The Sad Disappearance of Ottie Cline Powell


November 9, 1891 dawned dreary and cold, with a promise of rain. Dark clouds gathered over the community of Dancing Creek in Amherst County, Virginia. The children of Rev. Ed and Emma Belle Powell set out for school, including the youngest, Ottie Cline. Ottie, who was a few days away from his 5th birthday, said good-bye to his mom then stopped where his father was husking corn and asked if he might skip school that day and stay with his father. Being a responsible parent, Reverend Powell told Ottie he should go on to school. It would be the last time her ever saw Ottie alive.

Miss Nannie Gilbert, the teacher in the one -room log school house then known as Bluff Mountain, was running short on kindling. A three- inch snow and ensuing cold snap the week before had depleted her sources. At recess that day, she instructed her students to each bring back one arm load of wood to use in the school’s wood stove. The girls took their five-minute recess first. After they returned, the boys set out. Young Ottie trailed behind, struggling to gather wood behind the older boys. The path the boys took behind the school lead through a dense forest of chestnut, oak, and pine. By the time Ottie has gathered his wood, the older boys had returned to the school. Little Ottie set out alone, thinking he was following the boys back to the school. Unfortunately, he had gone the wrong way.

About 20 minutes passed before Miss Nannie Gilbert realized Ottie had not returned. In those days, it was the job of older students to watch over the younger. She had assumed he returned with the older boys. When she realized he was missing, all the children set out to find him.

When they could not find Ottie, they were sent to gather parents and neighbors to help search. In spite of their efforts, Ottie could not be found.  An evening rain began to fall. An ice storm was brewing over the community of Dancing Creek.  Searchers found the place where Ottie had dropped his load of kindling, but still could not find the little boy. As they searched and called, a Mr. Henry Wood set his dog out on Ottie’s trail. The dog and Ottie were fond of one another and the dog set out readily after the little boy’s scent. The dog headed up the ridge and was gone for a very long time. (Mr. Wood wondered later if the dog had not actually gone to the little boy.) Around 10 pm that night, the search ended.

Newspapers all over the area carried stories of the little boy’s disappearance. Around 1500 volunteers came to help in the search. They walked in circles surrounding the school in an area that got wider and wider. Still. Ottie was never found. No one searched the old Indian trails leading up Bluff Mountain. The trail was so steep, it was thought no child could ever climb that high.

Reverend Powell hired a detective. After two weeks, the detective returned, saying he could find no trace of Ottie. Undaunted, Reverend Powell offered a reward for his son to be returned alive. Throughout that long snowy winter, Reverend Powell never gave up hope of his son’s return.

On April 3, 1892, a party of hunters on Bluff Mountain followed their barking dog along an old trail through the forest. They found the dog beside the body of a young boy. They knew immediately that they had found Ottie Cline Powell. He lay curled as if asleep, still wearing his brown hat. His pants were full of holes, torn by the briars and brambles as the little boy struggled along the trail trying to return to school. His feet were missing, evidently taken by wild animals.

Two hunters set off down the mountain with the news, while the others remained behind with the body. The Reverend stopped his sermon as the hunters entered the church house that day, informing him that his boy had been found. Reverend Powell threw up his arms and began thanking and praising God for answering his prayers that his boy be found.

Ottie was brought down the mountain at last. It was determined, after examining the contents of Ottie,s stomach (three chestnuts, undigested, eaten at recess that day) that Ottie had died that first evening of his disappearance. He had collapsed from exhaustion and fallen asleep beneath a large tree as the rain began, and had never awakened. At long last, Little Ottie was laid to rest in a local cemetery.

Emma Belle Powell became depressed at the loss of her youngest child. He grief began to threaten her health, so her husband had Ottie’s casket exhumed and reburied near their home. He thought that, since Emma Belle could now look out the window and see Ottie’s grave, she might find comfort. However, she only became worse.

