The old Lick Creek Bridge, also known as Crumley Bridge, has long been a site of eerie fascination for locals and thrill-seekers alike.  Situated along Crumley Road, the original bridge, built in 1925, was said to harbor an unsettling mystery.  If you were to stop your car and listen closely, the air around the bridge would seem to hum with otherworldly sounds, strange whispers, and inexplicable noises that seemed to rise from the dark waters beneath.  These eerie occurrences became part of the bridge’s lore, with many claiming that the sounds were the voices of spirits trapped beneath the bridge, or perhaps something far darker.

Bridgehunter.com notes that the structure was replaced in 2005, and with its demolition, the chilling sounds seemed to have vanished.  Since then, no one has reported hearing the haunting echoes that once filled the air.  The absence of these sounds has only fueled speculation.  Was it the bridge itself that carried the curse, or was something more supernatural at play, tied to the water beneath it?  While the new bridge stands silent and ordinary, the legend of Crumley Bridge and its otherworldly sounds live on, a mystery that continues to captivate the imaginations of those who remember the eerie whispers of the past.

Local legend whispers of a ghostly hermit, a spectral figure who continues to guard the cave he once called home, even from beyond the grave.  But this isn’t just any restless spirit.  There are hints that the ghost may have been more than a mere recluse; he may have once been an important figure within Melungeon mythology, a mysterious and often misunderstood community.

The tale centers around the ghost of Old Man Joe, a cranky and reclusive hermit said to have lived in the cave, often depicted as violent and irritable in his old age.  According to legend, his spirit still haunts the cave, aggressively rushing at trespassers with a chilling cry, "Get out of my cave!"  Locals say his ghost is far from friendly, and the mere sight of him is enough to send shivers down the spine of anyone who dares approach the cave.  

An intriguing twist to this tale comes from an old article in The Greeneville Sun dated July 28, 1956.  The story recounts a local legend that dates back many years, in which an old man ventured into the cave to “fiddle the Devil a tune.”  It was rumored that the cave itself hid rich veins of gold deep inside, but the treasure could only be accessed with the aid of an infernal being.  The hermit, seeking to strike a deal with the Devil himself, was never seen again.

This story has sparked the idea that Old Man Joe’s ghost might be tied to another figure in Melungeon folklore, the enigmatic “Fool Killer.”

The legend of Fool Killer, a fearsome and enigmatic figure, was first popularized in the 1840s and 1850s by political cartoonist and editor Charles Napoleon Bonaparte Evans of The Milton Chronicle in North Carolina.  Evans created a version of Fool Killer named Jesse Holmes, a roving avenger who haunted the Appalachian regions of North Carolina, Virginia, Kentucky, and West Virginia.  With a club that doubled as a walking stick, Holmes would hunt down those he deemed “fools” and punish them with brutal efficiency.  His weapon of choice, a Bowie knife, was used not only for killing but also for marking his victims, carving the words “Fool Killer” into their flesh as a grim signature of his deeds.

Initially, Fool Killer’s targets were Confederate sympathizers and individuals who mistreated enslaved people, but as the country descended into the chaos of the Civil War, the character faded from public view between 1861 and 1870.  When he reappeared in the years following the war, his vendetta turned to the Ku Klux Klan, those who mistreated Black families, and men who abused their wives.  His bloodlust seemed boundless, and his role as an enforcer of justice in an unjust world only grew more pronounced.

However, the origin of Fool Killer’s legend runs even deeper.  Many believe that the character was inspired by a figure within Melungeon culture, a unique and often misunderstood community with ties only to the Appalachian region.  In these tales, Fool Killer was the son of the Devil, known to the Melungeons as “Old Horny.”  Fool Killer’s story begins with a childhood spent under his father’s watchful eye, before he eventually set out to confront him.  Following a trail that led him to a blacksmith shop in eastern Tennessee, Fool Killer, concealing his true identity, ordered a large iron staff, promising to pay with gold, a treasure that Old Horny himself had heard the Melungeons hid in the mountains.  When the staff was finished, Fool Killer turned on his father, beating him “back to Hell.”

