There is a long held belief among those who live in Yazoo County that the name of the Yazoo, the name given to the river that flows through it, and who's yearly overflow made it prime cotton growing ground comes from the old Choctaw word that means “River of Death”. I guess that is fitting enough because all the ghost stories and legends I've shared with you center on Yazoo County. This next story was told to me by a good friend of mine. Her name is Lana Edwards. She is one of the few remaining Edward's that call Benton home.

Now the Edward's family, according to local lore, moved into Benton following the Civil War. And many of the old folks in town still consider the Edward's family to be “Carpetbaggers'' that is a largely historical term used by Southerners to describe opportunistic Northerners who came down to the ruined Southern states after the American Civil war, who were perceived by to exploiting the local population for their own financial, political, and or social gain.

I have known Lana since I moved to Benton and I can safely say that she and her little sister, her mother and her father are among the finest people to call Benton home. Lana even volunteered to be Benton Academies hostage one year, I guess that was the year before I arrived here in Benton. Anyway one afternoon, while there was nothing going on, she sat down and told me the following story.

Southerns love telling stories, I think it's in our blood. I think it echoes back to the days before radio's, television and the internet. Before we became glued to our phones. Back in those days, the whole family would gather in the summertime on a screened in balcony and lay out covers on the floor. That was before the time of fans and air conditioners, back when the coolness of the night was the only relief from the blistering heat of summer. Often to pass the time stories would be told as each member of the family struggled to fall asleep under the light cotton blankets.

One story that was told to me, and that is the story I'm going to tell to you, was told to me by my late grandmother Katherine Rebecca Edwards. Who heard it from her grandmother. Now, if you were to travel the back roads of Benton you would soon discover that dozens of smaller, unpaved roads often feed into the main roads. These roads are often unmarked and if one was to follow them, one would often come to an abandoned homestead that is slowly being reclaimed by nature.

Its at the end of such a road. Now, I can't tell you how to get there, but I could show you. That one would find an old abandoned homestead that is slowly being reclaimed by nature. The homestead once belonged to my grandmother. We call it the old “Edward Homestead''. But I'll do my best to tell you how to get there. Now if you leave Benton and are driving south like you're going toward Jackson on the highway you'll come across an old, wooden Methodist church. It is called “Shallow Creek Methodist Church '' and was founded by my Taylor C. Edward who was a Methodist Minister. A Historical Marker is located in front of the church. The church is still active and hold's services on the first and third Sunday of each month.

Anyway once you reach that church you will notice an old dirt road that curves to the right. You take that dirt road and it will take you down a winding country lane, you're going to cross a few bridges, be sure to count the bridges, because before you come to the third one you're going to take another right and that's going to take you down another winding country lane. Slow down now because you'll soon pass a collection of old weather worn graves. After you pass that collection of graves, keep your eyes open for another dirt road that leans to the left. A wooden post covered in ivy should be the marker you're looking for. Take that road and follow it.

About a mile or two down that road you should come to an old abandoned house that is covered in vines. Stop your car and get out and look around. A few hundred feet from the house you should see a old stone well that covered in vines

This, well, is haunted. And every night the ghost of a poor Irishman comes from the well and cries out for help. He is trapped in that well, and has remained trapped for the last one hundred and fifty years. Now according to family lore, my great-great-grandfather hired two Irishmen to dig a well for him once his other well went dry. This was before the days of indoor plumbing, back in those days most of the drinking water had to be collected in wells or cisterns and often they went dry in spells of hot weather or when the rains were late. A well that would not go dry was good as gold.

Now one of the Irishmen was a big strong fellow who spoke with a thick as molasses Irish accent. He had a head of fine red hair with a big bushy beard that was red as his hair. He loved to brawl and was often seen drinking in the salons and public houses that lined “Grease Row”. Helping him was a fellow Irishman who was a small, frail fellow. Unlike his friend he shunned the darkened rooms of the salons, public houses, and whore houses and instead read the bible. He was also pious to a fault and attended Mass daily.

Now according to the legend the big fellow often found sport in teasing the little fellow. He often poked fun at his small side, making fun of his pious nature. Now my great-great-grandfather was a generous man by nature and often paid his day laborers more than the other large farmers. While most men were lucky to get seventy five cents a day for their labor and a skilled man could get as much as a dollar twenty five for their troubles my great-great-grandfather was known to pay as much as two dollars a day to his day labors and three dollars a day to his skilled helped.

And so these two Irishmen were paid well for their troubles. And despite the tension between the two they tried to get along and worked from daylight to dust. So the work on the well went smooth, and in two short weeks they had finished the well, but no water did they find and worst of all there was a fault with the sealing, the rainwater that fell into the well bleed into the ground.

Now my great-great-grandfather was shrewd as he was generous. He had paid a fair wage for their labor and had been rewarded with a broken well. Sighing, he informed the two that because they had failed to seal the well properly he would withhold a dollar from each day's wage going forward. Outraged, the men barked at this, but instead of losing his cool, he simply held up his hand and told them that this was only for two weeks, once the fourteen dollars had been repaid he would go back to paying them two dollars a day.

And with that he rode away. Now the bigger, stronger fellow turned upon the little one. It has been his job to mix the concrete that was to be used to seal the well. Thus it was his fault that he was being docked two weeks pay. The smaller man barked back, saying the bigger man was at fault, because he had measured out everything. It was him who was to blame. Soon the two were barking back and forth.

Then something happened, according to legend the small man picked up a nearby shovel and without thinking smacked the larger man upside the head with it. The shove is a fearsome weapon and the edge cleaved into the Irishman's head and split it open. The smaller one, still in raged and driven by some inhuman force, lifted the man that was twice his size up and tumbled him down into the well. And then he took flight. According to legend he took his savings, and boarded a train in Benton and later found employment in the coalfields of Alabama.
Anyway a short time later, people started hearing what sounded like screams of pain coming from the now abandoned well. Some even reported hearing desperate pleads for help. And some reported seeing the phantom shape of a man dressed in dirty overalls and blown out work boots coming from the well on moonless nights.

Soon rumors started going around that the land was haunted and the other field hands, many of them were very superstitious, started to leave. Many feared the wrath of the phantom, and many believed the ghost would only bring back luck, such as crop failures, drought, and milk to sour. Many of them left to find work on the Railroad or the newly opened Brickwork in town.

Now I've never seen the ghost, but I believe the story. My great-great-grandfather would in time go on to open a butcher shop on main street and to this day my family still owns and operates it. But from time to time we'll host family gatherings out on the old homestead. And normally such gatherings would last three or four days. And of course somebody will bring up the story, and the older folks will gather the younger folks around and once more tell us the story of the murdered Irishman I've just told you and warn us about going around that old well.

Again, I've never seen the ghost. But you might if you follow the directions at the beginning of the tale. Just be sure its a moonless night. One that late in the autumn when the trees are bare and the wind is howling across the open fields.