The "Old Stone House" on Hollow Rock, built more than a century ago, is the only stone building still standing in this enchanting Hollow Rock valley. On reading the neatly lettered inscription carved over the eastern doorway, we find that it was built the seventh month, eighteenth day in the year 1830 by T. and E. TOWNSEND

Thomas and Enoch Townsend were two middle-aged Wilburite Quakers, who, like many others of this religious sect, moved from the State of Virginia to Ohio, to be from the degrading sight of human slavery. For a few years these two brothers conducted a small underground station for the escaping black people, but soon discovered that they were much too near the "seedbed" of the slave trade to make their humane efforts reasonably safe for themselves, as well as these escaping black chattels, who had placed their entire confidence in them.

They had another nearby Quaker neighbor, Jacob GROFF, Jacob, who quietly encouraged these humanitarian efforts but, for propitious reasons, he was seldom ever seen in conversation with the Townsends, although he kept them safely informed of what was going on in the neighborhood. The religious tenets of both families embraced living within the bounds of the cardinal virtues and constantly reflecting them in their daily words, deeds and acts, as exemplified nineteen centuries ago—a good religion to live by, a wise life to emulate, a perfect faith to die with.

Because their illicit but sympathetic business was conducted mostly under cover of night, these two brothers were as uncommunicative about it to the outside world, with one exception, as a hibernating toad in December. As so often exemplified in human nature, especially among the unlearned, when they would like to know their neighbors’ business and fail, they soon begin creating and spreading a fog of suspicion, doubt and distrust. These seeds need no planting to grow luxurantly and scatter over the neighborhood like a noxious weed. Ignorance indeed loves company, makes odd friendships as well as strange befdellows. Some moronic dweller in this little valley, who lacked the outer light of intelligence, overheard the remark that these two brothers often stated that they were guided by "an inner light." He soon began broadcasting the rumor about that, it was said, "that strange lights were often seen in the Townsend house"—a figment of his own imagination. As a lie loves and seeks company, to make his false hood strike with greater force, he claimed the old stone house often trembled and shook on its foundation and strange noises were frequently heard issue from the attic and cellar. Even unusual noises were heard in the chuckling water of Hollow Rock run, a few rods below the house. These noises from the brook sounded very much like some person jumping from the high bank into the water, followed by the report of a great splash when it struck the bed of the stream.

It soon became common rumor that the Townsend cattle were afflicted with strange "miseries"—hollow horn, "wolf in the tail" and lost cud. Also that their horses had an overabundance of curious witches’ knots in their tails and manes. Their cats caterwauled at unseasonable hours, giving vent to violent yowls as if they were being heartlessly tortured by unseen hands; the dogs gave tongue to blood-freezing yips and howls incessantly through the entire night. Finally, one neighbor who frequently made nocturnal trips to the tavern at Linton claimed that he was unwillingly accompanied by a werewolf whose eyes flashed sparks of fire, and it snapped at everything it passed with its great frothing mouth. This werewolf could run through the air equally as well as upon the ground, until it reached the old stone house, when it would give one huge bound and entered the old stone house, when it would give one huge bound and entered the south window in the attic. Strange to note, this man never saw the phantom werewolf on his return trip—in fact, it was questionable if he was able to see the house itself.

What most of these people saw and heard contained a grain of truth, but their obscure, wishful explanation was what they wanted, for it suited their purpose better.

The Townsends heard all this palaver from their friend Groff, but they went about their work, both happy and safe in their faith of pleasing God their Creator and helping their fellow men. In the early winter of 1849 these God-fearing Quakers moved to Salem, Ohio, to be near those of their own faith and to more actively engage in the underground movement.

On the first day of January, 1850, a strange couple landed from a river boat near the mouth of Yellow Creek. It was Joshua MARSHALL, born near the village of New Somerset, and his wife, a California Indian squaw. Marshall was a lifelong victim of the wanderlust and had rambled extensively for a score of years all over the Western Hemisphere. He had taken a hand in both the Seminole and Mexican Wars, and at last wandered into the territory of California, where in 1848 he was putting in a water mill on old John SUTTER’s plantation when gold was discovered. All that was known concerning him was that he had married a squaw, and had taken a boat at St. Louis to return to his home in Ohio. When last seen each one was carrying a large valise of considerable weight. The rainy weather on that bleak January afternoon rapidly turned exceedingly cold when this strange couple, with their heavy buffalo skin valises, put their feet on the soil at the Yellow Creek landing, just south of the mouth of that creek.

