“You are going to think I’m crazy,” she whispered, “but I’m not!” I assured her that I wouldn’t think her crazy, at least no crazier than I am, and encouraged her to finish the tale.

“The dog wasn’t on a leash,” she told me, “and I worried that it would get hit by a car — you know when the new school year starts those college kids drive like maniacs. I glanced up and down the street to find the owner. When I didn’t see anyone, I turned to dash across the street to try to corral the dog. But it had vanished! There wasn’t anywhere for it to go! Was it a ghost dog?” I couldn’t rightly answer that question, but maybe.

People around Denton often share stories of the unusual with me. Each weekend, I give Ghosts of Denton Haunted History Tours around downtown and I’m always asking people to share their tales. They are glad to oblige.

This woman was the third person this summer to tell me of seeing a white dog walking on Elm Street — a dog that vanished into thin air. However, she was the first to mention that it was a bulldog. This put me in mind of the story of Snooky, a large, white, female bulldog who was a mascot for the Denton Fire Department about eighty years ago.

“Snooky 1934-1937”

In 2013, I first heard about Snooky the Fire Dog from Chuck Howell, who was acting Captain at the fire station the day I visited the Denton Firefighter’s Museum. He showed me the tombstone that had been on Snooky’s grave. It’s now on display at the museum, located at the Central Fire Station at 332 E. Hickory. Here is the gist what he told me:

Everyone around the Courthouse Square loved Snooky. According to the Fire Marshall of the time, Eugene Cook, she “had more sense than any dog I ever saw.” Snooky went to every single fire with the firemen at the Central Fire Station (then located on McKinney Street). Snooky supervised. Fire Marshal Cook said that when the “regular” phone rang at the fire station, Snooky didn’t react at all. When the fire phone jangled, that dog jumped on the truck, raring to go.

When not “on duty,” Snooky was in the habit of walking south on Elm Street to the Courthouse Square each day. She made the rounds of the different restaurants, where the cooks always had juicy tidbits for her and evidently spoiled her rotten. She was a regular at the American Cafe and Ray’s Cafe on the Square. I have found no pictures of the dog but I’m betting that, with all that snacking, she was “pleasingly plump.”

In the wee hours of the morning, during the summertime, Snooky loved to follow the ice wagons around the Square. At that time the Mahan Ice Company still made deliveries using horse-drawn wagons. Don’t ask me why she followed the wagons. Maybe the horses left interesting smells in their wake? At any rate, that habit led to her demise.

One summer day in 1937, as Snooky pattered along behind the ice wagon, she strayed into the lane of traffic. The driver of the oncoming vehicle never saw her until he hit her. Badly wounded, Snooky managed to drag herself back to the fire station. Although a veterinarian was summoned, his ministrations could not save the dog.

So distraught were the firemen, that they decided to give Snooky a special send-off, just as they would have done for a member of their own family. They constructed a dog-size coffin and lined it with velvet. They put the casket on the running board of the hook and ladder truck to drive Snooky, one last time, around the Courthouse Square she loved so much.

The Chaplain of the Fire Department, Bill Vivereite, preached a sermon for Snooky as mourners gathered round her grave at the southwest corner of the Fire Station. They included uniformed firemen, city employees, and other friends of Snooky.

When Chief Howell told me the story, I said, “Wait a minute. What did y’all do with the dog when you moved the fire station to this location? Where is Snooky now?”

He winced and whispered, “Probably still in a flowerbed at the old station.”

Snooky’s bones might be pushing up weeds at the old fire station, but evidently her spirit is a little restless. If you see her, don’t panic. She’s just wandering around looking for juicy tidbits.

It was called The Great Hanging, and men were being lynched by vigilante mobs in neighboring Texas counties as well, but Gainesville had the most victims. They were accused of conspiring to commit treason and foment insurrection. Most of the men were innocent, but that made little difference once the mob hysteria began.

