I suppose that, considering how long I’ve been here, I should probably tell you a story. I grew up in a small town in Alabama. My favorite day of the week was Saturday. Of course, we were out of school and free to roam, but I liked it for another reason entirely. My father would drive us down to Old Decatur. It’s a small city that was mostly raised during the 1920s. Parts of it are even older. We had the Dancy Polk Inn (a personal home the last time I went around there), where none other than Jesse James the outlaw slept the night before he robbed the Old State bank. That old bank still has bullet holes in the columns. But that’s another story.
Down by the river sits the Old McEntire Home. It went up in the grand old year of 1836. What a sight it was. Fine, beautiful columns, shined hardwood floors, ornate light fixtures, and a flat roof for all the parties the various owners would have over the years. The years rolled by and the Civil War thundered in with a lust for young souls. The home was commandeered as a hospital for the soldiers, staining those shined floors with blood. Needless to say, many young men died in that house.
One summer day, a young woman ran to meet her postman. He met her with sorrowful eyes and handed her the letter. She ripped it open and devoured the words. Her fiance had been horribly injured in battle. She packed a bag and rushed from Georgia to Alabama. By the time she arrived, her lover had succumb to gangrene. The poor woman was heartbroken. In her despair, she flew up the stairs and onto the roof. With one final shout of pain, she threw herself from the roof. She landed with a dull thud, snapping her neck in two. Many people have said that on the anniversary of her death, she can be seen running up the stairs and onto the roof. She will run to the edge and simply disappear. I hope you don’t believe her to be the house’s only lost soul.
Years rolled by, the war faded into nightmares and the house was bought as a private home in the early 1900s. The cops got a call from the owner one night. He said a man had busted into his living room. There was no sign of anyone having been there and the case was dismissed. A few weeks later, the cops were back for a whole different reason. The man had appeared again. This time, the irate owner gave chase. He followed the intruder out the back door to the garden. The man ran to a spot near a hydrangea bush and just vanished. The owner was, naturally, flustered. He convinced himself that he was seeing things and went back inside. The next morning, the owner was getting ready for work. He happened to glance out the window. There was the same intruder standing in the same spot. The owner rubbed his eyes and looked again. Just a flower bush. The owner decided to put his worries to rest once and for all. After work, he stopped by a hardware store and bought a shovel. He went to town on that poor bush. And under it he found a flimsy wooden coffin. The cops were called and local historians came in. It was confirmed that the skeleton inside was wearing a Confederate uniform.
The house was eventually rented by my great uncle and turned into a museum in the 1980s. It never seemed to have many visitors due to lack of historical interest from anyone other than tourists. A young woman stopped by to take a gander. She leaned in to examine the rusted musket behind the glass. This is when she heard small footsteps. She turned to see a boy, no more than 13 or 14 standing in the doorway with his leg wrapped in bandages and a crutch under his arm. “Ma’am, do you know where my momma is?”, he asked, wide-eyed. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I could help you look.”, the woman offered. “Please. I just wanna go home. Let me go home. I hate it here and I miss my momma.”, tears streamed down the boy’s face as he turned and hobbled back into the hall. The woman rushed after him, but found no one in the hall. She went back to the front desk and informed my great uncle that they had a lost child on the grounds. He looked up from his magazine in confusion, “Miss, no one else has come in here.” After getting his fill of the paranormal, my great uncle moved his museum to one of the more modern shops in the city (one of the Jazz Age buildings not two blocks from the house.)
The old McEntire Home was bought in the 1990s and reopened as bed and breakfast. Some of the guests have reported a woman, dressed in a beautiful black gown, entering their room during the night. She reportedly hurries from room to room, leans over the bed, and closely examines the face of the occupant. Afterwards, she becomes distressed and rushes from the room. Many people believe she is trapped searching for a soldier who had died in the house.
The last I heard, the home was once again a private residence.
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Credits to: photofreecreepypasta
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