After my story circulated, another officer described something peculiar that happened to them. One night this officer was working in Davis Hall alone. At that time, the newly committed inmates to Federal Prison Camp Alderson were housed temporarily in Davis Hall before receiving their permanent assigned living areas in the cottages.

One night a busload of newly committed inmates were locked in rooms on the second floor. The officer found a bunch of the inmates still awake and frightened about something after the midnight count. The officer then went into the Davis Hall attic, and using a metal trash can lid began hitting and banging the exposed plumbing vent pipes.

The inmates on the second floor became hysterical and were screaming at the top of their lungs not knowing what the commotion was.

All of a sudden, there was a huge freaking “KA-BOOM!” like the sound of the internal steel basement door being slammed closed. The officer knew the basement door should be locked at all times with no one entering or exiting at that time. The officer quietly went to the attic door that had three flights of stairs that went all the way to the basement door.

The officer perceived that the on duty lieutenant had heard the noisy commotion coming from Davis Hall, and was coming to investigate via the basement door. The officer stood silently waiting near the top steps to identify who it was. Something or someone was coming up the stairs making angry huffing sounds.

A presence made its way up the stairs and right past the bewildered officer and went into the attic slamming the attic door closed behind it. The officer now more frightened than the inmates that were locked on the second floor, made sure the attic door was locked, and then ran to the basement door to make sure it was locked.

The officer then went to the officers station and remained locked in there for the remainder of the night only coming out when required to do so.

The officer who experienced this intriguing situation wished not to be identified.

About two years ago, I lived in Madison, West Virginia with my mother and her former husband. We rented an older house there that sufficed our needs. The house appeared to be an ordinary, quaint, living space. I did find out there had been many owners prior to our family settling in, but I am unsure if they experienced what I did in the home.

I had heard that West Virginia bred paranormal activity, however, I was skeptical as to whether or not the stories were true. I would soon find out the legitimacy of the rumors I heard. I’ve always believed in ghosts, but not as much in West Virginia being haunted, despite all the claims that surrounds this belief. Before we moved to Madison I had a few paranormal experiences, but nothing like I experienced in Madison.

The first months of living in the residence were normal, besides a “presence” I felt lurking around the quarters at peculiar times. I didn’t really feel threatened or scared, just intrigued. My mom also sensed the bizarre presence.

Late one night I was sitting in my back yard, which overlooked a river. I was with a friend and we heard a sound that resembled someone walking into the river. Next, we heard a plunking sound in the river like someone being baptized. My friend heard that there was a church on the hill that burned to the ground. “Could this have possibly been a spirit that roamed about or maybe the ghost of someone who was killed in the church fire,” I asked myself. Although I was not sure about the cause of the sounds, I considered it much.

We lived there baffled for two years. My stepfather, who did not believe in ghosts, also experienced sightings and heard odd sounds during his brief stay at the dwelling. Those two years were littered with strange sightings and eerie experiences. And due to those events, I was converted over to the belief that West Virginia truly is haunted.

During the fall of 1980, my husband and his father were hunting a wild and remote part of Ritchie County called the Oxbow. My father-in-law had a passion for collecting old bottles and spotted an old house down in a field below where he was squirrel hunting. He walked down the hill towards the house hoping to look around and find some old bottles. As he drew near to the old house, he saw a woman in one of the downstairs windows. She was dressed in a white dress and was waving at him. He thought nothing of it and hoped she wouldn’t mind him checking things out.

When he got to the house, the old door was open so he walked in. Boy was he surprised at the shambles inside! No one could possibly have lived there in years. The floor was rotten and the area by the window where the woman stood was gone – literally rotted through and collapsed! A person could not have stood there and waved at him. He told us the hair literally stood up on the back of his neck and he turned and ran out of there as fast as he could.

My father-in-law was the biggest skeptic I had ever met. He wouldn’t even listen to a tall tale or ghost story. However, my husband said when his father got back to the vehicle; he thought he was having a heart attack. His father was deathly pale and just said “let’s get out of here.” On the way home, he told my husband what had happened.

Since my mildly autistic 12 year old has no siblings and lacks somewhat in the social graces, I’ve been, equal parts father and playmate while spending, as you might expect, considerable time in the park. Tomlinson Run State Park, that is. In fact, when his homework-obsessed mother leaves for RN duty at nearby Weirton Medical Center, providing blessed relief from frustrating algebra and pronouns, Shane and I still make tracks, whenever possible, for the dark mountainous place we have grown so fond of. Except for the upper picnic grounds. Shane and I don’t go there anymore.

