The "Haunted" Legends of Vigo County
Legends are stories which are passed from generation to generation. They cannot be verified; they cannot be documented. Yet they remain popular and are as much a part of the county's history as that which is documented.
The legends of this exhibit are some of the best known in Vigo County.
If you know of other legends, the Historical Society would like to hear of them.
Stiffy Green
My friends and I had always heard about this bulldog sitting in a tomb in Highland Lawn Cemetery. His name was Stiffy Green. He had been the family dog, one that really loved his master. He would always be on the front porch, just outside the door, waiting for his master to come home form work. One day his master died and the bulldog began to grieve. He kept running away and the family always found him sitting outside the door of the tomb, guarding it, and waiting for his master. Eventually the family found Stiffy lying, dead, in front of the door to the tomb. They decided to have Stiffy stuffed and placed inside the tomb, next to the master that he had loved so much. Now, if you go out there at night and shine a light in the door of the tomb, Stiffy opens his cold green eyes and glares at you because he is still guarding his master's tomb.
Stiffy stayed in the Heinl Tomb until 1983. Unfortunately vandals began damaging the tomb, including wrecking the bronze doors and shooting at the dog. The Heinl family decided to have Stiffy removed. Realizing how popular the legend of Stiffy Green was in Vigo County, Heinl family descendants agreed to give the dog to the Historical Society as the centerpiece of the "Haunted Legends" display.
The Mausoleum Phone
Martin Sheets was a man who lived a long time ago, when we did not know quite as much about knowing whether a person was really dead or not. Martin Sheets was not so much afraid of death as he was afraid someone thinking he was dead. He was afraid of being buried alive.
This became an obsession. He imagined he could hear the doctor saying "I'm sorry" as he pulled the sheet over Martin's head. He imagined he could feel himself lying in his coffin as the screws of the lid were slowly turned tight. He also imagined he could hear the sound of dirt thudding on the lid of his coffin; the last sound he would ever hear.
Martin Sheets became so obsessed he decided to make sure it would never happen. First he had a special coffin built, one that had interior latches that could be unlocked from inside. He had a massive mausoleum built for his coffin, so dirt would never be thrown on his lid. And to make sure he could get out of his tomb, he paid the telephone company a lot of money to install and maintain a phone inside the tomb. His burial instructions even provided for food to be left in the tomb on his burial day. Then if he was buried alive, all he had to do was snap the special release latches, call someone to get him out, and enjoy a snack while he waited.
Martin Sheets did die and was buried, according to his instructions, in his mausoleum. The phone company operators were a little nervous at first, waiting for Martin to ring. But he never did.
Many years later Martin's wife died. She was found lying on her bed with the phone gripped so tightly in her hand that the attendants had a hard time removing it from her hands. The funeral people went to the tomb to prepare it for her burial. Inside it was exactly as it had been left after Martin Sheet's funeral, the last time it was opened. Except for one thing -- the phone was off the hook.
The Preston House
The massive stone house was built by George Dewees, a very rich man who had moved to Terre Haute from New Orleans. When he built the house in 1824 it was way out in the country and for people to visit they had to make a special effort.
George Dewees was a nasty man with a violent temper. He did not like people visiting him and made sure people knew it. His wife, Matilda, was different; she liked people and wanted friends. George was possessive and felt his wife should only be interested in his welfare. Matilda finally could not take it anymore and filed for divorce, something that just was not done in the early 1800's. But when it came time for the decree to become final, Matilda disappeared. George Dewees would not say where she had gone.
Stories began that George had murdered his wife and walled her up in a space to the side of the huge fireplace, but no one knew how to prove it. A few years later George Dewees died and another family moved into the home. They could tell that the side of the fireplace where Matilda was buried was different, but they did not want to rip up the walls just because of some old stories. The stories remained unproven. Then people began to swear that Matilda's ghost was still in the old home. Cold spots could be found near the fireplace and unearthly blue lights seeped through the closed and shuttered windows. It was Matilda, lost and alone, in a house where she never knew love.
After Major Dewees' death the home was also supposed to have been a resting stop on the Underground Railroad. Fugitive slaves would hide in an old tunnel that led off the basement. But one part of the tunnel collapsed trapping the slaves. They could not be rescued and they died there in that cold underground tunnel. Some swear on a warm summer night you can still hear spirituals, those songs sung of freedom and better days to be, coming faintly from the ground.
