This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/cj_HITWM on 2023-06-26 18:42:53+00:00.
I was already quite familiar with the name A. Jean Starcher before receiving this account. Starcher was a professor and historian at Marshall University, then later the Tri-state Historical Society, and until recently one of the few true academics writing about the history and folklore of the Ohio Valley. I appreciated her thoroughness and insights, her having grown up not far from where I currently reside. Which is why I think the news of her passing in 2020, at the ripe old age of 98, led me a few days later to the front steps of Fletcher & Harris Funeral Home in Huntington, West Virginia.
The venue was packed with people, and my plan was to slip in, pay my respects, and leave unbothered. Of course it’s always then that you find yourself in the exact situation you were hoping to avoid.
“Why Bobby, it’s so good to–oh heavens, you’re not Bobby!” The pale face of the elderly woman who had spun me by the elbow flushed with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, dear, you must be thinkin’ ‘who’s this old fool’,” she tittered, giving my shoulder a playful shove.
I laughed awkwardly in return. “Haha, no, sorry, I’m not Bobby. It’s quite alright though, ma’am.”
“So then, how did you know Rory?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Aurora. How were you two acquainted?”
“Um, I…actually, I’m studying Appalachian folklore, and…”
“Oh, surely not as one of her students? You’re far too young! She hasn’t taught classes in darn near 30 years!”
“Ha no, obviously not. I’ve just read all of her books and papers. She’s helped me more than anyone else, really.”
Her face soured, adding many extra wrinkles. “Even her…later works?”
“Well…yes. Those too.”
She humphed, then leaned in close. “If you ask me,” she whispered, a bit too loudly. “I think her mind may have started going much further back than they say. Some of the things she wrote about…well, you know if you’ve read…”
I shrugged awkwardly. “She was a folklore professor. People believe in lots of things, and she wrote about it. I find it all very fascinating.”
The old gossip was about to continue when another woman, much closer to my own age, came to my rescue. “Hi Catherine, who’s this young man that you’ve ensnared?”
“Good gracious me,” Catherine flushed again, “I never did ask for your real name!”
I told them both, shaking my rescuer’s hand politely. She introduced herself to me as Ellie.
“And did I hear you say that you’ve been reading my great-grandmother’s books?”
“That’s right,” I said, feeling my own face redden. “I study, uh, the folklore of the area. This area.”
“Oh, that’s neat,” she nodded thoughtfully. “Well, obviously I grew up hearing all about it. She was an interesting woman, my grandma. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I do, actually. Her work is quite fascinating.”
“Which parts?”
“Well…all of it, really.”
She smiled, but there was a knowingness in her expression that gave me the feeling I was being studied. I excused myself with a couple of nice-to-meet-yous and sorry-for-your-losses, breathing a sigh of relief when I got back to my car. At least it was over and I paid my respects.
The next day, I woke up to a friend request from Ellie.
“So you’re a ghost hunter,” she messaged.
Dammit.
“Not exactly,” I replied. “I’m not a ‘paranormal researcher’ or ‘cryptozoologist’ either, which is what a lot of ghost and monster hunters like to call themselves. I’m more interested in the storytelling and folklore aspect. Especially the ones you don’t hear about.”
She then let me know that she was sending me something “fascinating”, and asked for my address. At the end of the week, a large manilla envelope arrived containing a dog-eared manuscript and a note from Ellie:
“After my great-grandmother made tenure and had been teaching for quite some time, she began exploring the more…esoteric corners of Appalachian lore. If you’ve read all of her articles and books as you said, you might have noticed that in her later works. But there was so much that she never published. I recently went through decades of her papers, half-finished manuscripts, photos, you name it–because, you know, make the journalism student do it. I’m supposed to enjoy that sort of thing, right? We’d always wondered why she was so fascinated with the stuff–as far as we knew, she hated monster movies and ghost stories, except as a subject of research. Then I came across this. I thought it was just a short piece of fiction that she’d never published. There’s no way this could’ve really happened, right? Either way, it seemed like something that might intrigue you. When you’re done, get back to me. I’ve included my contact information. With appreciation, Elle.”