Finally, the family moved to a new home near an intersection where Reverend Powell opened up a general store. Emma Belle never recovered, and eventually succumbed to her grief in 1897. She never got over losing her Ottie.

In 1925, a teacher from Buena Vista, J.B. Huffman interviewed Ottie’s family members and older members of the community in order to write a book about Ottie’s death. He was so touched by the tale that he built a wooden cross form, filled it with concrete and , when it was set, hauled it up Bluff Mountain to the site of Ottie’s death. Here it remained for 43 years.

As more travelers and tourists began to visit the Blue Ridge Parkway and Appalachian Trail, a new interest was generated in Ottie’s story. In 1968, Huffman used the proceeds from the sales of his book to purchase a new memorial for Ottie. This monument still stands today. There are a couple of errors on the plaque, however. It reads:







For many years, hikers on Bluff Mountain have told tales of encountering the ghost of Ottie Cline Powell. A Journal at nearby Punchbowl Shelter holds many tales of a “brat” child ghost that poked them with sticks in their sleep.

One 2009 hiker left a tale of his encounter with Ottie. The hiker heard crying around 10 pm, but assumed it was a wild animal. Later, he was awaked by a loud thunderstorm. In two consecutive flashes of lightning, he saw a young boy crouched in the corner of the shelter. When he grabbed his flashlight and shined it in the corner, the boy was gone.  The next day, he found all his clothes removed from his backpack and folded into neat little squares. On top of the clothes was a small pile of chestnuts.

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Smoky Mountain Ghosts Part 1


I’ve been doing some research on ghosts of the great Smoky Mountains National Park. I know there are some so-called “haunted tours” in the surrounding towns. I’ve made it pretty plain in earlier posts where I stand on these. However, as old and mysterious as these mountains are, you just know there have to be some great hauntings here.

I’ve been coming here all my life. These mountains are like a second home (although I’m not lost on the fact that thousands of people lost their very homes in order to make this place possible). These mountains are old… they exist in a space and time all their own. They have an unsurpassed beauty that defies mere words. I have no patience for the mindless morons who never venture outside the towns of Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge and yet insist they have visited the smokies. Indeed, they have not. They may have seen them in the distance, but that is all.

If someone tells you they have been to Gatlinburg, but then say they don’t know anything about Roaring Fork Motor Nature Trail..well, dear, they haven’t been to the Smokies. Speaking of Roaring Fork…I’ve been reading up on a ghost here named Lucy. Supposedly, she died in a fire around 1909. They say she tries to get a ride with unsuspecting visitors. She is barefoot and gives off an unusual warmth.

Ther road through Roaring Fork where Lucy is said to ask for rides from usnsupecting tavelers.
Scene near the mill on Roaring Fork

I hear there is a little girl ghost on Mt LeConte that is seen standing at the foot of visitor’s beds at exactly 3:33am. Why 3:33? I’ve read that 3:15 is the most powerful time of night- the time when the veil betewen our world and the spirit world is thinnest. But 3:33? Maybe this is the time she died?

What about Cades Cove? I love to come here on “off” days of “off” seasons- otherwise it is so crowded one can scarcely breathe, much less get a feel and appreciation for the place. I want to camp here, but the waiting list is long, and I’m the spontaneous sort on those matters…I’ve read about a man named Basil Estep that was struck by lightning in his own bed at night. This wasn’t a freak accident- it was the revenge of his former wife’s ghost. You see, she was born during a thunderstorm and feared both storms and sleeping in iron beds. When Basil remarried, the wife’s ghost couldn’t bear him sleeping with the new wife under one of her quilts- and on an iron bed at that! So when poor Basil met his end in such a way, well, it was thought to be fitting I suppose.

There are some interesting paranormal photos taken in Cades Code that are circulating on the internet. Whether or not they ar authentic, I can’t say. I take these things with a healthy dose of speculation. I’d love to hear more about the hauntings of Cades Cove, if anyone has some stories they’d like to share.