After his victory, Fool Killer topped his staff with a gold skull and retreated to a cave, where he would live between his acts of vengeance.  He became a mythic figure, both feared and revered, whose wrath was unleashed on those who dared to cross the Melungeon people.  Fool Killer would strike down anyone searching for the legendary gold caches of the Melungeons, government agents who sought to shut down their secretive gold refineries, and law enforcement officers trying to dismantle the illicit moonshine stills operating during Prohibition.

But Fool Killer’s wrath wasn’t limited to outsiders.  In his subculture, he was said to hold power over men whose wives had strayed.  According to legend, Fool Killer would appear to a man who had just learned of his wife’s infidelity, waving his staff to summon a curse.  Small horns would begin to grow from the man’s head, and the only way to rid himself of the horns was to kill the man his wife had been with.  If the man failed in his quest for vengeance, Fool Killer would punish him further, shooting him, cutting off the horns, and keeping them as trophies in his cave.

As the years passed, Fool Killer’s legend continued to evolve.  During the Great Depression, his wrath turned toward anyone who threatened the insular Melungeon subculture.  Teachers, outsiders, and even radio entertainers who ventured too close to the mountains found themselves in danger.  Fool Killer was no longer just a figure of revenge.  He had become a protector of a way of life, a symbol of justice for the marginalized community.

By the time the legend began to fade, Fool Killer had transformed into a mysterious and intimidating figure, often described as a man dressed in black, carrying guns, knives, and his infamous staff.  He was said to ride a black horse or travel in a horse-drawn carriage, his presence as haunting as the myths that surrounded him.  Though his story has now faded into obscurity, the figure of Fool Killer remains a part of Appalachian folklore, a powerful and enigmatic symbol of justice, revenge, and the defense of subcultural heritage.

The legend of Old Man Joe, the mysterious figure who called a cave his home, is a tale that has shifted and evolved over the years, growing more enigmatic with each retelling.  Some believe the story of Old Man Joe may have originated from an even older legend, that of Ephraim “Eph” Davis, a so-called "wildman" who lived in a cave on the borders of Greene County, Tennessee, and Madison County, North Carolina, as well as Fool Killer.  According to an article in The Greeneville Sun on October 2, 1943, Water Fork, Davis and Jennings Creek Residents, written by D. D. Alexander, Eph’s story had already become legendary by the time the article was published.  Known to locals as the "wildman of Bald Mountains," Eph Davis became a near-mythical figure, his life and home intertwined with the landscape itself.

Eph Davis lived in a cave, later dubbed "Eph's Den," at the head of a creek that would bear his name, Davis Creek.  The cave, situated on the state line and on the trail leading to Round Knob, was a place of solitude.  Eph, described by locals as resembling "Father Time" with long, flowing hair and a thick beard, was rarely seen by anyone, which only fueled the rumors surrounding him.  His appearance, like his way of life, was said to be as wild and untamed as the mountains themselves.

Interestingly, Eph's tale may have also contributed to another, even more intriguing legend, the story of a lost treasure hidden deep in the mountains.  The Greeneville Sun article also recounts the tale of Enoch and Bill Hopkins, blacksmiths from nearby Camp Creek who were accused of counterfeiting silver coins.  According to folklore, the Hopkins brothers discovered an old silver mine in the Bald Mountains.  The mine, they believed, contained rich veins of silver ore, and rumors quickly spread that Enoch had found a hidden treasure deep in the cliffs of the region.

It was said that after Enoch passed away in his 90s, a mysterious treasure was hidden in a cliff near his home, sealed away by a chiseled marking.  Legends grew that if you struck the cliff with a hammer, the sound of silver ringing would echo back, indicating the treasure’s presence.  Buck Moncier, a man obsessed with the tale, reportedly spent his entire life searching for the elusive silver hoard, though it was never found.

The folklore surrounding Eph Davis, the lost silver mine, and Old Man Joe all became intertwined over time.  As the legend of Old Man Joe evolved, elements of Eph’s story, the treasure hunt, and the wild, untamed landscape all fed into the myth.  The idea of a man living in seclusion, guarding secrets buried deep in the land, merged seamlessly with the story of a wild hermit protecting hidden treasure.  Whether the gold veins said to be buried in the depths of Cedar Creek Cave were ever truly there, or if the treasure was simply a figment of a wandering imagination, it became part of the fabric of the region’s lore.

