My Haunted House – A True Story…

It’s been decades now, but every Halloween I think about my parents’ restaurant. Situated in an original antebellum home on Stage Road – in the middle of nowhere – Virginia. Boy was she a majestic place. I will never forget the first time I set eyes on her. The gingerbread trim, the bright red brick exterior – she was as beautiful as she was haunted.

Yes, you heard it right – haunted. Traditional white pillars supported the upstairs overlook. Trimmed for Christmas the ol’ house never looked better. Dating back to the 1800s, with old rooted trees, lush lawns, and white picket fences – a vision of Christmas. A wreath at each window, framed in twinkling white lights – t’was a magical scene. Our new family home in the snow. So far away from all we knew. My folks were so ready to start their new lives back East.

Back then we knew nothing about the home not even a fraction of its history. Just that she was a registered haunted house. But thanks to the Internet and the new owner’s book – now I can share some of the photos and information I’ve recently uncovered.

THE HISTORY

In 1835, Dr. Nickerson Snead and his wife Betsy Scott-Beatie-Sneed built their dream home on Stage Road, then Old Stage Road, The Great Road, or The Great Wagon Road, now just Route 11 / Lee Highway. With soft rolling hills and an easy trail – the Sneads felt this was the spot. Many people did. This particular road was traversed for ages – long before the Snead Family ever set foot on this land.

The Native Americans in the area called it The Great Warrior Path. Using the area as a trade route in times of peace and a traveling route in times of war. The tribes called it – Passawatami – meaning “This is The Place.” In fact – it was the place for their Fall Festival – or as we celebrate it now – Halloween, Dia de Los Muertos, and the Equinox – how apropos as I pen this tale. I still recall the gentle slope down to the road and the forest on the fringe.

The two-story brick masterpiece itself was built on top of the original log cabin, established in the 1700’s by Francis Kincannon. That land has seen hundreds of years of history. The original two-room cabin served as a Fort – known as Fort Kincannon during the French and Indian War (1754-1763) and Revolutionary War (1775-1783). When I read this my jaw dropped. My family’s history is intertwined with a house that was built before our country was founded. Furthermore, during the Civil War. Dr. Snead’s home served as a field hospital; on account of the 1st and 2nd Battle of Saltville that occurred just 8 miles away in 1864. The cellar doubled as the morgue for a spell. The less fortunate were stored down there until the earth thawed enough to bury the dead. Coincidentally, just down the road is the Old Glade Springs Cemetery where many a solider and the homeowners, Dr. and Mrs. Snead reside to this day.

The home is said to be haunted by various spirits. Young children presumed to be Josephine and Douglas Mason both died young in the home. Josephine from an onslaught of disease and Douglas from a kick to the head by a horse, where the little boy died on the back steps waiting for the doctor to arrive. There are two devious little pranksters in the old log rooms, suspected to be two of the 11 slaves who were part of the estate. But the most famous of them all is Betsy Scott herself, known as the Woman in Blue who is said to walk the corridors and purposely ignore the patrons of the Bed & Breakfast / Restaurant and walk away if ever addressed. It became a problem. The complaints were consistent and the real hostess always apologized and explained no one by that description worked there. Can you imagine if Yelp existed back then? Or maybe it’s Mrs. Mason, who bought the home from the Sneads and upon her death requested her wake to be held in the salon; and so it was. She’s been said to be seen looking into her own coffin from time to time while dinner is served.

So here I am, drinking in the history of this house and looking back at my own time there and some odd coincidences started to line up.

The first was very distinct as it was a well-heated argument between a mother and her teenage daughter… over a video tape recorder – the battery to be exact. My mom called me furious that I hadn’t charged the battery for the tape recorder before their trip. I did. The whole thing was working just fine. Mom took a little video of the first floor but the machine stopped working as soon as they headed down into the basement – aka the original log cabin. The tape is long lost now, but I still recall the video of my mom descending into the basement, a ‘Watch Your Head’ sign the last thing the tape caught. By the time she got downstairs, the camera was dead. She would try again, of course, recharging the battery and it would just drain.

This modern technology was frosting her cookies and me being on the opposite coast – I was little help to her. Frustrated they purchased new batteries and chargers hoping to catch enough video. Sadly, none of the batteries ever held a charge while in the home.

When I came out to visit for the first time, it was Christmas break. After a bounce on a puddle jumper and the longest drive from the airport ever, I saw my first snowfall and driving up the driveway – the most enchanting home I’ve ever called home, if only for a spell. It twinkled in the snow light and wow – are looks deceiving.

Yes it was an ancient residence, and yes, it was made of stone. But man was that place cold. Always cold, even if every fireplace in the joint was blazing. In particular, the Long Room on the second floor which was my dad’s office. That place never got warm. I mean, you could see your breath in there.

Looking back I have to laugh – we Californias had no idea what we were in for, so there we sat with our mittens. I’m grateful for that memory because I can still hear my dad’s laugh when his tea from the prior morning was frozen solid in the cup.

The next memorable space was the Red Room. Situated on the 2nd floor at the heart of the home; it had its own entrance while still connected to the main house – making it the perfect living quarters while the bustling restaurant downstairs filled the various salons and hallways.

Because of its separate entrance, the Red Room was most likely the doctor’s office and perhaps the operating area; making the little house on the lawn a field office, nurse’s station, or the Post Office as Dr. Snead was the Postmaster for three years. When I came across a photo of the home today, it was of the Red Room and the exact corner and door that I entered years ago. The empty corner of the photo was replaced in my memory with our Christmas Tree and the hollow room filled with the people I love. It’s funny, looking back, the first time I saw this home it was an enchanting Christmas fairytale and when I see it now it is a Halloween House of Horrors. Strange how life works out – isn’t it?