Church in Cataloochee

If Cataloochee isn’t haunted, well, I’d be greatly disappointed. The very road from Cosby to Cataloochee takes you back at least 150 years. Honestly…you’re rolling along on a narrow road seeing nothing but mountains and forests for, oh, about 28 miles or so..This is an awesome way to let your kids see the wonder and beauty of this place. (Just be sure they potty before you leave and pack snacks…) I can just imagine traveling this road at night. No telling who (or what) you might meet.

The road through Cataloochee

I remember walking a few miles out to a beautiful white church in Little Catalochee once. We passed old home places, crossed some creeks, saw a few old apple trees here and there- reminders of the pioneers that once called this place home.Being me, I had to wonder if any spirits remain. In the dead of night does a lone horseman walk soundlessly down this old road? Do children from another time play in the creek?

The road to Cataloochee helps emphasize to the casual visitor how remote the mountains actually are. Their rugged isolation is what preserved so much of the culture here long after it was obliterated in the rest of the country. The people who settled here brought their beliefs and practices from their homelands- Scotland, Ireland, Germany, and these were mingled with the Cherokee who had been here for years before the white man. The Cherokee revered these mountains as a magical place. Their legends of the Little People and the spirits that roamed these mountains were here before the first white man ventured here.

hillside cemetery in Cataloochee

I hope to gather stories from this area- both of the public paces (like Lydia of the Greenbrier Restaurant) and personal stories. Have you ever experienced anything you can’t explain while you were visiting the Smokies?

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The Curse of Lorenzo Dow

The curse of an angry minister lead to the demsise of an entire town- and became one of Georgia’s most famous stories.

Jacksonborough (later renamed Jacksonboro), Georiga replaced the town of Rocky Ford as the seat of Screven County in 1797 when Solomon and Mary Gross donated 50 acres of their property for the cause. Named for the Governor of Georgia, General James Jackson, Jacksonboro was a rough town with a terrible reputaton. Saloons outnumbered all other businesses combined. Fighting and drinking were the local pasttime. In 1849, George White wrote in Statistics of the State of Georgia that,  “in the mornings after drunken frolics and fights you could see the local children picking up eyeballs in tea saucers”. In other words, Jacksonboro needed redemption.

Enter Lorenzo Dow (Oct. 16, 1777-Feb. 2 ,1834), also known as “Crazy Dow”. Originally from Connecticut, the odd little man with long hair and hunched back was a traveling Methodist Minister of the fire and brimstone persuasion. As further evidence of his strangeness, it can be noted that Dow had buried his first wife, Peggy, not in a coffin, but standing straight up in the grave wrapped in layers of woolen cloth. He felt this would help her get to heaven faster. (Her epitaph reads, “Peggy Dow: Shared Vissitudes of Lorenzo”.) Lorenzo Dow was known for preaching against the evils of slavery and drunkenness. Jacksonboro had it’s share of both.

Upon his entrace to the wild town of Jacksonboro (in 1820 or 1821, depending on the source), Dow passed out handbills announcing his preaching that night at the local Methodist church. The handbills were passed around in the bars and saloons, whose barkeeps and patrons were not impressed. They began making plans…

While Dow made ready for his evening preaching at the home of fellow Methodist and Mason Seaborn Goodall, the town ruffians made ready for Dow. The ringing of the church bell called the good citizens  of Jacksonboro (few that there were) to the meeting. It also signalled to the hooligans that the time was right.

As Dow preached his sermon, a rowdy crowd gathered outside and began yelling, throwing rocks and bricks through the chuch windows, and shooting pistols into the air. After his sermon, an angry Dow followed the crowd into a local saloon where he grabbed an iron tool and split open a barrel of whisky. The crowd stared at the amber liquid quickly covering the floor, then immediately began to beat the daylights out of Dow. Luckily, Seaborn Goodall entered the saloon, seized Dow, and took him quickly to the safety of his home.