This is a difficult post to write for several reasons. First, I don’t want the reader to judge Gainesville, Texas by an incident that happened over 150 years ago. Gainesville is a beautiful town with a rich history that goes far beyond this one event. Please keep in mind that during the Civil War similar incidents were happening all over the nation.

Second, I am struggling to make sense of a tragedy that happened during a time when there was no “normal.” I don’t want to any of us to judge either side too harshly. We weren’t alive back then, so we can never know the fear citizens really felt. The closest analogy that I can make is to consider how our nation reacted after the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001.

We were. indeed, terrified. “Will it happen again?” we wondered. “Who did it?” Collectively, Americans looked askance at anyone with brown skin … especially if they were from the Middle East … and thought, “Is that the enemy?”

Now consider the early settlers, and multiply the fear we felt. They lived at the edge of civilization under hardships that were frightening enough, but they also had to worry about attacks from righteously angry Native Americans. When the Civil War broke out, and the settlers wondered. “Is that the enemy,” the “enemy” looked just like them! In fact, the enemy could be their own blood kin.

Nathaniel Miles Clark

In fact, many of the men who were lynched in the Great Hanging had family members who were fighting for the Southern Cause. Most of them admitted that they were part of the “Peace Party,” although some were found guilty by association. Their goals were “to provide for the families of those at war, to protect members from Confederate authority, and to restore the Union.” Yes, that sounds like treason, which is punishable by death, but the story is a complicated one.

To understand why these men chose to side with the Union, you have to know that when Texas voters went to the polls on February 23, 1861 to decide if Texas should secede from the Union, and become a part of the Confederacy, the issue was about slavery. If you believe that it was about “state’s rights,” go read the full “DECLARATION OF CAUSES: February 2, 1861 A declaration of the causes which impel the State of Texas to secede from the Federal Union.” Pay special attention to the following words:

We hold as undeniable truths that the governments of the various States, and of the confederacy itself, were established exclusively by the white race, for themselves and their posterity; that the African race had no agency in their establishment; that they were rightfully held and regarded as an inferior and dependent race, and in that condition only could their existence in this country be rendered beneficial or tolerable.

That in this free government all white men are and of right ought to be entitled to equal civil and political rights; that the servitude of the African race, as existing in these States, is mutually beneficial to both bond and free, and is abundantly authorized and justified by the experience of mankind, and the revealed will of the Almighty Creator, as recognized by all Christian nations; while the destruction of the existing relations between the two races, as advocated by our sectional enemies, would bring inevitable calamities upon both and desolation upon the fifteen slave-holding States.

By the secession of six of the slave-holding States, and the certainty that others will speedily do likewise, Texas has no alternative but to remain in an isolated connection with the North, or unite her destinies with the South.

Since most families in Cooke County did NOT own slaves, it is not surprising that Cooke County was one of only 18 out of 122 counties to vote against disunion (with 61% of the voters against secession).[https://tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/mgs02] I’m not naive enough to think that the majority of residents of Cooke County were abolitionists. In fact, most of them would probably have owned slaves — if they could have afforded them. They couldn’t. Slavery was an institution that benefited the rich, so why would a poor man vote to risk going to war for it?

On top of that, secession was almost certain to mean war and chaos. Especially for communities on the frontier, a break with the Union would be disastrous. The area was under constant attack by Native tribes, such as the Comanche and Kiowa. The best defense those communities had was from nearby forts staffed with Union soldiers … who would be removed if war ensued, leaving the settlers at risk.

The Confederate Conscription Act of April, 1862 was enacted, and it only fanned the flames of dissent. It required that men between the ages of 18-35 enlist in the military, although wealthy men could hire a substitute (or send a slave) to fight for them, and there was an exemption from the draft for the men who owned a large number of slaves … the very men whose cause was being fought. And, if all of the able bodied men were fighting in a far away war, who was left to protect their homes? Only the women, children, and the elderly.

