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 them in a feeble attempt to shield them from the biting wind.
The handsome coastie at the bow, who’d introduced himself as Seaman Maynard, called out obstacles to the pilot at the rear, Seaman Jankosky. And there were quite a lot of them, all manner of trees, poles, and the debris constantly thumping against the side of the boat. Russ and Louis pointed out the drowned landmarks they were able to recognize.
My family and I weren’t the only refugees on that boat. Behind me were another man and two women, likewise huddled down to keep out of the biting wind. I hadn’t paid them much mind until the man shouted, struggling to be heard over the clattering motor.
“Both of you, watch out there by the big oak tree up ahead,” he called in a gravelly voice, one that reflexively sent new waves of shivers through my body. “There’s a big ol’ stone wall that goes out from it over to the road. Wouldn’t wanna snag the prop on it, that’s for damn sure.”
No, it couldn’t be. Him? Of all the people with whom to share a tiny boat in the middle of a hundred-year flood. I tried to tell myself I was just anxious, that it must be someone else. Then Russ whirled around, his shocked expression revealing that he, too, knew that Frank Walsh was the man sitting behind us.
“Well, howdy there, Mr. Carmichael,” Frank lowered the hood on his oilskin coat, revealing a scruffy beard and toothy grin. “You an’ your kin gettin’ outta Dodge before it’s too late? Good on ya. Me an’ these fine men are gonna get you to safety, don’t you worry ‘bout nuttin’.”
Frank pulled a cigarette and mechanical lighter from inside his coat. “I could be sittin’ at home high and dry, couldn’t I? However, it’s only right that I help out my neighbors, you know.”
Russ stared at the man in anger and disbelief, then slowly turned back towards the bow. Frank gave a low chuckle, flicking his Wonderlite. I thought I could feel his eyes burning my back, but I was not going to face him, not right now.
Instead, I chose to focus my attention on the ruin all around me. Home after drowned submerged home slid slowly by, in some cases only the chimney marking their watery graves. The gray sky hung low above them all, oppressive and unbroken, a wet wool blanket over a drowned world. If there was one silver lining on those clouds, it was a literal one: it had stopped raining. Today was the first dry day we had seen in well over a week. Still, everything was uncomfortably damp and cold. Spray from the bow coated everything inside the boat with a glistening dew.
The lot of us huddled in that boat for what seemed like several hours, though it was maybe only one or two. We began to slow and Maynard gave a shout. The white, cross-tipped steeple of a church appeared from around the bend ahead. “We need to take it easy through here,” Frank barked. “Watch for obstructions. And survivors.”
Just a week prior, I had walked my siblings to Sunday school at Providence Chapel in a downpour. We had arrived soaked despite carrying daddy’s stout umbrella. We weren’t alone in our struggle – every attendee was dripping and struggling to dry their trousers or fix their hair. Pastor Ellington had been “inspired” to give a sermon on the Deluge.
This Sunday, however, the river was lapping at the handles of the tall red doors. Every building on Providence’s main thoroughfare–Martin’s Grocery, the five-and-dime, the barber, the post office–was either completely underwater or very nearly so. I estimated the flood to be between ten and fifteen feet deep here. Normally, such a sight would have sent me into hysterics. But whether by the bitter wind, the devastation I had thus far seen, or the unwelcome presence of the man behind me, I found that I had little emotion left other than morbid interest. This was not my hometown, my birthplace I knew so very well. This was merely a picture in the morning paper, photographs of a far-off calamity rendered in grainy black-and-white.
Something thumped up against the boat just to my left. At first I saw nothing. Then something bobbed to the surface, bumping the boat again. I then saw the pale, bloated flesh, gaping mouth, and the two milky, staring eyes.
I screamed. The boat rocked as Russ and Maynard whirled around to see what had scared me so. “Jesus,” I heard Maynard gasp.
“First one we’ve seen,” I heard Frank say from behind me. “Thought we’d ‘ave seen a few more of ‘em by now.”
