Ghost of Devil Anse
Near the village of Omar, Logan County, in the hills of West Virginia there is a little burying ground that looks down on Main Island Creek. It is a family burying ground, you soon discover when you climb the narrow path leading to the sagging gate in the rickety fence that encloses it. There are a number of graves, some with head stones, some without. But one grave catches the eye, for above it towers a white marble statue. The statue of a mountain man, you know at once by the imposing height, the long beard, the sagging breeches stuffed into high-topped boots. Drawing nearer, you read the inscription upon the broad stone base upon which the statue rests:
Capt. Anderson Hatfield
and below the names of his thirteen children:
| JOHNSON WM. A. ROBERT L. NANCY ELLIOTT R. MARY ELIZABETH ELIAS TROY JOSEPH D. ROSE WILLIS E. TENNIS |
You lift your eyes again to the marble statue. If you knew him in life, you’ll say, “This is a fine likeness—and a fine piece of marble.”
“His children had it done in Italy,” someone offers the information.
“So,” you say to yourself, “this is the grave of Devil Anse Hatfield.”
You’ve seen all there is to see. You’re ready to go, if you are like hundreds of others who visit the last resting place of the leader of the Hatfield-McCoy feud. But, if you chance to tarry—say, in the fall when fogs are heavy there in the Guyan Valley, through which Main Island Creek flows—you may see and hear things strangely unaccountable.
Close beside the captain’s grave is another. On the stone is carved the name—Levisa Chafin Hatfield. If you were among the many who attended her funeral you will remember how peaceful she looked in her black burying dress she’d kept so long for the occasion. Again you will see her as she lay in her coffin, hands primly folded on the black frock, the frill of lace on the black bonnet framing the careworn face. You look up suddenly to see a mountain woman in a somber calico frock and slat bonnet. She is putting new paper flowers, to take the place of the faded ones, in the glass-covered box between the grave of Devil Anse and the mother of his children.
“You best come home with me,” she invites with true hospitality, after an exchange of greetings. You learn that Molly claims kin to both sides, being the widow of a Hatfield and married to a McCoy, and at once you are disarmed.
That night as you sit with Molly in the moonlight in the dooryard of her shack, a weather-beaten plank house with a clapboard roof and a crooked stone chimney, she talks of life in the West Virginia hills. “There’s a heap o’ things happens around this country that are mighty skeery.” Suddenly in the gloaming a bat wings overhead, darts inside the shack. You can hear it blundering around among the rafters. An owl screeches off in the hollow somewhere. “Do you believe in ghosts and haynts?” There are apprehension and fear in Molly’s voice.
Presently the owl screeches dolefully once more and the bat wheels low overhead. A soft breeze stirs the pawpaw bushes down by the fence row. “Did you hearn something mourn like, just then?” Molly, the widow of a Hatfield and wife of a McCoy, leans forward.
If you are prudent you make no answer to her questions.
“Nothing to be a-feared of, I reckon. The ghosts of them that has been baptized they won’t harm nobody. I’ve heard Uncle Dyke Garrett say as much many’s the time.” The woman speaks with firm conviction.
A moth brushes her cheek and she straightens suddenly.
The moon is partly hidden behind a cloud; even so by its faint light you can see the clump of pawpaw bushes, and beyond—the outline of the rugged hills. Farther off in the burying ground atop the ridge the marble figure of the leader of the Hatfields rises against the half-darkened sky.
At first you think it is the sound of the wind in the pines far off in the hollow, then as it moves toward the burying ground it changes to that of low moaning voices.
You feel Molly’s arm trembling against your own.
“Listen!” she whispers fearfully, all her courage gone. “It’s Devil Anse and his boys. Look yonder!”—she tugs at your sleeve—“See for yourself they’re going down to the waters of baptism!”
Following the direction of the woman’s quick trembling hand you strain forward.
At first there seems to be a low mist rolling over the burying ground and then suddenly, to your amazement, the mist or cloud dissolves itself into shafts or pillars of the height of the white figure of Devil Anse above the grave. They form in line and now one figure, the taller, moves ahead of all the rest. Six there were following the leader. You see distinctly as they move slowly through the crumbling tombstones, down the mountain side toward the creek.
“Devil Anse and his boys,” repeats the trembling Molly, “going down into the waters of baptism. They ever do of a foggy night in the falling weather. And look yonder! There’s the ghost too of Uncle Dyke Garrett a-waiting at the water’s edge. He’s got the Good Book opened wide in his hand.”
Whether it is the giant trunk of a tree with perhaps a leafless branch extended, who can say? Or is nature playing a prank with your vision? But, surely, in the eerie moonlight there seems to appear the figure of a man with arm extended, book in hand, waiting to receive the seven phantom penitents moving slowly toward the water’s edge.
After that you don’t lose much time in being on your way. And if anyone should ask you what of interest is to be seen along Main Island Creek, if you are prudent you’ll answer, “The marble statue of Capt. Anderson Hatfield.” And if you knew him in life you’ll add, “And a fine likeness it is too.”