Sitting thickly forested one mile from our home, almost heaven’s most storied park makes a token pass with swimming and putt putt at fun and light spirits, but still seems frozen, even during the summer, in some melancholy and impenetrable off season. Step a little into the trees, and nothing has changed since atrocities were committed in the name of this land by both red and white men. It was here, shortly before the revolution, that the Poe brothers slayed two Native Americans in a desperate skirmish that foretold the success of settler expansion.

On a glorious summer evening, some quarter millennium later, Shane was swinging and I was pushing in the play area that is part of the upper pavilion. Pleasant time passed, the sun became a red ball and we were alone, as usual there, when I first heard the singing. Pitch perfect with the faintly feminine lilt that characterizes skilled but amateur choirs, the noise moved toward us through the woods. It sounded hymn like, except more urgent. Less tribute than command, the song exploded into laughter at each crescendo. That part chilled me at once. And why was a choir marching through darkening thicket a good three furlongs elevated from the nearest recreationists, who weren’t below anyway at this time of evening in the always sparsely populated park?

We walked into the woods to find out and the indecipherable singing turned to whispers. Petrified, Shane clutched my hand and wailed something that I ignored as to train my ears on the invisible choir. We retreated into the clear, which took perhaps twelve paces, and the singing recommenced, rushing, in fact, right to forest’s edge. Apparently unable (not permitted?) to follow (pursue?) us in the open, the vocalists had ventured no farther as we drove away.

It is autumn now, more than four years later, and this afternoon, when the homework is done, Shane and I might visit Tomlinson Run to throw Frisbee or skip stones across some timeless creek. My son has become quieter in his autism, pulling inward, even outdoors, to focus fiercely on his endeavors. As an only child, Shane sets the tone, so I won’t say much either. But I will listen, as usual, to the woods and wonder, were we welcomed or warned?

My family who grew up on Ward Road has experienced these series of encounters.

Growing up, going to my grandmother’s house was an every evening thing. I would hear my mother and her siblings talk about the things they have experienced growing up beside the woman whose feet never touched the ground.

The first story that I heard is one I will never forget! My uncle is not one who would believe in the supernatural so hearing the experience from his lips is, I know, factual.

My grandfather owned many acres that crossed with the woman whose feet never touched the ground. My uncle would usually cut through her yard coming and going from school. Not believing the stories his sisters had told him, he never thought anything would happen to make him change his mind.

One day, the woman decided to grace my uncle with her presence. As he was crossing her landmark, that separated my grandfather’s land, and her own, he had a sudden chill run up and down his spine. He turned to look over his shoulder to double check, nothing was behind him, when sure enough he finally saw the woman whose feet never touched the ground. He stated, that she was “hovering” across the grass and behind her stood a table up on one leg dancing.

The “encounters” does not stop there. My mother and her younger sister would also use the woman’s land to cut through to go to a relative’s house. There was a fence that circled the woman’s land. A portion of the fence was broken down and that is where my mother and aunt would cross.

One day my mother and her sister were returning home from visiting my great aunt. As my mother was crossing the broken part of the fence, both my mother and aunt heard a cackle, pausing them both in their tracks. As they looked back, once again, the woman whose feet never touched the ground graced them with her presence.

My aunt then unpaused and hurried my mother across the fence, pushing her out of her way. They both ran home.

When they finally got home, out of breath, they “babbled”, as my grandfather puts it, about the woman whose feet never touched the ground. From then on out, my mother and aunt found another shortcut to take.

About a week later, my mother and other sister was walking the main road. There was an old black Chevy truck that would sit in front of the house that was haunted by the woman whose feet never touched the ground. My mother stated that she had a gut feeling that the old woman was near, so she tried to get my aunt to walk up to the truck with her but would not. As my mother looked over the backside of the truck, the old woman was laying down in the bed.

My mother tried calling my aunt to the truck but when there was no reply; my mother looked over her shoulder to find my aunt already running up the road. She ran after her and they both went home.

Later that evening my mother went back down the road to see if she could see the woman, whose feet never touched the ground. Once again, my mother noticed her in the bed of the truck. This time she was standing. My mother stated that she was standing over a cauldron, stirring, and mummering something she could not make anything out of. My mother stated that when the old woman looked at her, she had an awful appearance to her. So awful, she could not describe it.

Time passed. The old house burnt down in the mid 90’s and the woman whose feet never touched the ground was never seen again.

One day about a week from Halloween, I was outside riding my bike close to the steps that take you up town. The second time I passed the steps I heard someone say, “Hello”. I had no clue who it could be but I was curious so I turned around. I saw a girl that looked somewhat poor with a dirty prom dress on, it looked like she was ran over by a car. I asked her what her name was and she said Sophie. I told her my name was Brianna.

