The Indianapolis Journal

"THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED"

Ghost Story That Is Convulsing a Neighborhood in the Northwest Section.

Troubled Spirit of a Young Girl That Performs Midnight Drudgery with a Broom—What the Neighbors Have to Say of It.

For about three weeks past the neighborhood in the vicinity of Mississippi and First streets has had a local sensation that is dressed in white and wears a broom through the midnight hours. It moves about with velvety stillness, and insists on sitting in a melancholy mood upon the steps of a cottage, with its long hair streaming in a phosphorescent flame about its samite-covered shoulders. Occasionally a sigh comes from its ghastly lips that trembles through the low foliage of the trees about the yard, dashing the rain-drops to the ground with a shuddering sensation that is awful. Then rising like a water sprite it drifts into the cottage chambers and sweeps, sweeps, sweeps, until its unearthly labors are finished, when it disappears like a light that is turned out. The fact of the sprite's actual appearance and disappearance has become thoroughly fixed in the minds of the good people of this neighborhood, but its identity is still a matter of breathless speculation, although there can be little doubt, it seems, as to that.

Patrolman T. J. Simpson lives at 182 West First street, very near the cottage in question. Mr. T. J. Simpson stops often on his way down town at Rose's saloon, at the corner of First and Mississippi streets, and discusses the "haunted house" over Mr. Rose's bar. Mrs. Simpson is a good woman, and emphatically denies any belief in the spook fraternity. If there are any spirits in existence Mrs. Simpson is not on intimate terms with them. She had heard all about the manifestation in question from Mrs. Jelf, the very good old lady who keeps a grocery store on Mississippi street, a little way above First. A colored family, whose name is Martin, had seen and heard a great deal concerning the ghost, and were acquainted with the details of the story. Mrs. Simpson shrugged her shoulders as she looked over at the vacant house, with its vine-clad porch and green lawn, and said: "For goodness sake don't say I said anything about the haunted house."

Mr. Rose is a stout-hearted saloon-keeper at the corner of Mississippi and First streets, and said, as he tossed the foam off of a glass of beer, "O you vant to knows about dot house vat der spirits como outl Dot vas 'banted'—dots all—it's VAS EIN HANTED HOUSE!"

Miss Rose, the saloon-keeper's daughter, said: "There was a family by the name of Williams that lived in the house. They owned it. A few days before last Christmas, while all the family were at church, except their daughter, this daughter died. They came home and found her dead. After she was buried the Williams family sold the property and went to Missouri. About three weeks ago a family rented the cottage and paid one month's rent in advance. They moved in on Monday, and on Wednesday they moved out. They went to the agent and wanted their money back, but could not get it. They said that both nights at 12 o'clock, a young girl appeared in the front room, dressed in white, with a broom in her hand, and after sweeping for about fifteen minutes, went out on the porch and swept there. Then she would sit down on the steps leading up to the porch and bury her head in her hands; then all at once she would disappear. This family said before leaving that they would not stay there if the agent were to pay them $20 per month for occupying the house."

Mrs. Jelf was emptying a basket of potatoes and stopped short at mention of the haunted cottage. "Well," said she, "I don't believe much in such things, but if ever there was a house haunted, this one is. Nobody will stay in the house any more. You can see for yourself; don't it look like a house that is possessed? Just you go in and look at it and see for yourself. If you will go down the alley to Martin's they will tell you all about it. They know whether it is haunted or not. The poor girl died there under very peculiar circumstances, and I have heard that she poisoned herself. She was not right smart. It seems the poor thing can't rest in her grave in peace, but comes back and sweeps the house out every night."

When walking past the cottage a Journal reporter stepped inside the gate, walked upon the porch, and looked into the windows. The rooms were dark, and looked rather ghastly. The rose bushes in the yard were tangled as though sprites had been romping through them. Near the gate, matted down in the grass, a piece of paper was found, on which the following was written in the scratchy, uncertain hand of an independent slate-writer: (No reference is here intended to any chairman of any State central committee on earth.)

There is no choice for me, but sleep
While over me the cold winds creep,
Save when some voice sounds strong and deep
Above my grave,
And wakes me from my deadly sleep
To come back here and sweep, sweep, sweep.
While midnight rains still moan and weep
My midnight broom will sweep—sweep—sweep.

00-0-0-0
0-0-0-0-0-0-0.

The Martin family, colored, live down in the alley, and want nothing on earth to do with ghouls, goblins, spooks or spirits of any kind, formally or informally. "Yes," said Mrs. Martin, "I knew the girl; she waen't very smart, and she died while her folks were at church. Some say she poisoned her pore self, and the family that moved in and moved out again so quick was most scared to death. They said the girl's spirit still 'hants' the house at 12 o'clock every night. I don't believe much in spirits, and I don't want to believe any more in 'em than I does. Nobody believes in 'em till they sees 'em—and then they has to, don't they! I don't want to has to. That's the reason we stay here in this little house. Yonse can't trust these houses others has lived in. If you gets a new house you's all right; nonthin' can happen to you; but you don't know what minute you's goin' to run onto strange ghostes in old houses, an' so we stays right where we is."

The house still remains vacant.