I remember my cat sitting on the huge window sill of the Red Room looking out at the white barn next door; two brown horses neighing on the snow-patched grass. I remember the Christmas lights dancing off the ice on the glass. I remember how tense and terrified my cat was but it didn’t occur to me as to why. I remember seeing the cemetery from the second-floor window and the fog that clung to each gravestone. At the time I didn’t know the former residences now resided there – but I’ll never forget that view.

I stumbled upon a story and the hairs on my neck rose. Patrons of the restaurant complained about this rude lady dressed in blue, who would blatantly ignore them when addressed. It reminded me of a conversation with my father; who was having trouble finding a polite hostess because they were constantly being complained about and in a small town he was running out of options. When I read the accounts on this site, well I just got chills again typing this. Perhaps the complicated employee was the legendary Blue Lady herself, Betsy – the original heiress.

I remember the beautiful dining rooms in the salons and the breathtaking views from each window. The light hitting the porch as the snow glittered around us. I remember sledding down the soft bank out back on huge waiter trays. I remember sitting on the upstairs covered porch and watching the snow fall through the tiny window panes. Out back, if little Douglas haunted that spot, he was quiet that night. I remember the Christmas breakfast by the fireplace, the hot cocoa, the gift-giving, the love, and the ghost hunting…

But what really gets me is the Christmas Eve I spent in that old haunt. Booked with a full house we spent the day prepping for dinner service. The sun was shining it was a beauitufl day – till it wasn’t. The sky turned gray and the radio buzzed about a pending blizzard. It cleared out joint; leaving all but me, my folks, and good ole’ Billy. Billy came with the building. Knew that place inside and out. He’d become my dad’s right hand man. Sous Chef, waiter, maitre’d. When we met, it didn’t phaze me that we didn’t shake hands. But now – I am suspect.

The owners simply kept him on, so my Dad did too. He was fairly young, rather handsome, and popped up everywhere. He was the house’s go-to man. The day we met, he was awkward and hardly kept your stare; a goofy smile, but kind, helpful and full of energy. With the whole place to ourselves and nothing to do – Billy took us on a ghost hunt. We started on the first floor. Going from salon to salon, these tiny little rooms now the dinning areas. We headed up the stairs, they creaked with every step. Wandering room to room, freezing cold, heart pounding you could feel eyes on us – but nothing manifested. Just the cold crawling up your leg. We even ventured up into the attic but I didn’t stay long, the lightbulb hanging by a thread from the ceiling barely cast a glow. I could feel the vastness in the darkness – the entire house sprawling before us, sheets covering old furnishing, broken beds, chairs and you know what – I don’t know what else because I was shivering, scared to death, and over the sheer darkness all around me.

I headed downstairs into the old kitchen. With wooden shelves and metal mugs hanging from the hearth of an unlit fire. About five feet over from that was the hatch that went to the basement. When I realized where I was I was paralyzed with fear. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, I just started at that hatch, recalling the video Mom sent as she walked down there. My heart was racing, and my breath swirling around me. Finally, Billy showed up and broke my trance. Together we headed outside.

Out front was a tiny brick house, the field office for wounded soldiers taking the Great Warrior Path back from their battle at Saltville. Wounded. Busted up. Dead. They all made it through that tiny brick house out front. The door swollen with years of weather – Billy managed to wrestle it open. It took some effort – we stepped into the room, dirt floor, one window. Small, crammped, it felt loud and I didn’t want to stay there anymore.

Looking back, I’d never felt this sort of cold – not really accustomed to snow. I was wrapped in layers of clothes, scarves, jacket, and mittens; while Billy wore just a sweater. I was shivering and he was giggling. My breath turned into ice before my eyes and his… his breath – come to think of it – didn’t make ice crystals.

SLAM!

The door to the little office slammed shut like it was light as a feather. I screamed like I’ve never screamed before, terrified. Billy was quick on his feet and managed to get the door open quickly, as my dad ran down from the house through the snow.

All these years I assumed it was my dad who slammed the door closed, playing a trick on us – but now I’m not so sure. I will always remember that magical Christmas Eve night fondly. I thought we didn’t find any evidence of a ghost – but maybe – just maybe we were hosted by one.

After all, many a wayward soldier met his untimely end in that old house… and I bet they miss the company.

* * *

That mansion has seen a lot in 183+ years and I’m grateful that for the time it was ours as it was pure magic. I take solace in knowing two immigrants striving for the American dream lived in a historic home with roots so deep they precede our nation’s birth. We danced in those hallways. Laughed in those rooms. Cozied up by those fireplaces. Us and 183+ years of souls. I would be lying if that moment in time didn’t shape the woman I am today – and the foundation as to why I became a Realtor. A house is a home, a home to all that love there.

Thank you for taking the time to read my tale I only dare think about during Spooky Season.

Bibliography

The following amazing sites are where I gathered the information and photos for this article.

Caudill, Rhonda, L. The History & The Hauntings of The Nickerson Sneed House: Rhonda L. Caudill, 2017. Print.

Photos from: https://www.facebook.com/149408365269387/photos/pb.149408365269387.-2207520000.1447724941./156738294536394/?type=3&theater

https://thenickersonsneadhouse.wordpress.com

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FvSuqdYE3RQ

http://www.marionvaparanormal.com/nshm.html

http://www.ramblingroots.com/RYB-p/e932.htm

http://www.ramblingroots.com/RYB-p/p2756.htm

http://www.ramblingroots.com/RYB-p/p2660.htm

http://www.ramblingroots.com/RYB-p/p6828.htm

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