“Is he…dead?” June croaked.
“Well ‘course he is, dearie,” Frank chuckled. “He certainly ain’t holdin’ his breath lookin’ like that.”
June gasped. Not in reaction to what he’d said, but to the second dead body that followed a few yards behind the first. This one was a woman, only clad in her night dress. She was floating face down. Then a third body came into view. This one was much smaller than the other two. I forced myself to look away, fighting back the sensation of my guts trying to climb up and out of my throat.
“How…how did they all die?” Louis croaked, gawking at the corpses as they drifted downriver and out of sight.
“Hmm, I’m afraid I don’t rightly know,” Frank scratched at his stubble thoughtfully. “There’s always some folks that wait too long to get out while the gettin’s good. Maybe they got trapped in an attic an’ couldn’t get out. Or maybe their boat went down upstream somewheres. Or maybe…they ran afoul of ol’ Green O’Leary.”
My little sister’s eyes widened. “Who’s that?”
“Oh, you never heard the legend of Liam O’Leary? Well, I’d ‘ave figured bein’ from Providence, you’d have heard that tale by now…”
I put a protective arm around my little sister. “No, and she doesn’t need to hear it now.”
Frank raised a hand defensively. “Alright, fair enough.”
“Shouldn’t we…shouldn’t somebody go get them, though?” I said, my voice quavering involuntarily. “Someone will need to find out who they were, give them a proper burial.”
“Do you want to ride next to a whole family of corpses?” Frank replied. “We still got a ways to go yet, sweetheart, and we ain’t got the room anyhows. All we can do now is make note of them and keep on goin’. Gotta worry ‘bout the livin’, not the already gone.”
I wanted to say that I’d rather share a boat with a hundred dead men than with Frank Walsh, but I chose to keep that to myself.
We passed the feed store at the north end of the little village. The smell of wet grain was nauseating, as were the dead cows washed up against the upstream side of the red building. So much death. Again, I thought of the story of Noah. We always heard about how he and the animals were safe on the ark. But how many untold numbers of animals, struggling and drowning, crying out in terror, would he have seen as the waters rose and he floated by? How many men, women, and children would he have witnessed doing the same?
“How much further is it?” A new voice, squeaky and barely audible amongst all the noise, came from the elderly woman huddled behind the supply crates. “I’m going to freeze to death before we make it to wherever this wretched boat is taking us.”
“We’re about three miles from the pickup point,” yelled Jankosky for all to hear.
“So ‘round 30, maybe 40 minutes,” Frank added.
The woman huffed. “You should have just left me at my house. I was perfectly fine there, and I don’t see why I had to leave.”
“Because, ma’am,” Jankowski continued, “By this time tomorrow, the river will be coming in your second-story windows.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said defiantly. “My Donald and I have lived in that home for decades, and we’ve always prayed for the river to hold back. And the good Lord has never let the waters come past the bottom of the garden wall.”
Frank leaned in towards the old woman. “That’s a mighty nice story, ma’am. But I’m afraid to tell you that it’s bullshit. See, I’ve been doin’ a little prayin’ myself. Askin’ the Almighty to pull a Genesis on this here valley, wash away all the sins of the hooligans, harlots, and hypocrites. Start things fresh.” He paused, smiling. “So, Ms. Griffith, which one d’you think our unlucky friend back there was? Which one might you be? Hmm?”
The woman recoiled, eyes wide and bottom lip trembling, but she didn’t reply. Seemingly satisfied with her reaction, Frank Walsh snickered and sat back into his seat, digging another cigarette out of his coat.
I felt a tug on my dress sleeve. June poked her little hand from under the blanket and pointed to our left. It took longer than I thought it should have to recognize the blue slate roof and its three missing shingles. The clay-stained water lapped against the eves of my home, our home. Against the far side, the chicken coop and our wagon–or perhaps a neighbor’s–were twisted up in the branches of a large tree that had pierced the wall like a giant’s arrow.