The Preston House, after several fires and years of neglect, collapsed in late 1987 and had to be torn down. Unfortunately the room where the fireplace was located was the portion that collapsed. The structure was too unsafe for a through search, but no body was seen as the home was demolished. There was also no evidence of a tunnel. Much of the stone of the Preston House, and some of the woodwork, was taken to be used in the grist mill at Pioneer Village in Fowler Park. Whether the legend of Matilda follows the stones remains for the future to say.
The Faceless Nun
Can a portrait capture the spirit of a person? It may be true. There is a story of a nun at St. Mary of the Woods College, an artist who was supposed to have been trapped by her own skills.
She was an excellent painter and very proud of her talent. Perhaps too proud. Her talent was for portraits. She was so good that people always exclaimed "Why that really is me!" when they saw the finished painting. She had only one rule for herself. She would paint the clothes, the background, the detail of everything in the painting, taking days and weeks, stopping for other duties, to finish those details. But she would never paint anything where the face should be. That was always left blank. She insisted that the face must be painted last and that, since it was the most important part, she would not quit painting until the face was finished. It was the most important part of her paintings. When she began painting she would give up everything else, even her duties, and spend hours, sometimes even days, just working on the face.
One day she decided to do her own portrait. After all, anyone with as much talent as she, should have some visual record of her appearance. She began in her usual manner, painting in all of the details, but leaving the face blank. At last the day arrived to begin painting on her own face. But she began to feel ill. She was rushed to the infirmary, but no one could find anything wrong. She died there her portrait unfinished.
Not long after her death another Sister, praying in the chapel, heard sobbing coming from the room where the nun's paintings, including the unfinished portrait were stored. Curious, the Sister went into the room and saw the back of a sobbing nun who was standing in front of the unfinished portrait.
Wanting to be of comfort, the Sister went up to the crying nun and asked to help. The nun turned and raised her head. There was nothing where the face should have been.
The Headless Trainman
South of Terre Haute there is a stretch of a railroad line that is haunted by a headless trainman. The railroad runs north and south. One night there was a freight train that was highballing its way south on its way to Evansville. One of the rails was too loose for the speed of the train. The speeding train hit that rail, flew off the track and crashed. The crash killed the conductor and the brakeman. The conductor's body was found in one piece, but the brakeman's body was found missing its head. And even though they cleaned up the wreckage, piece by piece, and searched all around the area, the trainman's head was never found. Now if you walk near that track at night you sometimes see someone walking south on the track. He is holding a softly glowing railroad lantern and the light first swings to one side of the track and then to the other. They say it is the ghost of that trainman - still searching for his missing head.
The Face in the Wall
Kids have always liked to drive fast so that they can impress their friends. But there was a kid that drove fast on Fruitridge road who impressed his friends in a different way.
Fruitridge is a straight road that is also hilly. It was a favorite spot for drag racing before so many houses were built near it. At one spot, just beyond Hulman Street, the road rises quickly. It is bordered on the east by a rock wall and by trees on the west, so a drag race was a little dangerous. But danger made up half of the fun of the race so the kids still did it.
One night two boys challenged each other to a race. Both had new, fast cars and both were sure their car was the fastest. The only way to find out was to drag.
On that night both car engines revved as they inched up to the starting line. Friends bet who would win; then a great cheer rose as the two cars raced forward into the night. Neck and neck they raced; first one car gaining the advantage, then the other. Small flames jetted from the exhaust pipes and ribbons of smoke curled from tires spinning on the pavement.
Faster and faster they flew along that narrow ribbon of road. And then it happened. Just as they passed Hulman, one of the cars blew a tire. The car spun out of control and crashed. The boy driving was thrown through the windshield and smashed head-first into the unyielding rock on the east side. He died instantly.
But not all of him died. For many, many years (some even say now) as you drive by at night, you could see his face staring out of that rock that killed him.
This exhibit was constructed as a gift from the Terre Haute Lioness Club to the Vigo County Historical Society.
Special thanks are extended to the following people:
Robert Furnas
Kathy Brentlinger
Gwen Buchanan
Suzanne J. E. Tourtillott
November 19, 1989