Now consider the mindset of the people in the communities who sided with the Confederacy. In 1862, rumors abounded that bloodthirsty abolitionists from Kansas intended to invade the state; free the slaves, and murder every man, woman, and child who was loyal to the Confederate cause. It’s easy to understand why people were suspicious of anyone who sided with the Union; their fear churned and bubbled until at last the pot boiled over.

Neighboring farmers and friends were accused of being a part of this murderous plot. “Can we trust them?” they whispered. “Are they the enemy?” No one knew.

One hundred and fifty men in Cooke County were rounded up and brought to town for trial by a citizen’s court. Keep in mind that this wasn’t an established legal court … it was just twelve citizens (all of whom were well-to-do, and seven of whom were slave holders) who held court and passed judgement on these men.

In a dramatic exhibition of vigilante action during the Civil War, authorities in Cooke County in October 1862 arrested about 150 men who allegedly belonged to a “Peace Party” thought to be conspiring to reestablish Union control in Texas. Curious residents, families of prisoners, militiamen, and volunteers crowded into the square where many called for hanging all the prisoners. Then a church bell rang, calling a town meeting. Chaired by William C. Young, it proceeded to create a “Citizen’s Court” and to pass resolutions legitimizing its actions.

With Daniel Montague presiding and Young interrogating, the court met in a store on the square and convicted seven prisoners of conspiracy to commit treason. They were promptly hanged from a giant elm at the site of this park. Two others were shot and killed when they tried to escape. Dissension among the jurors led to an agreement that any further convictions would require a two-thirds vote. By that standard, all the accused were acquitted, to be released a week later. But a mob demanded and the jury surrendered fourteen men to be lynched.

The jurors scattered on Monday, October 13, planning to reconvene the next Saturday and release all remaining prisoners. However, during the week, James Dickson, member of a prominent family and William C. Young were shot and killed from ambush on Hickory Creek north of Gainesville. Fear swept the countryside. Hysterical demonstrators in Gainesville urged the hanging of all prisoners. When the court reconvened on the 18th, it sent nineteen more men to the gallows tree.

The words above are from a marker that was placed at the site, in the Georgia Bass Memorial Park, on Saturday, October 18, 2014. It’s a tiny park, and not terribly photogenic, but I’ll show you a picture, so you will recognize it if you go to see it.

Great Hanging monument

I warned you that it wasn’t terribly eye-catching! As opposed to looking at it, I preferred to stand under a large tree that stands on the site and imagine the events of the month. I thought about the fear in the community, and the shame the citizens might have felt that it got so out of hand.

I also thought about the men who died, whose bodies were stacked in a warehouse at the edge of town, because their families were too afraid of the mob to claim them. Only about eleven men got a proper burial. The rest were put into a mass grave at the edge of the creek. Their bodies got ravaged by feral hogs, and some were washed down the creek.

I thought about the families that were torn asunder, and the division in the community that lasted for many years. Before Nathaniel Clark was hanged, he asked that no one seek vengeance for his death. No one was punished for the mob riot, and the community tried to move on as best it could.

not the hanging tree

The actual hanging tree was cut down long ago; its stump was ground down to nothingness in an attempt, I suppose, to erase the evidence of that horrible month in 1862. Below is a portion an artist’s depiction of the event from the Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, 20 Feb 1864. The memories linger, as well they should, for one would hope that such terrible actions would never occur again.

image courtesy of http://www.gainesvilletx1862.blogspot.com/

If you would like to read more about the Great Hanging, I suggest reading Tainted Breeze by Richard McCaslin. You can also find much historical information about the men who died that October on Gainesville, Texas 1862. As for me, my pilgrimage is at an end.