The next morning, Lorenzo Dow left the town of Jacksonboro crying.”Repent, Brethren, Repent!” at the top of his lungs. An incensed crowd threw tomatoes and rotten eggs at the preacher, who according to some sources, broke open another barrel of whisky. When he reached the bridge at Beaver Dam Creek, Dow removed his shoes and shook the dust of Jacksonboro off his feet. He then placed a curse upon the town, claiming that God would surely bring his vengeance upon the place the same as He had done for Sodom and Gommorah. The crowd laughed in his face.

A short time later, however, the good citizens of Jacksonboro realized that Lorenzo Dow’s curse was no joke. Windstorms came up suddenly, blowing roofs off many local buildings. Others were destroyed by mysterious fires. Beaver Dam Creek, always docile, suddenly became prone to flash floods that sept away entire houses. Slowly, the town of Jacksonboro began to disappear, with the exception of one home: that of Seaborn Goodall. Even when General Sherman passed thorough the town on his famous March to the Sea, Seaborn Goodall’s house was spared. It is said that Sherman camped in the home’s front yard.

On October 28, 1949, the last citizen of Jacksonboro, Georgia passed away. “Uncle Richard” Bryant , age 105, had been born into slavery in 1844. He remembers the last white citizens of Jacksonboro giving up and leaving for Sylvania (the new county seat) when he was around three years old. He spent his life in Jacksonboro, and his death brought an end to the curse of Lorenzo Dow. Jacksonboro was gone.

Seaborn Goodall’s home, now known as the Dell-Goodall house, still stands to this very day. It is located off Highway 301 at the intersection of SR24. Even when left in disrepair for years, the house stood intact. It was later restored by the Brier Creek DAR. The house is open for tours on the first Saturday of every month April- November.

Was there really a curse of Lorenzo Dow? He made no mention of the town in his writings. However, historians feel certain that he did visit the town. After 1821, quite a few children born in the area were named Lorenzo. Although some scoff at the story as merely folklore, others point out that many business have tried to establish themselves in the town since the curse, but none have survived. The lone standing structure remains the home of Seaborn Goodall.

Matthew 10 13:15 

13“If the house is worthy, give it your blessing of peace. But if it is not worthy, take back your blessing of peace.14“Whoever does not receive you, nor heed your words, as you go out of that house or that city, shake the dust off your feet. 15“Truly I say to you, it will be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrah in the day of judgment than for that city.

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Old and (almost) Forgotten Cemeteries

I love the following article.  The location is actually very close to my home. I never knew this cemetery existed.

It makes me wonder- how many African-American cemeteries lie neglected and forgotten? I know of two near my home (besides the one listed in this article). Honestly, one is so remote, I have tried to find it again twice and could not.

I shared the article with a friend who is pretty well versed on local history. He had never heard of this cemetery either. I’d love to see it. It definitely needs to be preserved.

I found out a few years ago that the cemetery for my local community here on the  mountain was not the original. The original lies in ruins and weeds across the road in the woods. Nothing has ever been done to preserve it. Considering it lies on private property, I have my doubts that it ever will. Think of the generations of people, long forgotten… their memory erased forever.

I love old cemeteries. I love to explore them , read the stones… learn the stories of those long gone. Here are a few photos of cemeteries I love to visit.

Gate at New Bethel Presbyterian


Price Bridge Cemetery, Chatoogaville, Georgia

I think the Price Bridge Cemetery is one of my all-time favorites. It has suffered a lot of damage through the years, but is none the less beautiful.



Little Sand Mountain cemetery
Headstone from the original (abandoned) cemetery on Little Sand Mountain


The original cemetery on Little Sand Mountain lies abandoned and forgotten in the woods across the road from the church. I truly wish it could be preserved.

Another headstone from the abandoned cemetery on Little Sand Mountain
My Great great grandparents’ headstones, Little Sand Mountain
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