Allegheny Episodes / Folk Lore and Legends Collected in Northern and Western Pennsylvania

by Henry W. Shoemaker

There was one railway journey which he took frequently, and on fast trains. His westbound trips carried him through the most mountainous part of the country in the late afternoon, but there was generally light enough to show the various aspects of the wild, rugged landscape. There was a little abandoned graveyard, all overgrown, with an uneven stone wall around it, near where the tracks crossed the river bridge. Standing among the lop-sided and battered tombstones, the tips of some of the older ones of brownstone being barely visible, looking as if they were sinking into the earth, he would always see the figure of a young woman attired completely in grey. The train was always traveling so fast that he counted a different number of stones every time he went by–there were probably a “Baker’s Dozen.”

For a long time he thought that she must be some particularly devoted mourner, a recently bereaved widow, but it did seem a strange coincidence that she should be there on the same days and hour that he passed by in the fast train. Once he called his seat-mate’s attention to the figure, but the companion could see nothing, and laughingly said: “Why, you must be seeing a ghost.”

The word ghost sent a thrill through Tatnall, and after that he said no more to anyone, but conceded to himself that the girl in grey was a wraith of some kind. Though the train did not pass close to the graveyard, and was always moving rapidly, he fancied that he could discern the ghost’s type of feature, or imagined he did; at any rate he had an exact mental picture of what he thought she looked like, and would pick her out in a crowd if he ever saw her in hailing distance.

This had kept up for five years, and he began to feel that it was getting on his nerves; he must either abandon that particular train or go to the graveyard and investigate. He chose the latter course, and one afternoon arrived at the nearest station, via a local train. The graveyard was on the opposite side of the river, and there seemed to be very little hurry on the part of the boatman, who lived on the far shore, to carry him across. It was late in the fall, after Thanksgiving, and the trees were bare of leaves, and shook and rattled their bare branches in the gusts of wind that came out of the east.

He sat down on an old rotting shell of a dugout by the bank, watching the cold, grey current, for the river was high after many days of fall rains. It was a dreary, but imposing scene, the wide, swollen river, the wooded banks and hills beyond, and back of him, high rocky mountains, partly covered with scrubby growth and dead pines.

Finally, in response to frequent calling, he could see the boat launched; it looked like a black speck at first, and gradually drew nearer to him and beached. The boatman was a tiny man, with a long drooping mustache and goatee, wearing a Grand Army button; he was pleasant, but inquisitive, though he “allowed” Tatnall could have no other business than to be a “drummer” bound for the crossroads store on the opposite bank.

Tatnall had remembered a small, dingy store in a hamlet, about half mile from the little cemetery; he had intended going there as he wanted information concerning the families who were buried there. Perhaps he could learn all he wanted to know from the riverman, and save the walk down the track to the store, but for some reason held his tongue.

The boatman’s final remark was that it was strange for anyone to be willing to pay a dollar to be ferried across the river, when most people walked the railroad bridge. It was trespassing on railroad property, and dangerous to do it, but it was worth the risk, many travelers thought.

Arriving safely across the roily current, Tatnall paid and thanked the boatman, and started in the direction of the little country store. In front of the store was a row of mature Ailanthus trees, which seemed like sturdy guards over the old stone structure, which had once been a tavern stand. The porch was filled with packing cases and barrels.

As Tatnall opened the door, he could see a number of habitues seated about on crates and barrels. One of them, a white bearded Civil War Veteran, rose up, leaning heavily on his cane, and bid the stranger welcome. Almost before he had a chance to engage in conversation with the regulars, he glanced behind the counter, where he beheld a young woman, who had just emerged from an inner apartment behind the store room.