I drove slowly along the country back roads in Cooke County, breathing clouds of white caliche dust through the open window, as I searched for road markers. The GPS on my smart phone had gone stupid on me when I plugged in the name of a century-old cemetery, so I had to go “old school” and use a paper map. Oh, who am I kidding? I have no navigational skills, so I stopped and asked a farmer for directions. After a few more twists and turns, I found myself at the gates of Clark Cemetery only to find the dadgum gate locked with this sign on it:

Do whut? They wanted me to call somebody so that I could enter the cemetery? I try to play by the rules, so I called the numbers — only to be sent to voicemail with both of them. “Well,” I said to myself, “the sign just says ‘for access call,’ It didn’t say I had to actually talk to anybody.” This old gal didn’t drive forty-five minutes in the Texas heat to be turned away at the gate. Besides, it isn’t lawful in Texas to deny access to a cemetery!

Section 711.041 of the Health and Safety Code states that any person who wishes to visit a cemetery that has no public ingress or egress shall have the rights for visitation during reasonable hours and for purposes associated with cemetery visits. The owner of the lands surrounding the cemetery may designate the routes for reasonable access. Section 711.0521 further states that interference with ingress and egress is a Class C misdemeanor. – Info from Texas Historical Commission http://www.thc.state.tx.us/preserve/projects-and-programs/cemetery-preservation/cemetery-laws

So, I shimmied through fences and began the climb up the lane to Clark Cemetery. As I plodded along the sandy, rutted road cicadas whirred in the trees and songbirds serenaded me. I lost myself in reverie, thinking about the life and death of the man whose grave I was seeking. It was easy to imagine myself walking this lane behind a coffin in 1862 to bury a man in the meadow at the top of the hill.

I had been to this grave back in 1979 with the Cross Timbers Genealogical Society to record the information on the tombstones. His epitaph sent a chill up my spine. Back then I didn’t have a digital camera. I have been thinking about this place for months and was anxious to see it again.

I had to go though yet another locked gate (these people really want a Class C misdemeanor!). At last I stood before the grave of Nathaniel Miles Clark.

Dadgum! I should have taken a picture thirty-six years ago! The tombstone didn’t have as much lichen or as many stains back then! Let me try a closeup, and I’ll transcribe it for you.

Was murdered by a Mob. October 13, 1862. His last words to his companion.” Prepare yourself to live and to die. I hope to meet you all in a future world. God bless you all!”

The entire tombstone reads:

So, I found the gravesite of Nathaniel Miles Clark, but I wasn’t satisfied. My pilgrimage wasn’t over. I trudged back down the hill, taking only photographs and leaving only footprints, to journey to my next destination: the site where he died! I’ll tell you about that adventure next time! I’m still digesting some of the information.

Built in 1902, the brick train station served passengers until December 1979, when the last Amtrak train came thundering down the tracks. For twenty years, the station was unused by passengers, until the Amtrak Heartland Flyer began making a stop here in 1999. You can still hop aboard a train in Gainesville, but only twice a day. That’s not why you want to stop at the depot. Visitors to this neck of the woods need to stop because it houses a gem of a museum that pays homage to (among other things, including memorabilia of the Gainesville Community Circus) the first twenty-nine years of operation — when a Fred Harvey lunch counter operated out of the building. As a sweet aside, it might also have a ghost! Hang on. I’ll get around to that in a minute.

Although the counter has long since been removed, you can still see the outline on the floor of where it stood. Displays throughout the building give you a hint of what it was like when waitresses in black dresses, black hose, polished black shoes, and crisp white pinafore aprons efficiently buzzed about the counter serving meals to hundreds of passengers each day.

Courtesy of Morton Museum of Cooke County

This tiny museum in Cooke County, Texas preserves a bit of the Harvey Girl history. It whetted my appetite for more. I had no idea the part that the Harvey Girls, and their employer, Fred Harvey, played in changing the West.

Fred Harvey came to the United States from England in 1853 at the age of seventeen. Like most immigrants, he was chasing the American Dream — and he caught it. His first jobs were as a dishwasher and as a busboy in a restaurant in New York. He quickly moved up the ladder, learning all about the food service industry. He later owned restaurants but the Civil War, and the depressed economy following it, hampered his success. Then, he had a brilliant idea: he made a deal in 1876 with the Atchison, Topeka, & Santa Fe Railway to put eating houses along the rail line.