And so, I read the manuscript. What follows is A. Jean Starcher’s–then Aurora Carmichael’s–account, which I’ve split into three parts:
Part I: The Flood of 1937
Everyone of a certain age has a flood story. I reckon that’s no surprise, given our long cultural affinity for a good deluge tale. It might have something to do with early civilizations springing up in every fertile river valley and delta from the Mississippi to the Mekong. The waters overflowing their banks were seen as a natural part of life in those places, and we became rather good at predicting and adapting to these cycles. We were even able to control them in some cases. But once every generation or two, there would be a great flood that no one predicted, and few could escape. If you grew up within a hundred miles of the mighty Ohio River in the early 20th century, you knew what everyone meant when they spoke about the Flood.
Sure, all of us river folk were used to a little high water just like everyone else. It usually happened during the changeover from winter to spring, when the weather never seemed to make up its mind so it just threw everything it had at you, sometimes all in one day. But that year, 1937, well Mother Nature decided to turn on the taps, then go back to bed until Spring and let the Lord sort it all out.
My family didn’t start to worry until we woke up Sunday morning and the road had washed out. The little wooden bridge had eventually given out, days of rain carving out the creek that ran between my Uncle Henry’s farmhouse and the pastures. He had a telephone and started making some calls, and within an hour we were told to start packing up our things. Not that we had much back then - June and I shared a small, battered suitcase, while Louis and Douggie had only an old feed sack. Meanwhile, Aunt Clara busied herself carrying various bits of furniture and knick-knacks upstairs.
My uncle gathered us in his parlor. He informed us that a rescue boat was on its way to get us. After a long drag of his fragrant pipe, he continued. “I’ll tell y’all the truth, I ain’t never seen it this bad. Wasn’t this high back in ‘13.” Uncle Henry was a man who never worried about much, so his alarm only made my own trepidation that much worse.
“What about Mommy and Daddy? Are they alright?” little Douggie asked.
“They’re fine, dear,” Aunt Clara consoled him. “They’re still up in Marion. The roads are pretty bad up there, on account of the snow.”
“They got snow?” Louis said, looking put-out by the news.
“Durn near a foot-an’-a-half,” Uncle Henry said. He parted the curtains and gazed outside. “And when it melts, it’s gonna make all this that much worse…”
About a half-hour later, we stood waiting on the front porch with our thin coats drawn tight around us, a feeble attempt to ward off the damp chill. Around the little hill between the farm and the river, a white vessel like a large rowboat appeared. The band of cows stranded on the muddy knoll watched it lazily as it burbled past. As it neared, I could see the words “U.S. COAST GUARD” painted on the side. It pulled up slowly to the spot where Uncle Henry guided them to make anchor, and an improvised gangplank was hastily erected. The coastie at the bow took my hand and helped me over the gunwale, smiling at me as he did so. He was strikingly handsome, and I felt my cheeks grow hot despite the cold.
Little June asked my uncle if they were coming with us. “Not right now, Junebug. We’ve got some things to mind before we can leave. But we’ll meet up with all of you later, we promise.”
Uncle Henry spoke with the other (not quite as young and handsome) sailor that was piloting the boat. Then with a push from him and my brother Russell–who nearly lost his boot in the mud–we were gliding away from the farmhouse. We’d received news of the flooding that previous week, first when the river crossed the bridge at Jerry’s Run, where locals joked the road would flood if everyone tossed out their bath water at the same time. But then it covered the old mill and the docks on Mineeto Creek north of Providence. I knew that the mighty Ohio was going to be the highest I’d yet seen in my 15 years. But nothing prepared me for what awaited us on the other side of the hill.
We came out onto Route 7, the main road connecting all of the little towns on this side of the river. Except we couldn’t actually see the road. Nor the fence rows, the fields, the houses that dotted the flat, fertile bottomlands. It was all river, a swift, muddy brown torrent miles wide. Only the tops of trees and the roofs of barns rose from the murk like peculiar islands. I shivered, both from the January air rushing past and from the thought of what might lay drowned beneath us. June and Douggie pressed against me. I draped my blanket around both of the…
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