Today, the legend of Old Man Joe lives on, a tale that has blended the real, the imagined, and the supernatural into a captivating story of a wild man, a hidden treasure, and a cave that once held the secrets of both.  As each new generation hears the tale, the line between truth and myth continues to blur, ensuring that Old Man Joe remains an enigmatic figure in local folklore for years to come.

The haunting echoes of pain and suffering from the old Greeneville Hospital seem to linger in the present day, casting an eerie shadow over the now peaceful Dickson-Williams Mansion at 108 North Irish Street.  Once a bustling medical facility, the mansion was originally established as the Greeneville Sanatorium and Hospital by Dr. C.P. Fox.  Later renamed the Greeneville Hospital, it became a place where countless patients endured illness, surgery, and, for many, untimely deaths.

 According to The Dickson-Williams Mansion Greeneville, TN, a book published by the Dickson-Williams Historical Association in 2003, the history of the hospital is steeped in both medical advancements and deep sorrow.

Today, visitors to the mansion, which now operates as a museum, sometimes report chilling paranormal experiences.  The most frequent and unsettling of these phenomena are the faint, ghostly moans and whispers that drift through the hallways, as if the spirits of former patients are still lingering, trapped by their suffering.  Some even claim to feel an overwhelming sense of sadness or unease as they walk through the rooms, with strange cold spots that seem to appear out of nowhere.

The eerie presence of a “lady in white” haunts the E-pod of the detention center, an unsettling figure whose connection to the land stretches back to the dark waters of Richmond Creek that run through the property.  Local lore suggests that her spectral form may also be tied to the nearby Asbury United Methodist Church, adding layers of mystery to an already chilling tale.

This ghostly figure fits into a well-known Appalachian tradition, where spirits of women in white are often seen near waterways, a poignant symbol of lost love and heartbreak.  It’s a common motif across the region, where these ethereal figures are frequently associated with springs, rivers, and creeks, places where sorrowful memories seem to linger and manifest.

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But the sightings of this spectral figure are not the only strange occurrences reported in the E-pod.  The ghostly lady is also blamed for inexplicable happenings, from doors creaking open on their own to the water in the showers inexplicably turning on, an eerie reminder that not all forces at play in this facility are bound by the laws of the living. 

The General Morgan Inn, located at 111 North Main Street in the heart of Greeneville, is a historic landmark steeped in more than just rich history.  It’s also home to three distinct and lively spirits, each with their peculiar quirks and haunting presence.

One of the most well-known apparitions is affectionately referred to as "Green Room Grace."  This mischievous ghost is believed to have been a waitress during the building's days at the Grand Central Hotel.  For nearly a century, Grace has been known to stealthily steal spoons from the kitchen and dining tables in the Green Room, much to the confusion of the staff.  But she isn’t just limited to spoons.  Green Room Grace is infamous for moving objects around the kitchen and, according to reports, even causing paintings to hang crooked in the dead of night.  Those staying or dining in the Green Room often sense her playful presence, whether it’s an object shifting on its own or an inexplicable chill in the air.

But Grace isn't the only restless spirit that calls the General Morgan Inn home.  The hotel's second ghostly resident, "Front Desk Bill," is believed to be a former hotel employee who continues to haunt the check-in desk long after his death.  Guests and staff alike have claimed to see the spectral figure of Bill, still at work behind the desk, as if he's stuck in an eternal loop, welcoming guests to a hotel that no longer requires his services.  His ghostly presence has been witnessed late at night when the inn is quiet.

The third and most prominent ghost is none other than Confederate General John Hunt Morgan, whose portrait graces the walls of the second-floor Presidential Suite.  General Morgan, known for his leadership during the Civil War, is said to still roam the suite, where his commanding presence seems to linger.  Guests sometimes report feeling a sudden, inexplicable heaviness in the air when they enter the room as if Morgan himself is silently watching them.  His spirit appears to be deeply connected to the suite, with some even claiming to hear faint footsteps or the rustle of clothing when no one else is around.

The General Morgan Inn, with its rich history and its playful, yet haunting, inhabitants, offers a blend of the past and the supernatural.