Rail travel in the 1800s was pretty miserable. With no air conditioning, the open windows made for dusty, hot travel … with no food served! Passenger had to wait until the train stopped, every hundred miles or so, and hope to be able to buy beans and biscuits during the short pause at the station. Fred Harvey changed all that with his Harvey lunch counters — the first restaurant chain in the United States. Ticket masters queried the passengers about whether they planned to eat at the next stop and telegraphed ahead, so that the chefs at the Harvey diners could plan for the amount of food to have ready.

Excellent food, served on fine china, awaited the passengers. Imagine how difficult it would have been to accommodate everyone during the twenty minute stop! Was the food excellent? Yes, it was only the best. Beef was shipped in daily from Kansas City; oysters and clams were shipped from the coast; and in Gainesville the water was deemed unsuitable for coffee, so it was shipped in daily from Fort Worth! Here is an excerpt from a 1927 Harvey diner menu, on display at the Gainesville Depot Museum, to give you an idea of what foods you might find waiting at the next stop.

Prime rib of beef for $1.10? Jumbo Bull Frog Almandienne? Grilled Boston Scrod? I don’t even know what a Scrod is, and I don’t think I want to find out!

All of this would have been served to you by those immaculate and efficient Harvey Girls. That women were serving the food in these fine establishments was a bit of a novelty in those days. Before Fred Harvey started hiring women to serve in his diners, most waitresses were “shady ladies,” or at least perceived to be so. Waitressing was not considered a job for a proper young lady.

The story goes that in a Fred Harvey restaurant in Raton, New Mexico, the waiters were a bunch of rowdy ruffians. After a fight one night, they didn’t show up for work the next day. Mr. Harvey was so enraged that he fired the lot of them and promptly advertised for young ladies to take the positions. Ads went out in newspapers across the land saying:

Wanted: Young women 18 to 30 years of age, of good moral character, attractive and intelligent, to waitress in Harvey Eating Houses on the Sante Fe in the West. Wages, $17.50 per month with room and board. Liberal tips customary. Experience not necessary. Write Fred Harvey, Union Depot, Kansas City, Missouri.

Adventurous young women from farms in the Midwest, cities in the northeast, and all points in between rushed to apply. The money was good, the thought of adventure in a new community out west was enticing, and some of the young ladies figured that there was always a chance that a suitable husband might be on the next train.

The women had to sign an affidavit that they were of good character, they had to agree not to marry within six months of employment, and they had to abide by strict rules of conduct (including “no expectorating on the floor”). After six weeks of training, they went to work.

Fred Harvey and his Harvey Girls raised the reputation of the job of waitress to a high level of respectability. In a time when there weren’t many jobs available to women, the Fred Harvey chain offered females a chance to gain independence. That history is commemorated at the Museum at the Depot in Gainesville, Texas.

I know what you are thinking. “Wait a minute, Shelly. You mentioned a ghost!” I did, didn’t I.

The ghost is upstairs, where you will find the rooms that were once occupied by the Harvey Girls who worked at the depot and the manager. There are seven sparsely furnished rooms that were for the girls, a common bathroom, and two rooms for the manager.

Museum volunteers and guests often hear footsteps tap-tap-tapping down the hardwood floors of the long hallway when there is not a living soul upstairs!

Who could it be? Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps it is the manager of the Depot, making certain that these ladies of high moral character are safely tucked into their rooms at night? Perhaps it is the restless spirit of a Harvey Girl stepping down the hall to the communal bathroom? I suggest that you visit the museum and decide for yourself. It’s definitely worth the stop.

The museum is located at 605 East California Street in Gainesville. Just find the train tracks, and you will be there. Because it is a small town, you might want to call ahead before visiting at (940) 668-4579.

Everything under the sun, and it’s always a surprise for both you and for me.