As it was growing dark when these two travelers came to the old stone house, they saw that it was vacated, so that they entered and stayed for the night. Seemingly, at later investigation showed, they had no means of starting a fire—and when morning came they had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed them, and they were never heard of afterwards.

Some, in order to seek a reasonable solution, suggested that they might have become ill and in their delirium both had fallen into the high water of Hollow Rock and drifted to the river. The episode spread like wild fire all over the Yellow Creek country. The burning question was not so much what mysteriously happened to the Marshalls as what disposition was made of the two valises. Every form of divining wand was brought into severe competition; every inch of the surrounding land was raked with a fine comb and scanned with an eagle eye—but to no avail.

Now there was a strange character by the name of Adam PYLE living at Linton, who had moved from the Virginia side to the Yellow Creek hamlet of Linton, and had made a partial living by doctoring the neighboring people with "signatures." He made claim that he had learned his medical procedure by watching an old Cherokee medicine man. He had "signature" remedies for all known maladies and one especially that he could give or take that would dissipate all fear and dissolve the mystic clouds that encompassed the old stone house. In order to draw attention to himself as well as draw trade and show the efficacy of the properly dug signature remedy, mandrake root, he boasted loudly that,

Old Doc Pyle sly hinted that only those who knew the correct method could handle the powerful mandrake root, and to dig it one must know the trick, or perchance meet with instant death. This root was increased in potency many times if found growing under the gallows of a newly hanged victim or over the grave of an Indian chieftain. First it must be encircled with an iron chain of seven links and then dragged from the earth by the strength of dogs. This old medical advisor would then close his eyes and quote from the quaint English herbalist, John Gerard, who centuries before said,

"It (the mandrake root) will give a great shreeke at the digging up"

The old herbalist of Linton put one of his most powerful mandrake roots into a gallon jug of corn liquor and after taking "a long and powerful drag," he started at early dusk for the old stone house. The nearer he got to the house, the more frequent and protracted became the "swigs" of mandrake and corn. His iron nerves held remarkably well, for he entered the old stone house and built a fire to keep himself warm while he watched for the night performance.

That night turned cold with a driving sleet storm and cold rain, much similar to the one when the Marshalls disappeared. Adam Pyle, although hearing many and all strange noises, at last grew sleepy as he sat watching the queer faces in the old open fireplace.

About midnight he heard someone walking outside the stone house, and he quickly fortified himself with a grand "swig" of mandrake. He now thought he heard someone tapping on the cellar roof, and he repeated the magic remedy in heroic doses. Seemingly the knocking would not cease, when he became peeved and demanded in alcoholic tinctured Virginia English,

"Whats that! Whose Thar! I can’t git up! Who are youins!"

Undoubtedly the one who caused the tapping understood Pyle to mean for them to come up from the cellar, for the cellar door into the kitchen opened—widely but no wider than the old herbalist’s eyes, now spread from brow to cheek. Pyle had but one thought, and that was to get his boots, breeches and body out the old stone house door and down the road to Linton quicker than a scared bear in hunting season. Although his feet and legs were not completely under normal control, his steam pressure was powerful; for he was determined to enter the Pyle cabin door at the very earliest moment, and he did so in record time. When he "hit the door," he delivered with his alcoholically bent tongue this rapid fire message to his wife.

Doc Pyle’s old Irish wife could not enter a word in edgewise until he had completed his excited harangue, when she replied,

None but good old Isaac Groff knew the true story. He had sent two escaping Negroes to the old stone house that stormy night, forgetting that the Townsends no longer lived there. They were directed, as all former black fugitives had been, to enter the north cellar door and tap on the cellar roof until they received an answer. These two colored people were wet, cold, ragged and bedraggled-looking fellows, whose boat had upturned as they were nearing the Ohio shore and had thrown them into the river.

As soon as Groff had seen his mistake, he started for the old stone house, but as he neared Shaws Run, the first brook to enter Yellow Creek on its right side, he heard someone coming down the road with the swiftness of a deer and the footbeats of a Clydesdale horse. Groff stepped aside; for it was Pyle making for his home. In front of him was a red fox, whose water-soaked fur had impeded its speed, and Pyle was shouting furiously,

From that day until the present time, the old stone house has been free of any but bottled spirits.