Here Today, Gone Giwoggle

It was dark, getting late. I was out, but not looking for ghosts or aliens. I was just walking the dog.

I walked with Rosie down the street. As I passed on the north side, one of my neighbors called out."Lou! Hey, Lou! Come over here!"

I tugged at the leash, and we walked over to their porch. The woman who lived across from me was standing with another woman, holding a cell phone. She said,"He's a ghost hunter. Play it for him."

"You think you have a ghost?" I asked, while Rosie sat on the steps patiently.

"We have a doorbell camera," the woman said. "We live across the street. I checked the recording, and this came up."

She held up the cell phone and played it for me. I saw a view of our street, and then heard a weird, creepy voice say something I couldn't quite make out. I frowned.

"That could be a ghost, right?" the woman across the street asked.

"Well....Hard to say. Has anyone ever done the research on your house?"

The woman shook her head. "No. I don't want to know."

I could do it in about five minutes without ever leaving my office, and it's generally harmless. But I let it go. "Have you had any other issues lately?"
"Well, we found a thing....A bar, you know, the kind they use to pry things open...."

"A crowbar?"

"Yes, a crowbar. We found a crowbar in the backyard. And something messed with our back fence."

"Okay," I said,"You could have led with that. You don't have a ghost. What you probably have is an attempted burglar. I'd suggest calling the police."

I love what I do, but man. A lot of people just don't think things through.

Dinner was mustard-crusted pork chops and stuffed baked potatoes---I'd found new recipes. The conversation was, of course, local history and folklore.

"So you want to write about Loop Hill Ike," I said.

Biz nodded. "My professor wants us to do folklore, and left the rest up to us. I thought Ike would be a good one."

"Who's Loop Hill Ike?" asked Paul.

"Loop Hill Ike was Isaac Gaines," I said. "He was descended from escapees on the Underground Railroad, and lived up in Keating Township. He was said to be kind of a paranormal bounty hunter; there are a lot of stories of him dealing with ghosts and monsters. Remember when you and me looked for the Swamp Angel last summer?"
"Yeah," said Paul.

"Loop Hill Ike dealt with the Swamp Angel, too. He was also responsible for handling Clinton County's official monster, the Giwoggle. The Giwoggle was sort of a werewolf, with the hands of a bird and the feet of a horse."

"Cool," said Paul. "We had chicken nuggets in school today."

"Yeah? Did you like them?"

"Yeah. I ate a bunch."

"When are you in the library?" asked Biz. "I have to do fourteen hours of supervised research."
"Take your pick," I said. "I'm in Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday from noon until eight."
"I'll come in Thursday."

"See you then."

"You mind if I order something to eat? Biz asked. 

"Nah, go ahead," I said. "Thursday nights are always dead in here. Nobody will even notice."

"So what do we have on Loop Hill Ike?"

"I went up to the attic today and pulled all the old Keystone Folklore Quarterly magazines that had his stories in them," I said. I slid three photocopies across the table to her. "Here's the Giwoggle, the Swamp Angel, and the haunted fiddle. That one is based on a real murder."

"Oh yeah?"

"The Gaines murder. One brother shot another through the window while he was eating dinner. We can get it from the microfilm if you like."

"Possibly later. Do you know where Ike is buried?"
"Yeah, he's in a small cemetery at the Clearfield/Clinton County line. I'd like to say we can go and find it, but it's a hell of a trip. We're not making it in a Prius."
"No, that's okay."

"Interestingly, there have been sightings of what they call 'bipedal wolves' in that area. With a little accounting for unsure witnesses, these could be interpreted as Giwoggles, running around the grave of their old adversary."

Biz grinned. "That's so cool."

"There was also an incident in the Civil War," I said. "Captain Wilson Kress went to recruit Ike to fight, and Ike shot him in the leg and ran. He hid out, spending some time lumbering in Warren and McKean Counties under assumed names, until the search cooled off. Years later, he met Kress at a railroad station in Lock Haven, and they shook hands and let it go."

"Cool."

"It makes me wonder about the assumed names," I said. "I have to wonder if Warren and McKean have stories of a legendary ghost hunter up there, and it's actually Ike, and they don't even know it."
"Now," said Biz,"That would be really interesting to find out. What other documentation do you have?"