• You’ll find tips on traveling in Texas, because it’s My Neck Of The Woods.
• I tell you shivery ghost tales, sometimes. Well, at least they are Ghostly-Mostly.
• Sometimes I talk about History.
• I’m a fool for Bacon
• And, for vintage treasures and shopping of all kinds.
• I’m trying to get all Artsy Fartsy with my photographs.
• But, mostly it’s just a lot of sass.

This place is full of homespun philosophy with a Texas twang. If you like a good tale, well told, This Eclectic Life is the place to find it (at least it had better be, because in the “real world” I’m a professional storyteller).

I dish it up with humor, if I can. Favorites? I can tell you a few of my favorite attempts at being funny. You can read ’em if you would like. :

1. Sisterhood of The Grappling Pants
2. Ask A Silly Question, Get A Silly Answer
3. Wear Clean Underwear
4. We Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Waterboards
5. A Ditty For Idiot Drivers
6. The Teenage “Brain”

Thanks for dropping by my “house.” You are welcome to visit any time!

You can click the pictures in the gallery below for a taste of the beauty that was everywhere!

It is easy to see that the hotel has always served up luxury to its guests. It is said that some of those guests from long ago decided never to leave! Rumors abound that guests check into the Adolphus hotel and never check out. They say it is haunted. I had heard some of the tales. I knew that it was rumored that a jilted bride committed suicide on the 19th floor. Tragically, it is said that she still haunts that floor.

I’ve seen the videos on YouTube showing the “haunted” elevator doors on that floor going wild; randomly opening and closing for no reason. Sometimes guests complain of hearing footsteps in the hall when no one is there. People have reported hearing ghostly crying or laughter or the faint sound of big band music, when there is no reason for those sounds. Hotel workers on the “graveyard shift” complain of feeling watched by someone they can’t see or of being tapped on the shoulder by unseen hands.

Some think that the ghosts of people who once lived or worked at the Adolphus still come back to haunt it. I don’t blame them, because it is a lovely place. Some members believe that they have seen the ghost of a deceased customer. Shortly after the death of a woman who was a regular customer at one of the hotel’s bistros, some claim they saw her ghost walk in and settle down at her usual table. But, not everyone believes in the ghosts. Some of the employees just laughed when we mentioned apparitions.

We talked to a bartender, who gruffly said, “Yeah, some folks talk about ghosts … but I don’t know about that. However something strange did happen to me once.” He went on to tell us that he was working in his office when a wine bottle fell off the shelf for no reason. “There wasn’t an earthquake,” he said. Luckily the bottle didn’t break and he put it back on the shelf. Two weeks later, the same bottle “jumped” off the shelf. “I don’t know why that happened,” he said. “Maybe the ghost wanted you to relax with a glass of wine?” I suggested.

While there, we saw that a conference group was given a “haunted tour” by the concierge. We later cornered the poor man and asked him about the ghosts, and he kindly offered to take us on a private tour! With luck, Kevin McCrackin will soon be giving regular haunted tours of the Adolphus to the public. It definitely would be a tour worth taking! We crept down the corridors as he kept us spell bound with his tales. Kevin knew much about the history of the hotel … and he had some spine-tingling stories.

No, I’m not going to tell them to you! Stay at the Adolphus, ask for “Kevin.” Get him to take you around the hotel and when he takes you on a tour give him a decent gratuity! He deserves every penny of it, because he is a darned good storyteller. I don’t think you will regret taking his tour. Unless, of course, you are afraid of ghosts and are sleeping on the 19th floor!

“Officially” the Denton County Courthouse is not haunted. That’s what I told you in my book, Ghosts of Denton: The History of the Mysteries in a Small Texas Town (available on Amazon). If you ask people who work there if any ghosts reside in the building, they shake their heads … but they can’t look you in the eyes and say, “No.”