Then we got into a conversation and I asked her what she was doing around here. She said she was waiting for her boyfriend Ricky to pick her up for the prom. It was not even time for the prom but I did not know that until after all this happened. Then she asked if I saw an old Buick kind of dirty and blue colored. I said I have not seen that kind of car around but it does not mean it did not go by sometime.

Then I turned around because my aunt Jean was talking to me, we were talking for a while, I turned back around and the strange girl disappeared. I thought she went away for a walk or something so I went off to ride my bike. When I came back to the steps, I saw here again, I asked her where she went and then she said she was up in a tree watching me. Then I got a little scared, my aunt Jean was calling me again because we were about to go to Kmart to get Halloween decorations, I told her good bye and went off.

No one really said anything about it until about a year later. Everyone was telling ghost stories that they encountered. I told my aunt Sharon about it and she said she saw her before and heard about her on the internet. After that, I done a lot of research about the girl but did not find very much but a couple stories like mine. It seemed like, after that, my friends had been seeing someone similar every week before Halloween.

The two stories I am about to tell was told to me by my second and third cousins. The first story happened to my third cousin when he was a baby. He had a wind up mobile that would play music and would turn as it played; the only thing was it would sometimes play by its self without being wound up. One night, it started playing and would not stop.

My second cousin who was all alone (just her and the baby), called her mom to find out what she should do. She told her to get it out of the house as fast as she could. She took a garbage bag, put the toy in it, it still playing, took it outside and set it on fire. The toy played the whole time it was burning and would not stop until it was nothing but ash.

The second story is about a porcelain doll. It happened to the same child in the first story, only he was a little bit older. There use to be a room up stairs in my second cousin’s old home place where they kept things. One night, my second cousin went up stairs to have a look around.

When they found him, he was starring at an old porcelain doll. It had a green dress on, dark hair, and brown eyes. He just kept starring at it, as if he was in a trance or something. The doll seemed to be looking him in the eyes, finally they pulled him away from it and he was all right, but he did not want to go back up to that room as long as the doll was there.

When I was about 3 or 4 years old, we lived in West Virginia for a brief time. I will always remember the moment when I saw the ghost in my closet. It is one of my earliest and most vivid memories. I really have not told many people about it, but when I came across a magazine that was dedicated to ghost stories/legends in West Virginia; I realized I am not alone in my ghost encounter experience.

It was a short moment, actually, but I will never forget it. I was in bed and my closet was open. Standing there in the dark was a little boy, dressed in a bright yellow raincoat-type garment. He had brown hair and looked to be about 4 to 7 years old. I was not scared when I saw him. He looked at me, and I at him. I felt very calm and peaceful. I seem to remember feeling like he was watching over me in some way.

I am glad he appeared to me, because even today, I remember that moment and I know there are spirits around us. It makes me open to believing there is a spiritual world, although many do not acknowledge it today. I know it is true, because it happened to me.

In January 1996, a massive snowstorm made travel along West Virginia back roads nearly impossible to traverse.

At the time, I was employed by the Federal Prison Camp Alderson. With the storm at its most severe, I got off from work one night at midnight. The previous night I had walked home only to sleep a few hours and then walk back to work for the 8:00 AM shift.

This night, I chose to find a place to sleep at the prison. At first, I thought maybe sleeping in the floor of a counselors office might be ideal, then decided against it as possibly being too disruptive for a good nights sleep.

Davis Hall was the old prison lock down unit for disruptive prisoners. A jail building inside a prison for all intents and purposes. At the time it was vacant with no housed prisoners or working staff. Just big silent and empty. The ideal place to sleep peacefully or so I thought.

The yard officer took me to Davis Hall sometime after midnight. We had an extremely difficult time getting the side door open because of several feet of snow drifted against it. No one had been in the building obviously in quite a while.

After the yard officer locked the steel bars then the side door, I began to think about my situation. Locked alone inside a huge two story, vacant, escape proof, brick building with no radio, keys, or access to a telephone.

Right away, I changed into a pair of coveralls that had been in my truck. I dropped my uniform garments into the washing machine prisoners had used before. As soon as the water began to flow it was blood red in color from rust buildup in the pipes.

To pass time I found a book just lying around and started to read it. All of a sudden, I noticed, “excited whispering” over the din of the washing machine.

Every time I tried to locate the source of the whispering, it was nowhere to be found. Finally, my uniform was washed, dried, and permanently stained. I sought out a bed to lie down on. One of the rooms was unlocked with the bed made up. I walked right in and laid down. The whispering had changed mostly to voices but what gave me the creeps the most was when it felt as though someone was touching my face.