The railroad bridge on Morgan Road, just before Old Stage Road in Greeneville, carries with it a dark history, steeped in folklore that has captivated locals and visitors alike.  According to legend, this bridge was once a grim site where countless black individuals met their tragic end, victims of brutal lynching during the era of Jim Crow segregation.  Folklore claims that the moans of the dying still echo from the culvert beneath and that anyone who dares walk through the area is followed by phantom footsteps, as if the spirits of the past are still lingering, seeking justice for their untold suffering.

However, the origins of these stories are less rooted in the horrors of the past than they might first appear.  The chilling ghost tales associated with this bridge are a creation of local high school prankster Michael Doty and his friends, who, in the late 1960s, sought to impress young women with a carefully crafted myth.  According to Doty, the legend began not as a tragic account of racial violence, but as an inventive ghost story designed to spook and thrill.

Interestingly, these types of "hanging bridge" stories are not unique to Greeneville.  Throughout the southern Appalachian foothills, older bridges, particularly railroad trestles, have been linked to the tragic history of lynching.  These locations have become intertwined with stories of ghostly apparitions, often involving black victims, with tales of murder and vengeance filling the night air.  

The Greene County Bridge, constructed in 1921, lies just in front of the railroad arch on Hartman Road.  Its ghostly legends are notably more complex.  Initially, the tale connected the bridge to Confederate soldiers, allegedly ambushed and slain by Union forces during the Civil War.  On certain nights, according to the original myth, gunshots and screams could be heard echoing from the bridge.  However, this tale took a dramatic turn when Michael Doty and his friends, in a spirited high school prank, decided to reframe the story for their amusement.  Using dummies and carefully planned tricks, they orchestrated a spooked-out version of events for unsuspecting teenagers, creating the illusion of a supernatural encounter.

As Doty himself later revealed, the story gradually morphed into the ghostly legend of black individuals being hanged from the arch of the bridge, and these details ultimately migrated to the Morgan Culvert in Greeneville, where the haunting stories remain alive to this day.  What started as a mischievous high school stunt eventually wove itself into the fabric of local folklore, evolving and adapting over time to become a tragic narrative that resonates with the deep-rooted pain of the area's history, even if its true origins were far less sinister than the stories suggest.

Lynching is a brutal, extrajudicial act carried out by angry mobs, often without any legal process, while criminal executions by hanging are formal, state-sanctioned punishments following a legal trial and conviction.  While Greene County has no historical record of lynchings, aside from the notorious executions of bridge burners during the Civil War, there are instances in the county’s past where the hanging deaths of a few Black men have been mistakenly labeled as lynchings, clouding the line between mob justice and lawful execution.

Documentation of one of the first executions of a black man in Greene County that still survives to this day is an article in the Nashville Union and American October 28, 1852 edition.  In it, Judge Marchbank ordered Archibald Brown on Friday, November 19 of that year for the alleged murder of 22-year-old Malinda Jane Carroll-Hinkle, wife of Philip Winkle.  The article documents that Malinda had entered into an extramarital affair with Arch, and when she mended her relationship with her husband, Arch seized her while she was milking a cow, sexually assaulted her, and then stabbed her to death with a long knife.

The next criminal execution of a black man wouldn’t occur for another 26 years.

The Morristown Gazette’s September 11, 1878 article, titled Execution of Howell, recounts the chilling lynching of George Howell for the brutal murder of Joseph M. Martin, a crime that had taken place just the day before in Greene County, Tennessee.  The detailed account not only sheds light on the tragic incident but also reveals the life of the man responsible for the murder.

The old stone jail at 116 East Depot Street in Greeneville carries a dark and storied past that still lingers in its stone walls.  According to The Greeneville Sun's article, Hunting Hauntings, this imposing structure was originally built on Richland Creek in 1806, using limestone and iron salvaged from an older jail.  The work was carried out by enslaved men.

But it’s not just the physical remnants of the jail that continue to haunt this site.  Legend has it that the spirits of former prisoners still call the building home, their restless energy lingering in the cold stone chambers.  Whispers of ghostly figures and strange noises in the dead of night have captivated the curiosity of locals and ghost hunters alike, adding an eerie atmosphere to the historic structure.  

