Forum Host- Joined
- Feb 5, 2017
From "Winchester Tales" Facebook Page
.
.
We've all seen it…the lonely house that sits at the end of Route 37.
Today, the wind blows through the broken windows of Hillandale, brushing past tattered curtains that move like restless spirits. Dead leaves swirl across the splintered floors where Persian rugs once lay, and the whitewashed walls—once bright with portraits and light—are cracked and hollow. The limestone house, built in the 1780s by Revolutionary War veteran Captain William Chipley, still clings to its lonely rise above the valley. Once filled with life and laughter, it now keeps only silence—and one lingering soul.
For generations Hillandale stood proud. Captain Chipley died in 1811, and later the Crawfords lived here through the turmoil of the Civil War. Union camps sprawled across the fields, and General Emory placed his tent in Hillandale's front yard. Widow Ann Cary Jones often came from nearby Vaucluse to tend to Mrs. Crawford and her newborn child. Some say she never left.
In the fall of 1986, a young woman moved into Hillandale. For three quiet years she lived alone, loving the peace and solitude—until 1989, when the owner sold the home and the original antiques were sold off. That's when the house changed....that's when everything changed.
One night, as she drifted to sleep, the young woman woke to find an old woman in black standing in the corner of her room. Her voice was faint, almost pleading: "We don't want you to leave…"
The figure came again the next night. And the next. Always the same corner. Always the same trembling words. Footsteps echoed down the empty halls. Furniture scraped in rooms with no one there. Then one final night, the young woman awoke to find the ghost's pale face inches from her own...."Please… don't leave."
Frozen in terror, she watched as the spirit turned, drifted to the foot of the bed, and pulled a quilt to the floor before vanishing. Before dawn, the young woman fled Hillandale and never returned.
Years later, I showed her a photograph of Ann Cary Jones. The woman gasped, then covered her mouth, her voice breaking as she whispered: "That's her. That's the woman who was in my room."
.
.
We've all seen it…the lonely house that sits at the end of Route 37.
Today, the wind blows through the broken windows of Hillandale, brushing past tattered curtains that move like restless spirits. Dead leaves swirl across the splintered floors where Persian rugs once lay, and the whitewashed walls—once bright with portraits and light—are cracked and hollow. The limestone house, built in the 1780s by Revolutionary War veteran Captain William Chipley, still clings to its lonely rise above the valley. Once filled with life and laughter, it now keeps only silence—and one lingering soul.
For generations Hillandale stood proud. Captain Chipley died in 1811, and later the Crawfords lived here through the turmoil of the Civil War. Union camps sprawled across the fields, and General Emory placed his tent in Hillandale's front yard. Widow Ann Cary Jones often came from nearby Vaucluse to tend to Mrs. Crawford and her newborn child. Some say she never left.
In the fall of 1986, a young woman moved into Hillandale. For three quiet years she lived alone, loving the peace and solitude—until 1989, when the owner sold the home and the original antiques were sold off. That's when the house changed....that's when everything changed.
One night, as she drifted to sleep, the young woman woke to find an old woman in black standing in the corner of her room. Her voice was faint, almost pleading: "We don't want you to leave…"
The figure came again the next night. And the next. Always the same corner. Always the same trembling words. Footsteps echoed down the empty halls. Furniture scraped in rooms with no one there. Then one final night, the young woman awoke to find the ghost's pale face inches from her own...."Please… don't leave."
Frozen in terror, she watched as the spirit turned, drifted to the foot of the bed, and pulled a quilt to the floor before vanishing. Before dawn, the young woman fled Hillandale and never returned.
Years later, I showed her a photograph of Ann Cary Jones. The woman gasped, then covered her mouth, her voice breaking as she whispered: "That's her. That's the woman who was in my room."
Bringing the