"There's a will," I said. "Loop Hill Ike seems to have left a will when he died. I can pull that from the courthouse for you, if you like."

"Let's hold off on the will for now," said Biz. "But maybe you can show me later."

Morning. I got up and had some coffee. Able to function, I walked Paul down to the bus stop. He rode his scooter down excitedly. It's crazy how kids are able to wake up without coffee like that.

I put the little guy on the bus, and then walked back to the house. The morning newspaper had arrived. I took it inside and set it on the table while I had more coffee.

I opened my laptop, and checked all my e-mail. A couple of things had come in overnight. I skimmed through them, and then saw a story about dogman sightings in Pennsylvania.

I grinned.

I subscribe to all the best newsletters.

I rode down to the courthouse annex before work, and headed up to the Register and Recorder's office. The women all looked up when I walked in.

"Hi, Lou! Been a while!"

"Yeah, I don't get down on this end of town much anymore. I should bring the little guy down sometime. Right now, I gotta find a will."

"You know where to look."

The wills are all on microfiche, and with some effort, I found the right one, and put it in the machine. Loop Hill Ike had died in 1915, leaving the bulk of his estate to his housekeeper, Mary Ann Williams. Who then seemed to have vanished without a trace----I checked all the other sources, and couldn't find anything that indicated that she'd died, gotten married, or owned property.

Another mystery.

I was wearing my Aliens made me do it shirt and working the desk when Biz walked in. She had her laptop slung over her shoulder.

"Hi, hon!" I said. 

"Just here to do some writing," she said. "The last night working on my paper."

"Got it. Let me know if you need anything," I said. "Hey, you'll like this. According to one of the paranormal newsletters I subscribe to, there have been several dogman sightings in Clearfield County, near the Clinton border. Right about where Ike is buried. Now, it's not too much of a stretch to think these might be Giwoggles."

Biz grinned. "Some witches getting busy up there."

"I can print the newsletters out for you, if you like."

"Sure. Might be able to add some color to my paper."

"When is this due?"

"Tuesday. I got time. Which is good, because I sure as hell can't focus right now. I work best under pressure."

"You kind of work exclusively under pressure."

"Where exactly is Keating Township, anyway?"

"Way the hell up on the west end of the county," I said. "Actually there are two, East and West Keating, and I don't know why the hell they did that, as there's like six people between them. You want to see on a map?"

"Sure."

I took one of the tourist maps we hand out, and laid it out on the table. "Here's Lock Haven. Here's Keating."

"Wow, that is pretty far out there, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it's listed as one of the most remote places in the state. If you drive through Renovo, and then look around and it's still not deserted enough for you, Keating is your next stop."

"Can I keep this map?"

"Sure, we get them in boxes of a hundred and hand them out to the tourists."

"I went down to the courthouse the other day and pulled Ike's will for you. I have a copy made. I know you said you didn't need it right away, but...."

"No, at this point I'm glad you did. Find anything interesting?"

"Ike left the bulk of his estate to Mary Ann Williams, his housekeeper. She was to live on the property until she died. Can't find her; she's probably buried on the property up there someplace. After her death, the property was to go to Ike's in-laws, Martin and Isaac Lanager, assuming they were good to Mary Ann. If not, it was split up among his siblings."

"Lanager. That sounds....Didn't you write about that?"

"Several years ago, I wrote a column about a Lanager. Had to go back and check my files. William Lanager, who had to be a son, died in a house fire in 1949. He's buried with Isaac, but not all of him...His arm was lost in a railroad accident, and is buried across the street."

"Weird shit."

"Whole township is full of it."

"Can I order some food in here while I work?" she asked. "I'm getting hungry."

"The idea of a severed arm makes you hungry?"
"It's been a long time since breakfast."

"I mentioned the siblings. One of those was Sarah Confer, who told the Giwoggle story in the first place. In fact, since it was her grandson who wrote it down, without Sarah, we wouldn't have the county's official monster. And she was telling these legendary stories about her brother."

"Which would mean...."

"Which would mean that there's only a couple of steps between Ike and what we know. Sarah, her grandson, and then me. Accounting for tall tales, a lot of this stuff has to be pretty accurate."

"So there were really Giwoggles?"

"At the time, someone believed that there were. And considering we're still getting sightings over a hundred years later, there's something up there."