Robinhood Road in Greeneville is shrouded in an eerie legend that continues to confuse residents to this day.  The story tells of a young girl named Ryan, who is believed to have been tragically murdered and buried in a basement along the road.  Her restless spirit is said to wander the area, appearing near passing cars in desperate need of help.  However, despite her silent plea, she can never speak, and her cries for assistance are met with helplessness from those who encounter her.

There’s no official record or evidence to support the tale of Ryan’s death, suggesting that this haunting may have been born from the rise of ghost-hunting shows and internet folklore in the late 1990s.  The ghostly image of the young girl trapped in a basement echoes a chilling parallel to the supernatural thriller Stir of Echoes, released in 1999, which featured a similar ghostly figure. 

A ghostly figure has been spotted at the old train station, near the end of Chuckey Pike, just before Charles Johnson Road.  According to Chuckey, Tennessee Ghost Sightings, the apparition appears most frequently around 6:00 AM.  The spirit, a semi-transparent silhouette of a man, is often seen standing by the tracks, as though waiting for a train that never arrives.  His figure is vague and elusive, but those who’ve seen him describe a lingering presence as if the man is trapped in time, eternally waiting for a train that no longer comes.

The image of the lonely figure standing in the half-light of dawn has fueled rumors of a tragic past.  Was the man a former rail worker who never made it home?  Or perhaps someone who met an untimely death near the tracks?  Regardless of the explanation, the mysterious ghost remains a fixture of local lore, and each morning, as the first rays of sunlight touch the tracks, the specter of the waiting man lingers, an eerie reminder of the past.

Before Andrew Johnson rose to national prominence as the 17th President of the United States, he and his wife, Eliza McCardle, ran a humble tailor shop on Main Street in Greeneville.  Their small business was the foundation of their lives, where Andrew honed his skills in both tailoring and politics.  In 1884, their daughters, Martha and Mary, took over the shop, keeping it within the family until 1921 when it was eventually enclosed in the current building at 101 North College Street.

However, despite the shop's physical transformation, the echoes of its past still linger.  According to local legend, the rhythmic hum of sewing machines that once filled the shop can still be heard late at night, long after the machines were removed.  It's said that the ghostly sounds of needles threading through fabric can be heard faintly in the building, as if the spirits of Andrew and Eliza, or perhaps their daughters, continue to work away at their craft.  The tale of these mysterious noises adds an eerie layer to the history of the building, tying the echoes of the past to the present in a haunting reminder of the Johnson family's legacy.

Tusculum College, located at 60 Shiloh Road, is not only home to academic pursuits but also to some spine-chilling legends.  Its historic buildings are said to house restless spirits that refuse to leave.  From a ghostly piano player to eerie disembodied screams and the cry of a lost baby, Tusculum's campus is rich with tales of the supernatural.

Doak House Museum

One of the most haunted sites on the campus is the Doak House Museum, which is steeped in history.  According to The Shadowlands Haunted Places Index, the ghost of Sarah Houston McEwen-Doak, the second wife of the college's founder, is said to haunt the museum.  Sarah's spirit is often heard playing the piano as if still attempting to provide music for guests of her home, though she passed away long ago in 1864.  The soft, melancholic notes echo through the rooms, inviting visitors to pause and listen, though no one is ever seen playing the keys.  

Katherine Hall

Completed in 1962, the building is home to an unsettling story.  According to the Haunted Tennessee Blog Series, the cries of a baby are sometimes heard at night, drifting from the building’s eerie shadows.  Legend has it that a student, devastated after the stillbirth of her child, lost herself in grief.  In a fit of rage, she murdered the housemother before burying her baby behind the building.  Ever since, the cries of the baby, and the anguished wails of the mother, have haunted the grounds, leaving an unforgettable mark on those who dare to listen.  Some say it’s the mother still searching for her lost child, while others believe it’s the infant’s spirit, trapped in a place it was never meant to be.  Either way, the sorrowful cries are a reminder that sometimes the past refuses to stay buried.

Virginia Hall

A tree outside of Virginia Hall is said to scream on some nights.  According to the same website, it’s suspected that these sheiks are an echo from the past when a past student tragically took his own life by hanging himself from the legendary tree.  This death was verified by a Kingsport News article on November 6, 1972, which detailed the case of a 20-year-old freshman from Morristown, New Jersey.