I did not weep for the loss, at least not then. Russ and Louis merely starred in silence as I did, perhaps also not fully comprehending that all we had left in the world was currently in the boat with us. Strangely, my first thought was, I hope the chickens got out safely. June and Douggie cried, I couldn’t hear it over the constant putter of the outboard motor. Then I felt a hand rest lightly on my shoulder.
“Ar scáth a cheile a mhaireann na daoine.”
Though I did not understand the words, they warmed me up like hot cocoa next to a roaring Christmas fire. It was the sort of peace that our pastor would speak of found in Philippians 4, but I had yet to ever experience myself. I began to turn to say thank you, but was cut off abruptly by the man at the back.
“What sort of spell are you puttin’ on her, witch?”
The young woman said nothing, and she did not remove her hand from my shoulder even as I faced her. Her face was wrapped in a heavy tartan scarf, leaving only her kind gray eyes visible. A mess of wavy raven hair spilled out from under her hood.
“I believe I asked you a question,” Frank barked.
“Isn’t your family from the Isle, Mr. Walsh?” she said in a confident, husky voice with a hint of an accent that wasn’t from those parts. “I’m surprised you never heard your mamaw say those same words to you in dark times.”
Frank huffed. “My grandmother was a God-fearin’ woman, not some–”
“And what are you afraid of, Mr. Walsh?”
Before he could answer her, Maynard cried out from the bow. Standing on the roof of one of the last houses in Providence proper appeared to be a person. As we drew closer, the figure resolved into a man in a long brown coat. He wore long gloves, hat, scarf, and goggles that were tinted.
“Ahoy, there!” Maynard shouted. “We’re from the U.S. Coast Guard, are you in need of assistance?”
The man shook his head and waved us off in a clear gesture of refusal. Then he pointed lazily down at the small row boat moored to the chimney.
“Look at that stubborn ol’ bastard,’ Frank growled. “Lookin’ like a fool in his old aviator garb, probably waited till the last minute to leave. Now he’s probably tryin’ to save what he can.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “The water’s gettin’ higher quick. Leave everything and get to higher ground. There’s a rescue camp at Riverview Baptist. If you can get there, that’s where we’re headed.”
The man merely waved again. Frank sat down, shaking his head. “Anyone of you know who that might be?”
June nodded. “I do. It’s Mr. Toad!” she exclaimed.
I couldn’t help but laugh. The man did somewhat resemble the illustrations from our copy of The Wind In The Willows. We continued on, and I watched the figure on the roof recede, wondering who he was and if he’d be alright. The woman behind me watched as well, but with a peculiar look on her face.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
The woman didn’t take her eyes off of him, only shrugging at the question.
I turned back to see that we were approaching the spot between town and the docks where the ridge came right up to the river, Route 7 now visible rising out of the flood to hug the cliffside.
“We’re comin’ up to the Narrows,” Frank shouted. “River’s gonna be real strong here. We can’t get too close ‘cause there’s gonna be rocks just under the surface.”
The boat fought against the quickening current, the pilot taking Frank shouted something, but I couldn’t understand him over the combined noise of the river and our boat’s engine. Then June tugged hard at my arm again.
“What, sweetie?”
“Why are those trees running towards us?” she pointed.
I turned just in time to witness the trees on the ridge far above moving closer, swaying and crashing into one another like stampeding cattle. I just stared, not comprehending, until the men began shouting. We began to veer right, away from the hillside as the leading edge of the landside launched the first logs and boulders over the cliff. Jankowsky gave the engine as much throttle as it could take, but the boat struggled to pick up speed. I instinctively threw myself onto my younger siblings, daring a glance over my shoulder just as the entire forested hilltop slammed into the river a mere hundred feet away.
We’re not going to make it, I thought, as the roar of earth and water mixing behind us overpowered the wail of the outboard. A wave rose up, an arcing ridge growing steadily until the glassy brown wall was all I could see.
We’re not going to make it.