Visitors to the courthouse might tell you the other side to the story. A group who came on one of my ghost tours told me a rather hair-raising tale about an incident that happened to them in the basement. Hang on, and I’ll share it with you. First, let me give you some background on that creepy space below ground level, since I’ve already given you a virtual tour of the top floors.

My guide today told me that before about 1900, the basement of the courthouse was the only place on the square where ladies could go to the restroom. In the basement, there were attendants to give the women towels and “necessities.” Soon, the basement served other purposes, but it still has public restrooms down there, which gives you an excuse to explore.

The first thing you might notice in the basement are the thick limestone walls. They are about a foot thick (or more … I didn’t measure them) and that limestone came from a quarry in Denton County. It took thick walls to hold up this magnificent structure. I think it’s a pity that someone long ago decided the walls needed to be painted.

As you wander through the corridors, you will see several places where door openings have been boarded over. Those were once the entrances to the holding cells for prisoner waiting trial. It wasn’t the jail … just temporary “housing.”

But, look along the floor at the small rectangles that were also boarded. Those were the “bean slots.” They were a pass-through so that the prisoners could be fed, and so their … er … um … “thunder mugs” could be emptied. If you aren’t familiar with the term, a thunder mug was a bucket into which the prisoners relieved themselves.

The prisoners had roomy quarters while they waited on their turn to enter the court. They could pass the time in people-watching, as they could see out of their windows at ground level and watch folks walking around the square. The windows are covered by vegetation now, but who knows what the men down there could have observed back in the day.

Many people have told me that they have gotten a creepy feeling down in that basement. If you hear rumors that there was a hanging in the basement or that someone died down there, it isn’t true. You will also not find any tunnels down there (a popular myth in Denton is that there are tunnels under the streets leading from different business establishments to the courthouse).

Are you ready for the ghost story? Sure you are. Step over to the women’s restroom.

The group of ladies who came on my tour several months ago told me that they had been exploring the courthouse earlier in the day. They were surprised that there were even things to see in the basement. The museum has a display of some architectural pieces from the original courthouse and a wonderful safe from the Denton County Bank.

One of the women needed to step into the restroom, and she left her friends in the hallway. Inside the stall, she heard the heavy door creak open. Someone stepped to the sink and turned on the water. She called out, “Hey, are we going to find something to eat soon?”

She got no answer, but she heard someone splashing the water in the sink. “Who’s out there?” she asked. Still no answer. She heard the water turn off. Moments later she opened the stall door and no one was in the bathroom. The sink was wet and water was splashed around it. She realized she had not heard the door creak when the other restroom visitor left!

The woman joined her friends in the hall and said, “OK. Who is messing with my head? Which one of you came in the bathroom while I was in there?” Her friends all told her, “No one went into that room after you did.” She told them what she had just experienced and they ran out of that courthouse squealing.

Many people believe that there is a spirit lingering in that basement. It could possibly be the spirit of “Uncle Zach” Rawlings. He was a janitor at this courthouse and the one before it for many years. Here is his obituary from the Denton Record Chronicle in June of 1911:

Courthouse mourns longtime worker
“Uncle Zach” Rawlings, ex-slave, for many years janitor at the courthouse and perhaps the best known negro in Denton County among the white folks, died at his home in Quaker [note: Quakertown was the “black section” of Denton in those days], aged about 80 years.
“Uncle Zach” was born in Granada, Miss., and came to Denton County, a slave with his master, Dan Rawlings, before the war and lived near Lewisville until his election as courthouse janitor. Here he served since 1886 until the present year when he resigned, his health and age incapacitating him.
Services were conducted by the Rev. Sam Walker at 10 o’clock Wednesday in the African Baptist church. Interment followed at the city cemetery.
The Commissioners’ Court attended the services as a body, as did several other county officers and many white people.
On the day of his death, the Commissioners accepted a petition from county officials honoring the memory of “Uncle Zach” Rawlings and read it into the minutes of the court.

Could the woman in the story have encountered Uncle Zach in the courthouse basement? Probably not. I think he would have wiped the sink when he was finished.