I rolled over and buried my face as deep as it would go in the pillow and slid my hands under the sides of the pillow to shove it up around my ears. I was determined not to see or hear anything that would totally freak me out. Especially knowing there was no escape until the yard officer unlocked the doors in the morning.

Somehow, I managed to go to sleep. When I awoke the next morning and let out, I never intended to spend another night in Davis Hall ever again. Most staff who heard about what I did said, “Only a crazy person would spend the night locked up in Davis Hall alone”.

Davis Hall was torn down later.

An older man living in Pocahontas County remembered as a child a story of a family who bought an older farmhouse. The story goes that after living there for a while the family began witnessing the ghost of a small boy appearing on the hearth of the fireplace. The family became highly concerned or maybe frightened at the idea of their home being haunted by the nether world.

In that era circuit preachers were known to travel the area staying with local families that would have them. The family with the haunting had a guest preacher stay with them. One evening the ghost appeared again frightening the family enough that they ran from the room screaming leaving the preacher alone in the presence of the apparition.

The preacher then verbally confronted the ghost with the following statement, “in the name of God the father I command you to tell me what you’re doing here?” The ghost then turned and faced the preacher squarely, and stated plainly & clearly, “I was murdered and buried beneath this very hearth.” The ghost then disappeared with no further questioning.

The very next day the hearth was busted up using spikes and sledgehammers. The skeleton of an eight-year-old boy was found entombed in the concrete. After a proper burial of the remains the ghost never bothered the family again.

My wife and I were married in early 1991. Within a few months I was taken to meet the late great Ota Lewis Hefner (1896-2000) my wife’s great-grandmother who was living at the time. The saying “that a fine wine ages with time” could very well apply to the great Ota.

Ota or “Otie” as everyone called her was very interesting to engage in conversation with. Otie was also bright as a tack, and time had not dulled her memory or thought process at all. She would speak of things that occurred in 1932 as though it were yesterday. During one of our prolonged conversations I asked her about ghosts or ghost experiences. The first story she told me, I will never forget.

When Otie was a little girl she briefly stayed with her relatives. An aunt told her that a ghost woman would appear in their house and hurry down the stairs from the upstairs to the downstairs, and right out the front door of the house.

After the ghost woman had done this for several occasions the aunt became confrontational, and stepped squarely into the path of the hurried ghost. The aunt then asked the ghost to state its business there. The ghost woman using its hand then “struck or scratched” the aunt on the face leaving a mark for life.

Otie stated that the aunt except for the particular mark left on her face for life was never bothered again by the ghost woman.

In May 1996 I bought my first home located on Muddy Creek Mountain. At first the house seemed inviting and warm to me and my family. Sometime during the Fall of 1996 my sister was visiting and telling us stories of domestic violence late one night.

During a conversation in which some man had killed his wife then himself in a common murder suicide scenario. I stopped my sister in mid-sentence and stated, “say no more, whatever that is here is becoming upset and giving off bad vibes… I can feel them.”

From that point on the house seemed to take on a new character. Strange noises in the night, people walking around at all hours, turning lights on and off, water faucets turning on, and opening doors and slamming doors. Little things would occur like CD cases with no CDs to be found anywhere in the house. VHS boxes laying around empty with the actual VHS tapes disappearing into oblivion. Pop cans disappearing from the refrigerator within 30 minutes. Just plain crazy things going on.

One night I arrived home late with no one there. I got out of the truck to go inside when I got this feeling of awful dread. Looking at the house I got back in the truck and locked the vehicle doors. I sat there for the longest time trying to think about what to do. I could wait for my wife to arrive and go inside with her or I could go inside the house against my gut instinct. So I sat staring at the house for something like 45 minutes thinking that waiting was the best option.

Lights were on burning in the house. The light to the living room went out all of a sudden, but the other lights that were on stayed on. My first thought was that a light bulb had burned out. The utter dread got worse when I got the feeling that whatever “it” was knew I was concerned and stalling about going inside. Finally I said, “that’s enough”, and started the truck and drove back to the highway to wait.

I parked and waited by the highway to await my wife’s car. After a while I saw her car go by, so I followed her home. When we pulled in the driveway the light in the living room was mysteriously back on. When I told my wife what had transpired that night she thought I was going crazy. I told her, “No! What ever is here despises me and would like to see me harmed or destroyed, it hates me because I know it is here!”

My wife finally believed the house was haunted for real late one night when both her and I saw at the same time a ghost child run past our bed room door. It frightened her more than me, because I knew it was not the “evil spirit” which was really haunting the place.

The house is again for sell to some poor hapless soul who probably does not know at all what awaits them.