They were convinced that the two men were ghostly good Samaritans, standing watch over the hill, waiting to help unfortunate motorists with a push up the hill.
The Giant Ghost
The story of the giant ghost of Benton in Elkhart County became a news item in the September 13, 1896, issue of the Philadelphia Press. The story attracted so much attention that many upstanding, intelligent individuals who were considered to have good sense decided to investigate.
This is the story as it was reported: A farmer and his wife were returning home one night from a visit with one of their neighbors. The road to their farm, about sixteen miles southeast of Elkhart, passed near an old church surrounded by a moss-covered, overgrown graveyard.
For years, an old man who lived not far from the graveyard had tended to the gravesites, keeping the vegetation under control. Ten years before, however, the old man was found murdered. He had been beaten to death by a large club, which was found beside his cold body. The motive for this dastardly deed was the rumored hoard of gold he supposedly had hidden. The crime was never solved.
The old man was buried in the graveyard where he’d spent so much of his time. Sadly, after his death no one continued to maintain the hallowed ground and final resting places of the county’s pioneer families.
This particular night, as the farmer and his wife neared the graveyard, the horses reared back on their haunches, eyes bulging, ears flicking as they snorted in terror. The farmer was alarmed and suspected the horses had gotten the scent of highwaymen hiding in the shadows. He reached for a shotgun laying in the bottom of the wagon for just such an emergency. His wife screamed. She pointed straight ahead, grabbing his arm speechlessly.
Blocking their way, standing in the road just beside the old graveyard, was an apparition of a man with a long white beard sweeping over his chest. The man had to be no less than eight feet tall. In one of his hands, he carried a large club similar to the one that had been used ten years earlier to kill the old cemetery caretaker.
Slowly raising his free arm, the ghost bowed and, with a majestic sweep of his arm, beckoned the farmer to come ahead. The farmer struggled to restrain the panicked horses while his wife sat beside him, dumbstruck and frozen with fear.
The farmer, still struggling with his team, watched in apprehension and mounting fear as the ghostly figure slowly began to move toward the wagon. The large club was now raised to its shoulder, much as a soldier would carry his rifle. The farmer saw that the fearsome figure moved without touching the ground—just floating above the road.
Whirling his team around, the farmer lashed the horses into a run, racing back toward the house of the friend he had just left. The next day in broad daylight the couple once again began their trip home—this time completing their journey without incident.
Shortly thereafter another farmer in the area encountered the giant ghost. This man had a reputation for being not only intelligent, but without fear. His encounter with the giant club-wielding ghost, however, left him greatly fearful. He never again traveled that road at night.
On a number of occasions, several groups of curious citizens have attempted to investigate and solve the mystery of the giant ghost. In each instance they, too, saw and were convinced of the actual presence of the ghost.
Several conflicting reports described the ghost as being eight to ten feet tall and having a badly mangled or missing head. But all the reports mentioned the club. The story evolved to allege that the entity was the spirit of the elderly man who must have been murdered by a gang of gold-seeking ruffians. Some said that the ghost would not hurt the innocent; he was just waiting for the murderers to come down the road, so he could take his revenge.
Needless to say, when darkness comes, those of the Benton com-munity steer clear of the road beside the old graveyard on U.S. Route 33 where the giant ghost waited—and still may be waiting.
The Haunting of Ruthmere Mansion
I had just begun my telephone conversation with Father George Minnix, the interim director of Ruthmere House Museum, when the alarm system began making its high-pitched screams of warning. Father Minnix’s distressed and anxious voice announced, “I must go. The alarm has gone off.” Our connection went dead.
Was this yet another in a series of unexplained happenings ru-mored to be plaguing the beautiful Beaux Arts home of the late A.R. Beardsley and his wife?
In the 1880s, Dr. Franklin Miles began marketing his home remedies to Elkhart citizens. Nine years later Albert R. (A.R., as he was known) Beardsley joined the firm. Alfred R. Beardsley’s successful life story is the classic American dream. Born in Ohio in 1847, A.R. had completed a common-school education when, as a teenager, he moved to Elkhart to live with his aunt, the widow of his notable uncle Dr. Havilah Beardsley, who established a gristmill. A.R. earned his keep by milking his aunt’s cows, doing chores for neighbors, and eventually working as an apprentice clerk in a dry goods store.
In his early twenties, he opened his own dry goods store and became one of the city’s leading merchants. Twelve years later he left the dry goods business, purchased stock in the Muzzy Starch Company, and within only six years became the president.
The well-liked and prosperous A.R. soon became part of the political environment at the local level, serving as city clerk, treasurer, and councilman. Finally entering the state arena, he was successful in his bid for Elkhart County’s state representative. Continuing to hold state-level positions, he served two terms (1905 and 1907) in the state senate.
Elizabeth Florence Baldwin became his bride in September of 1872. They settled into a house at 307 West High Street. In December 1880, Ruth Beardsley, their first and only child, was born. It soon became apparent, however, that the infant was afflicted with hydrocephalus, a condition in which an abnormal increase of fluid occurs within the cranial cavity. The baby died in July 1881.
After a period of grief, A.R. and Elizabeth began again to entertain friends at their home, something they both loved. As A.R.’s political popularity grew, though, so did the need for a larger home in which to host their many friends and political acquaintances.
In 1908 they started building a new home named Ruthmere along the bank of the Saint Joseph River: Ruth, after their beloved child, and “mere,” meaning “near the water.” No expense was spared in the building of the home, dedicated to the memory of their child and intended as a warm and welcoming showplace for their many guests. After two years the Beardsleys moved into their beautiful new home at 302 East Beardsley. Almost immediately they began hosting numerous parties, inviting influential friends and colleagues.
By all accounts (including those of Robert B. Beardsley, the couple’s great-nephew,) Elizabeth was quite a lady! Often she’d re-ceive her guests wearing a hat and gloves and standing in front of the drawing-room fireplace. Elizabeth was gregarious, hearty, flamboyant, and daring—wearing lipstick and heavy white powder when few women did so. She was also known for expressing a gentility in her love of Worth perfume and tea roses, while exhibiting characteristics unbecoming a lady such as swearing when she felt like it, and later in life, drinking a split of champagne, as prescribed by her doctor, before going to bed.
The parties ended with the Beardsleys’ deaths in 1924 (they died within five months of each other). Upon their death their nephew, Arthur Beardsley, purchased the house. He died in 1944, and the home then passed out of the Beardsley family and was purchased by a family with five children.
Unfortunately, through the years the property was abandoned and fell into disrepair. In 1969 the Beardsleys’ great-nephew, Robert B., began a restoration that took five years to complete. It was opened to the public in 1973 as a Beaux Arts-style house museum.
During all its years, no “strange” events had ever been reported. However, today docents and visitors alike have whispered rumors of experiencing strange and unaccountable