THE WAUPACA REPUBLICAN

January 15, 1897

 

A Ghost at the Pole Bridge

 

            Peder Pederson – that isn’t his name – living a few miles northwest of Waupaca, had occasion to come to town not long ago, and for a short cut took a path through the woods by the way of the old pole bridge on the Brainard property.  The place is extremely wild and romantic, and an island in the river is, in the summer time, a favorite rendezvous for lovers.

            Our belated traveler did not fear the darkness, for he was fortified with embalming fluid.  Nevertheless he did not reach the bridge until near midnight.  To his surprise he saw the figure of a woman standing on the bridge and quietly looking at the boiling rapids in the river above.

            He watched for a long time, afraid to move, and especially afraid to cross the bridge.  At last the woman turned and walked toward him.  This was too much and he took the back track up the road at a speed that would bring a blush to every record breaking bicyclist in the country.  He never stopped until he was safe at home.

            A few days afterward he met Charles Rollin Brainard, who owns the property and confidentially told him of what had happened.  Brainard looked wise and said:

            “Oh, well, I have known of that for the past three months.”

            “Known what?”

            “Known about that midnight visitor at the bridge.”

            “But who is she?”

            “Never asked her.”

            Beyond that Brainard refused to talk.

            The fellow who had the midnight adventure could not keep still.  He had to wash his stomach with some more bay rum and do some more confidential talking.

            The result was that a full fledged ghost was discovered, or something else, and wondering tongues became busy.

            “The mysterious woman at the pole bridge” became the undertone topic of conversation in a certain circle and excited a great deal of interest.  The locality is within a mile of the courthouse, and while charmingly romantic by day becomes strangely weird and gruesome by night.

            Brainard, who seemed to know more about the matter than any one else positively declined to be further interviewed until he was told that he was himself being watched as to his night wanderings.  This brought him to terms, but his story only adds to the mystery.

            “Oh, yes,” said he.  “You know I have an incurable lung malady, and I cannot undress and go to bed as other people do.  I am obliged to get my sleep sitting in an arm chair, or bolstered up on the sofa.  I have waking spells by the hour.  I can’t sleep, but I can turn around to my desk and work.  Sometimes when I see no prospect for any sleep at all during the night, I put on my overcoat and go out for a walk in the cool night air.  One night I wandered down the lane and along the river bank, then up toward the corn field on the north side of Mt. Tom.

            I suddenly became aware of a moving object in the road ahead of me.  This was in October.  The figure was walking slowly toward the pole bridge.  The vision of a suicide floated through my mind and I followed.  My physical condition would not enable me to render much assistance in rescuing from a watery grave anybody bond for the pearly gats, but I reasoned that if anybody was missing from the population of Waupaca next day, I could give a clue as to what train they had taken to reach the other world.

            The figure, which was evidently that of a woman, walked slowly but firmly down to the bridge, out into the middle, and then stood looking up stream.  I watched her until I became chilled through.  After an indefinite time, she turned, went on across the bridge and disappeared in the darkness and woods.

            I did not follow, for I saw that the suicide part of the entertainment had been adjourned, and if I went on across the bridge I should surely be seen.

            I did not take any more midnight walks for fully a week, when to my surprise the very same experience was repeated, and has been steadily repeated ever since.

            Who the party is, or why she walks I do not know.  Perhaps it is some person who like myself is trying to seek sleep by walking in the cool air.  Or it may be the spirit of some Indian maiden who hurled herself from one of the rocks, by reason of a faithless lover, a thousand years ago.  I hardly thing this, for one night the wind nearly blew away her cloak, or waterproof, and that was not an Indian maiden article of costume, unless she borrowed it for the occasion.

            “How often have you seen her?”

            “Oh, probably fifteen or twenty times during the past three months.  I have on several occasions been out ahead of time, to see if I could discover the direction from which she came.  But my first view has invariably been of her near the cornfield gate, as if she had suddenly risen from the ground.  I have not been out of my house at night now for more than a fortnight, and know nothing about what has transpired on the lonely walk since.

            “I would suggest that if you wanted to capture the ghost, you go up before dark and sit down in the woods beyond the bridge.  Then, when she goes across, let her walk into your arms.  There might be music in the air.”

            This is the status of affairs at this writing.  Whether any of the young braves will try to capture her depends on whether they are willing to sit up in the woods and hug their knees half the night in the month of January for the sake of hugging a ghost.