Deep in the back roads of East Tennessee stands the abandoned Old Lockhart House, a place locals say is haunted. One Halloween night, two teenagers decide to test the legend—and discover there may be good reason to fear the old house.

I come from a very rural part of East Tennessee. Now, it ain’t exactly what you’d call the sticks, because there is a large city about 20 minutes away, but you could still get lost on the winding country roads surrounding the house I grew up in. It would take someone familiar with the area to help you get back out, back on your way to civilization. Behind my house was a steep incline, and at the bottom of that incline was an old sawmill run by Elmer Nicely.

Train tracks ran right alongside Elmer’s sawmill. When a train would come through, about once an hour, all the windows in our house would tremble for about 10 minutes. Elmer also slaughtered hogs at his place, so it was awfully nice when the train came by and masked the horrible squeals we’d sometimes hear from his small wood slaughterhouse.

There was a one-lane gravel road that cut between our house and the sawmill. I’d see cars pass there at all hours of the day and night, but when I was a kid, I’d never been far down that old road. It just looked scary down there to me.

The trees and kudzu was overgrown. The road looked like a path into a dark tunnel of leaves and vines, sticks and dust. I knew some people lived down that gravel road, but I didn’t know anyone personally.

They were mostly reclusive country people that liked to keep to themselves, and I wasn’t one to go messing with them. When I got older, my parents would let me walk down that old gravel road by myself. I remember the first time I went down past the sawmill, past the slaughterhouse, found where the old road bent to the left and crossed the railroad track.

At that point, I couldn’t recognize any surroundings. It was like I was in some small backwood village. There were old, broken-down, rusted trailers that people still lived in, nestled back in the brush.

There were so many old houses I’d never seen before, and they looked like they’d been pieced together with scrap wood and plastic and cardboard. There was an old creek that ran behind the houses. I had no idea it existed.

Every other house it seemed had an old mangy dog tied up to a tree or a rotten doghouse. Something about the whole atmosphere made the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up. Just past the shacks, there was an old cornfield overgrown with weeds and brush.

Hanging on an old wood post was a pitiful-looking scarecrow with only one arm raised, like he was trying to hitchhike his way out of that place. For some unknown reason, the scarecrow’s owner had dressed it in a burlap kilt with an old piece of corncob stuck on it like a kilt pin. Next to the cornfield, sitting way back off the road, was a decrepit white three-story wood house.

All the windows on the house were broken out. You’d need a machete to get to the front door, but it was still a pretty impressive house among the dilapidated shacks. The old house looked like it’d been quite something in its time.

Made me want to do some research on it to find out its history. Next day after seeing that old house, I was telling some of my school friends about it. One of my friends said, that’s the old Lockhart house.

Then he said with a smile, I’ve heard it’s haunted. Neither of us believed in ghosts or haunted houses, but we’d both seen how creepy that place looked. I wanted to find out more information about it, but I wasn’t sure where to go.

I’d seen some of the Lockharts at the school. I knew they couldn’t live in that old house. Or could they? A few weeks later, I was discussing the house again with school friends when I heard someone laughing at me.

It was Chris Mullins. Chris was a muscular, good-looking guy with more than a little Native American blood in him. He was one of the stars of the football team.

Pretty nice guy. One of the few jocks who would actually spend any amount of time talking to someone like me. That’s a great make-out place, he said.

Get you a girl down there, she gets all scared. You tell her you’ll protect her, she’ll do pretty much anything you want. Personally, I don’t think Chris Mullins ever needed a scary house to get a girl to do whatever he wanted.

But it was a nice tip anyway. I’m taking Jenny Quarles down there Friday night after the game, he said. The only scary thing she needs to worry about is in my pants.

We all laughed. The football game that Friday night was on the night before Halloween. It was against one of our biggest rivals from the next county over.

We won the game easily, and the celebrations went on way into the night. But I decided to head on home a bit early. It was dark and blustery outside.

There’s a full moon’s light that would appear and disappear behind fast-moving dark clouds. I thought about what Chris Mullins said about taking Jenny Quarles to the old Lockhart house. In fact, I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

I thought maybe I’d just drive right by the place and look over and see if I could see him there. I wondered if he really had the guts to go there. Or if he was just all talk.

So I decided I’d drive past the Lockhart house and then circle around and come back home. I hit the old gravel road right about the time I heard a train horn sounding in the distance. By the time I got to the part where the road curved around and crossed the track, the train was coming fast, so I sat and waited for it to pass.

When it was gone, I listened to the silence for a few seconds. There’s nothing like the deep, dead silence of the country after a train passes through. I drove on past the trailers and shacks and up to the cornfield when I noticed something very strange.