I was at my desk when an e-mail came through. One of the local writers was interested in a Shoemaker article form 1954. I set down my coffee and walked to the file cabinet, sitting on the floor. S to Z was the lowest drawer, and I pulled out the Shoemaker file and started paging through it.

I found a green folder I didn't remember seeing before, and I opened it. Inside was a stack of typed pages, an interview with a Keating woman named Helen McGonigal. I read through them, fascinated.

I went and got my cell phone, and called Biz.

"Hey," she said. "What's up?"

"You remember when I wondered if maybe Loop Hill Ike had some adventures in other counties during his time on the run?"

"Yeah."

"By sheer coincidence, I just stumbled on an old paper that talks about ghostly adventures he had in Potter County while he was a fugitive. Written by Henry Shoemaker, too."

"Nice," said Biz.

"Up near the Triple Divide, Ike was camping when he heard something sneeze. He walked into the woods to follow it, and found a bunch of plants that seemed to be screaming."

"Sneezing plants?"

"Don't look at me; I don't make this stuff up. So Ike dug down, and found a skeleton, which was sneezing because it had a nose clogged with dirt. So he cleaned it off, wrapped it in a copy of the Clinton Democrat of all things, and reburied it. The ghost came to him later and thanked him."

"Cool."
"I'll make you a copy."

Dinner was marinated chicken and baked potatoes. Like always, Biz sat to my left.

"It's a relief to be done with school for the semester," she said. "Got all my papers in, and now I just have to sit back and wait for the grades."

"I remember how that goes," said Tif. "I always hated the end of the semester."

"Well, I'm done now," said Biz.

"So how'd you do on the Loop Hill Ike paper?" I asked. "Get that one back yet?"
"I got a ninety-five," she said.

"Good job," I said. "Proud of you."

Biz smiled.

"Thanks."

All's Well At Penn Wells

“See the green house down the street, Paul?” I asked my son as we stood in our front yard. “That has a connection to where we’re going today.”

“Really?” seven-year-old Paul asked.

“Yeah. We’re taking a trip to the Austin Dam Ruins in Potter County. That’s where a dam burst in 1911, and it flooded the community. The pieces of the dam are still up there, in a kind of park. After it happened, Lock Haven got some flood refugees looking for places to live. One family moved into that house.”

“I’ll tell Mom,” he said.

The Austin Dam Ruins are along Route 872, in Potter County just north of Austin. You see them from above before you actually reach them, looking down the hill from the road. I told Paul,”Keep your eyes open, little man. The ruins are on your side of the car.”

In a minute, we saw the ruins, standing below. There is something chilling and fascinating about your first sight of the Austin Dam Ruins, which are enormous and still standing where they were when the dam broke over a century ago. 

“Daaaam,” said Paul.

"When that dam broke, it flooded the town of Austin," I said. "A lot of the survivors came down to Renovo and Lock Haven, and moved into houses there. It caused quite a few hauntings; I've looked into some."

"Cool," said Paul.

"So Paul liked the Austin Dam Ruins," said Tif.

"He did." I was cooking dinner in the kitchen. Tif was keeping me company while Paul was out playing with his friends. "We walked around the ruins some, and took some photos. He had a good day. We're looking at Wellsboro and Cook Forest next."

'What's with all the family trips?"

"Work for the Pennsylvania Wilds," I said. "Hannah assigned me some themes this year, and I'm doing them once a month. For June's articles, the theme is family trips."

"Hannah actually contacted you?" Tif asked.

"Well, briefly," I said. "Actually I'm getting a new editor named Britt. Hannah got promoted. She sent me an e-mail informing me, and included Britt on it. I responded and welcomed Britt, and told her to let me know if she had any questions. That was a week ago, and she hasn't replied yet. I think we're gonna get along."

Tif laughed. "So what's in these other places you have planned?"

"Cook Forest had some of the oldest trees in the state and a swinging bridge. Wellsboro has shops, the PA Grand Canyon, and a haunted hotel. Britt hasn't commented on any of it."

"So what's the notebook for?" I asked Paul as we sat in the Wellsboro Diner.

"I'm taking notes," he said. "I can write about this."
"Okay, that works," I said. "Maybe you can submit stuff to the Pennsylvania Wilds." I turned to Michelle. "So, what do you want to see after lunch?"

"I noticed a lot of nice shops on the way over here," she said. "We can do some window shopping."

