blot clot in the brain. A few months later, one of the Phelps servants went mad after seeing a "terrible sight" that made his head feel like it was going to exploded. Folks started saying the
house was being haunted by the ghost of McInturf, seeking revenge. The property was resold several times but each resident was driven out by the terrible, gasping ghost of McInturf reliving his last moments and by the bloodstain that could not be removed from the porch. The house was
eventually abandoned.

" The Doctor and the Ghost"

Little Simeon came running into the surgery. He bent over, winded, and gasped desperately several times

before he could speak.

"Doc. Doc! My paw got strychnine poison in his thumb. We amputated it right away, but the poison is still moving
up his arm. You gotta come quick!"

The doctor grabbed his medical bag and hustled out the door immediately. It took but a moment to saddle the mare,
and he swung the boy up in front of him and galloped out of the yard and down the road towards the Houd place,
which was two miles away.

Simeon the elder was lying on his bed being attended by his wives and a large number of his children.

"Doctor, you must help me," Simeon gasped, waving the stump of his thumb at the doctor. "The strychnine is up to
my shoulder. If it gets in my vitals, I will die."

His wives started wailing, and all the children echoed them so there was a tremendous noise in the room. The
doctor held up his hands and shouted: "Be assured my sisters and brothers, that God has sent me in good time to
cure Brother Simeon. With my Thomsonian medicines to aid his recovery, Brother Simeon will soon be well."

His words calmed the family. After repeated reassurances, Simeon's wives bustled out of the room followed by the children, leaving the doctor room to work. As the doctor treated Simeon with the first dose of medicine, he could
smell dinner being prepared and hear the voices of Simeon's children doing their homework around the kitchen
table.

When the doctor descended the stairs, Simeon's wives came out of the kitchen, and asked him to stay to dinner. He declined regretfully, having other patients to see that evening. But before he left he gave them careful instructions
on the care of Simeon, and told them he would be by tomorrow to give Simeon another dose of the special tonics.

The doctor visited Simeon every morning and night for four days, giving him a thorough case of Thomsonian
medicines each visit. By the fourth day, Simeon was so much better that the doctor determined that the poison had
been checked. Deciding that no more treatment was necessary, he declared Simeon well and went home, well
satisfied with the successful recovery of his patient.

Two nights later, the doctor was awakened from a deep sleep by a bright light shining right in his eyes. He sat up
quickly, shading his eyes. At first he thought that he had overslept. But the light was not coming from the window.
As his eyes adjusted to the brilliance, he saw a woman dressed in white standing at the foot of the bed. She was surrounded by a heavenly light, and she glowed within as well. The doctor gasped in fear and huddled underneath
his bedclothes.

"Do not be afraid," the spirit said in a kind voice. The doctor took heart at her words. He withdrew his head from
the covers and looked right at the glowing woman.

"I have been sent to you from the other world," the woman said.

"Who are you?" The doctor asked.

"In life, I was called Sally Ann. I was a cousin to Sisters Thompson and Smith."

"Why have you been sent here?" asked the doctor.

"I have been sent to tell you that Brother Simeon will die of strychnine poisoning if you do not double your
diligence."

The doctor swallowed guiltily, remembering his pride in having cured Brother Simeon. One of the earliest lessons
he had learned was how pride goeth before destruction. Yet here he was falling into the same trap.

He thanked the ghost for her warning and promised to go to Brother Simeon at daybreak. Satisfied, the ghost
vanished and the room was in darkness once more.

The next morning the doctor went to Brother Simeon's house and recommenced his treatment. Simeon confessed to
the doctor that he had begun having trouble with his arm again, but was unsure whether or not it was serious enough
to call him out. The doctor continued dosing his patient with the Thomsonian medicine until Simeon was completely
well.

Brother Simeon lived for another twenty-five years in good health, for which he credited the doctor and his
Thomsonian medicine. As for Sisters Thomson and Smith, they recognized the doctor's description of the ghost at
once. It was their cousin Sally Ann Chamberlain from Nauvoo, who had died fourteen years before.

The Fifty-Cent Piece

There is a story told in Troy and Albany about a couple returning home from a trip to New England. They were
driving home in a carriage, and were somewhere near Spiegletown when the light failed and they knew they would
have to seek shelter for the night.

The husband spied a light through the trees and turned their horse into a small lane leading up a hill. A pleasant
little house stood at the crest, and an old man and his wife met the couple at the door. They were in nightclothes and were obviously about to turn in, but they welcomed the travelers and offered them a room. The old woman bustled
about making tea and offering freshly-baked cakes. Then the travelers were shown to their room. The husband
wanted to pay the old couple for their lodgings, but the old lady shook her head and the old man refused any
payment for such a small service to their fellow New Yorkers.