That old scarecrow was gone. I could see his weathered old post still standing there in the field, but the scarecrow was nowhere to be seen. Maybe it had fallen down, I thought.

Or maybe Chris was using it as part of his plan to get Jenny all scared and clingy. Up ahead I could see a car parked off the road in front of the house, but no one was in it. I drove past it slow and looked inside.

The front and back seats were empty. Surely Chris Mullins wasn’t brave enough to take her inside the house. Or stupid enough.

I pulled my car over to the side of the road and turned off the engine and the lights and rolled down the window to see if I could hear any voices. The air smelled like dead leaves and dirt and dogs and old engine oil. The light from the moon was starting to spend more time behind the clouds, leaving everything in a deep indigo darkness.

If you’ve never heard the death scream of a hog at midnight, it’ll send shivers over every inch of your body. And it’s worse when you’re far away from anything you recognize. It’s even more terrifying when you realize that the scream you just heard wasn’t a hog at all, but it’s human.

And it’s coming right toward you. Jenny Quarles tried to open the passenger door while she screamed, but it was locked. She jumped onto the hood of my car and pounded on the windshield like she intended to go right through it.

It took me several seconds to recognize it was her, and when I did, I jumped out of the car. In one leap, she jumped on me and her legs gave out from under her, all the while still screaming. I tried to calm her down best I could and ask her what was going on.

She couldn’t speak, but she grabbed my hand and pointed toward the Lockhart house. She could only say, Chris, and pull me toward the house. A small path had been trampled into the weeds and brush in front of the house, and Jenny pulled me along the path.

It was all happening too quick to think about it, but nowadays I can’t even believe I went into all that jungle. We tripped and stumbled our way to the side of the old house where there was a clearing under some tall, twisted trees. Jenny pointed to one of the trees again, let out a shrill scream.

On the dirt, under the tree, was a scattering of straw covered in blood. Hanging from one of the trees was Chris Mullins. His throat cut from earlobe to earlobe.

Stuck right in the middle of his neck was what looked like a corn cob kill pit. I grabbed Jenny’s arm and ran back to the car, faster than I’d ever run before. It was a good thing Jenny was a small girl, because when we hit that tangled path of vines, I drug her along behind me, even after she tripped and fell several times.

We got into the car, sped off to my house where we called the police and Jenny’s parents. It was several months before Jenny Quarles was able to fully relay the events of that night to anyone. She and Chris Mullins had left the school after the football game, drove to a convenience store where Chris’s brother was a manager and would sell him some beer.

Chris told Jenny he wanted to take her to his house, and then he drove to the old Lockhart house, jokingly telling her it was where he lived. They parked the car, sat on the hood, and drank a couple of beers under the moonlight. After they made out for a while, Chris suggested they walk up to the house.

Well, Jenny didn’t think that was such a good idea, so Chris made a bet with her. Jenny had to agree that she would go up to the house if Chris could hit that old scarecrow with all four of their empty beer bottles. Even in the darkness, Chris proved to be quite the athlete as each bottle landed squarely on target, the last one almost taking off the old scarecrow’s head.

Jenny reluctantly went up to the dark old house with Chris, and after they got up under the trees, Chris began trying to scare her by pretending to run into the old weedy cornfield and then running back out. At one point, he didn’t come back out. Jenny thought he might have snuck back to the car just to spook her.

She wandered her way back to the car through the maze of the thicket, and not finding Chris, she sat on the hood of the car and drank another beer. When the light of the train cut through the blackness, she once again made her way to the side of the house, and it was at that point she found Chris Mullins hanging from a tree. On Halloween night, few people let their kids go out trick-or-treating that year.

No one was in a Halloween party mood. Everyone was terrified there was a murderer on the loose, so people stayed home and locked their doors. It was the first time in 18 years I’d seen my parents turn the locks on their own doors.

Around nine o’clock Halloween night, one of my friends called to tell me that several guys from the football team had plans to drive to the old Lockhart house around midnight and burn it down. So, a little bit after twelve, I drove down the gravel road, and I could see the sky glowing orange far in front of me. I crossed the railroad tracks, and I could smell the smoke.

I could see the flames flickering high into the sky. I passed by the shack houses and the rusty trailers, and I could see the old wood Lockhart house was fully engulfed in flames. There were no cars and people to be seen anywhere around.

And to my surprise, there, silhouetted against the bright orange light of the fire, hung that old scarecrow, kilt around its waist, arms stretched out, and head held high.

-THE END-

Story Credits

Written, produced and recorded by Rick Baldwin

Additional production: Henry Howard