"Sounds good. There's also a haunted hotel."

"Because of course there would have to be a haunted hotel."

"I figure if I get enough material, I can get two columns out of this," I said. "I can write about our trip to Wellsboro, and get a bunch of photos. And then in October, when my editors want haunted stories, I can write about the hotel and pretend I did it in two trips."

"Ready to go check out the haunted hotel, little man?" I asked.

Paul nodded. "There it is, right across the street."
"Hold my hand."
We crossed the street together, and walked into the Penn Wells Hotel in Wellsboro, Tioga County. My wife followed along behind, looking at the shops. It was a big, grand hotel that dated back to 1869. Inside was a nice lobby area with a guy sitting at the desk.

"Hello," he greeted us.

"Hi," I said. "So....Is this place haunted?"

He laughed. "Well, I've never seen anything. I've heard stories, but I'm kind of a skeptic."

Behind my back, I slipped Paul my EMF detector. He knew what to do.

"There was a fire here in 1906," the desk guy continued. "Nobody died, but it did take off the top floor. People have reported hearing piano music at night, but I've never heard anything."

"How old is this place, exactly?" I asked.

"It was built in 1869," he said. "Albert Pitkin Cone opened the place. I don't know who would be haunting it; there's never been a death in here or anything."

By which he definitely meant that there had never been a dramatic murder or suicide that was publicized. There's no way a hotel that old would never have had someone die in bed of a heart attack or something.
A maid was walking through the lobby, toward the elevator. "How about you?" I asked her. "Have you ever seen any ghosts in here?"
"Nope," she said, and got on the elevator fast in case I turned out to be a lunatic.

"Daddy, I have a yellow light," said Paul.

I looked over. The EMF detector had spiked to yellow up against one of the support beams. "Good work, little man."

Paul passed out on the couch immediately after getting home---Trips wear him out. With her boy asleep, Rosie followed me into the kitchen and curled up under the table while I got on my laptop. She was waiting for me to drop some food, even though I didn't have any. Rosie is not exactly Lassie, if you get my drift.

I checked my e-mail----Still nothing from Britt. She was more absent than Hannah; I figured we were going to get along. I checked out the history of the Penn Wells Hotel. I hate doing research online, but sometimes when you need to fill in the blanks in a different county, it was helpful.

I got on Findagrave and ran the name of Albert Pitkin Cone. He was buried in the Wellsboro Cemetery and not hard to find. 

Michelle was in the other room, watching TV. I walked in, followed by the dog.

"You remember how the desk guy at the hotel said nobody had died in the hotel?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Well, okay, there were no high-profile deaths in there that I can find. But the owner, Albert Pitkin Cone, lost a daughter in a fire before he bought the place. She was four. His wife died later at age thirty-seven. It's not too much of a stretch to figure they could have followed him, and be haunting the place right now."

"That makes sense," she said.

"That's why we get our information from the paranormal investigators, instead of the random public," I said.

"The Austin Dam article ran the other day," I said. "Britt contacted me about it, but as she said she liked it, I think I'll forgive her."

We were sitting in Doolittle Station, a neat little diner and attraction in Clearfield County. Paul and I had gotten our photo taken with Bigfoot and a dinosaur outside, and the little guy was now coloring a page with some intensity, aware they'd put it on the wall afterward. 

"We should take more of those family trips," Michelle said.

I nodded. "Remember when we were first married, and we'd just take off someplace for no reason? We oughta start doing that again."

The waitress came with the food. I asked,"Do you mind if I ask your name? I'm a freelance writer with the PA Wilds, and I'd like to mention you in my article."

She smiled. "My name is Kristen, and it'll be on the receipt, too. I think I've seen some of your articles. My boyfriend and I are really into Bigfoot."

I will never get used to that.

I walked across the road on Route 36, snapping photos of the "Jefferson County" sign. Then I went around to the other side, and got a picture of Clarion County across the border. Right across the street was Forest County, and I got a couple of pictures of that, too, making it three counties within thirty seconds.

Then I walked up and joined Michelle and Paul in Cook Forest, and we walked down the trail.

"Some of these trees are hundreds of years old," I said. "I'm always a little light on ghost stories out here, but the trees are cool. It's a great state park."

Paul was running ahead a little.

"Yay!" he said. "The swinging bridge!"