The travelers awoke early and tiptoed out of the house, leaving a shiny fifty-cent coin in the center of the kitchen
table where the old couple could not miss it. The husband hitched up the horse and they went a few miles before
they broke their fast at a little restaurant in Spiegletown.

The husband mention the nice old couple to the owner of the restaurant and the man turned pale.

"Where did you say that house was?" he asked. The husband described the location in detail.

"You must be mistaken," said the restaurant owner. "That house was destroyed three years ago by a fire that
killed the Brown family."

"I don't believe it," the husband said flatly. "Mr. and Mrs. Brown were alive and well last night."

After debating for a few more minutes, the couple and the restaurant owner drove the carriage back out of town
towards the old Brown place. They turned into the lane, which was overgrown with weeds, and climbed the hill to the crest. There they found a burned out shell of a house that had obviously not sheltered anyone for a long time.

"I must have missed the track," said the husband. And then his wife gave a terrified scream and fainted into his
arms. As he caught her, the husband looked into the ruin and saw a burnt table with a shiny fifty-cent piece lying in
the center.

Ghost Handprints

retold byS. E. Schlosser

My wife Jill and I were driving home from a friend's party late one evening in early May. It was a beautiful night
with a full moon. We were laughing and discussing the party when the engine started to cough and the emergency
light went on. We had just reached the railroad crossing where Villamain Road becomes Shane Road. According to
local legend, this was the place where a school bus full of children had stalled on the tracks. Everyone on board the
bus had been killed by an oncoming freight train. The ghosts of the children were reported to haunt this intersection
and were said to protect people from danger.

Not wanting a repeat of the train crash, I hit the gas pedal, trying to get our car safely across the tracks before it
broke down completely. But the dad-blamed car wouldn't cooperate. It stalled dead center on the railroad tracks.

As if that weren't enough, the railroad signals started flashing and a bright light appeared a little ways down the
track, bearing down fast on our car. I turned the key and hit the gas pedal, trying to get the car started.

"Hurry up, Jim! The train's coming," my wife urged, as if I didn't hear the whistling blowing a warning.

I broke out into a sweat and tried the engine again. Nothing.

"We have to get out!" I shouted to my wife, reaching for the door handle.

"I can't," Jill shouted desperately. She was struggling with her seat belt. We'd been having trouble with it recently. She'd been stuck more than once, and I'd had to help her get it undone.

I threw myself across the stick-shift and fought with the recalcitrant seat belt. My hands were shaking and sweat
poured down my body as I felt the rumble of the approaching train. It had seen us and was whistling sharply. I
risked a quick glance over my shoulder. The engineer was trying to slow down, but he was too close to stop before
he hit us. I redoubled my efforts.

Suddenly, the car was given a sharp shove from behind. Jill and I both gasped and I fell into her lap as the car
started to roll forward, slowly at first, then gaining speed. The back end cleared the tracks just a second before the
train roared passed. As the car rolled to a stop on the far side of the tracks, the engineer stuck his head out the
window of the engine and waved a fist at us; doubtless shouting something nasty at us for scaring him.

"Th..that was close," Jill gasped as I struggled upright. "How did you get the car moving?"

"I didn't," I said. "Someone must have helped us."

I jumped out of the door on the driver's side of the car and ran back to the tracks to thank our rescuer. In the bright moonlight, I searched the area, looking for the person who had pushed our car out of the path of the train. There
was no one there. I called out several times, but no one answered. After a few minutes struggle with her seatbelt,
Jill finally freed herself and joined me.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"There is no one here," I replied, puzzled.

"Maybe he is just shy about being thanked," Jill said. She raised her voice. "Thank you, whoever you are," she
called.

The wind picked up a little, swirling around us, patting our hair and our shoulders like the soft touch of a child's
hand. I shivered and hugged my wife tightly to me. We had almost died tonight, and I was grateful to be alive.

"Yes, thank you," I repeated loudly to our mystery rescuer.

As we turned back to our stalled vehicle, I pulled out my cell phone, ready to call for a tow truck. Beside me, Jill
stopped suddenly, staring at the back of our car.

"Jim, look!" she gasped.

I stared at our vehicle. Scattered in several places across the back of our car were several glowing handprints.
They were small handprints; the kind that adorned the walls of elementary schools all over the country. I started shaking as I realized the truth; our car had been pushed off the tracks by the ghosts of the schoolchildren killed at
this location.

The wind swept around us again, and I thought I heard an echo of childish voices whispering 'You're welcome' as it patted our shoulders and arms. Then the wind died down and the handprints faded from the back of the car.

Jill and I clung together for a moment in terror and delight. Finally, I released her and she got into the car while I
called the local garage to come and give us a tow home.