COLUMN: My Favorite Tuscaloosa County Ghost Story

*This is an opinion column*

NORTHPORT, AL — It's an urban legend that can trace its roots back to well before I was born over 30 years ago — a ghastly tale ripe with fear and intrigue from everyone who hears the story.

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In fact, it was even the subject of spooky nighttime jaunts when my parents were in high school — and it's been scaring children and unsuspecting dates ever since.

Hell, I've even seen it with my own eyes.

I'm talking, of course, about the two aimless spirits that supposedly haunt a quiet, dimly lit road in northern Tuscaloosa County.

The Ghosts of Hidden Meadows

In the present day, the Monday morning of Oct. 30 to be specific, I stood on the brick stoop of a seemingly out-of-place multistory, New England-style home in Northport, which sits on the middle of a steep hill and across the road from the former Hidden Meadows golf course.

I nervously fiddled with the car keys in my coat pocket with one hand while pressing the doorbell button of the imposing home, the large white frame of which loomed over me in a way not unlike the DeFeo house at 112 Ocean Avenue in Amityville, New York.

Especially on a gray, gloomy morning like Monday, there's just something unsettling and ineffable about a big old house with darkened windows that has a way of getting underneath one's skin to prod at our deepest childhood fears.

Around me, the cold wind whistled through the large oak trees and stirred up dried leaves as if someone was trying to tell me something — like foreshadowing in a horror movie where the eventual victim is shown exactly what's at play around them, only for them to ignore the signs.

And despite a garage door being open, no lights were on inside from what I could tell and no one answered my incessant ringing at the front door that gave way to loud knocking in a last-ditch effort to get an answer.

All I wanted were a few answers and maybe a little history. But like any good Halloween mystery, your protagonist came up empty.

Indeed, I remember well being told the ghost story by my parents when I was around seven or eight years old.

As a quick side note, it's worth pointing out that I've heard several different variations of the origin story of the two spirits that allegedly haunt Old Cove Road, which is just off Rose Boulevard.

I've heard they were slain lovers, killed by a jealous spouse. I also heard once during high school that someone had been told they were the spirits of two children who had been murdered.

Regardless of the story behind it, the common thread everyone will quickly verify is the presence of two spirits wandering on the side of the secluded road.

If memory serves me right, though, the story relayed to me by my own parents — who both swore incessantly that they had seen the spirits — began with two young high school sweethearts out for an evening drive.

Unfortunately, as you can probably expect, the story doesn't end well for the young couple, who my parents insisted died in a car crash and, as a result, were doomed for eternity to wander the lonely road as aimless spirits trying to make their way home.

For a seven-year-old who was even scared of Vincent Price in "The Great Mouse Detective" and the talking houses on "The Muppet Show," I was shaken to the core to know about the paranormal activity so close to the comfort of my childhood home.

Again, this was the 90s and before the internet, when kids were brainwashed by Mom, Dad, and Robert Stack of "Unsolved Mysteries" into completely baseless fears of maladies like quicksand or The Bermuda Triangle.

So, you can imagine my apprehension when my parents decided to take me out for a late-night drive in the unlikely chance we might catch a glimpse of the notorious pair of specters.

In the years since that night and after over a decade of shoe-leather journalism, I've actually participated in ghost hunts and found myself in far more dangerous and scary situations than coming face-to-face with some apparition.

But on that clear summer night — I distinctly remember it being in either late July or early August — I sat in abject terror in the back seat of my Mama's Ford Expedition as we made the short drive from Rue Road.

For those who fancy themselves enthusiasts of the paranormal, it will sound like a normal response when I say that as soon as we turned onto Shamblin Road, I was immediately overcome with a juvenile feeling of foreboding and dread.

My heart was leaping out of my chest as we made our way down the dark, sparsely populated road at a crawl — surely the result of the dramatic effect on the part of my dear Mama.

Much can be said about that lady. A lover of bad Disco music, 80s slasher films, Stephen King and the hit television show "Ghost Hunters," my Mama has always been curious about the paranormal and took every opportunity to co-op me into her crusade for answers.

After all, this is the woman I've spent countless hours with watching black-and-white episodes of "The Twilight Zone" and the same lady who gave me her first edition copy of "13 Alabama Ghosts & Jeffrey" by my hero, the legendary Kathryn Tucker Windham.

I'm beyond thankful for that latter gift, which I credit with sparking my love for storytelling and the written word.

Still, as great of a Mama as she may be, that devious woman had mischief on her mind that summer night, with my Dad acting as a willing accomplice.

So after driving for what felt like half an hour down a road that was barely a mile long, she said something to the effect of "I guess we're not going to see the ghosts, dang."

But moments later after we took an unusually sharp left turn right before getting to the entrance of the golf course, my Mama slammed on the brakes and hollered out "Oh my God, there they are!"

We were face to face with the ghosts they had told me about.

My heart made its way up to my throat when I saw them and, once my eyes adjusted to the dark looking out the window, I indeed saw them — a pair of brick columns, painted a luminous shade of white with round finials at the tops resembling a head from far enough away or to a set of bad eyes.

See what I mean?

I had been duped. Bamboozled. Made a fool — but only the latest victim in a decades-old prank that has been the stuff of northern Tuscaloosa County lore for years.

No, I never got an answer as to the history of the columns from the residents when I came knocking Monday morning at the big house on the other side of the entry gate.

And maybe that's just as well. Some things are just best left to legend anyway, even if I might have click-baited a few unsuspecting readers tonight into thinking they were about to read a real ghost story.

But thinking back on this Halloween, this reminded me of the magic of being a child, with parents young enough to have some fun themselves. I'm so damn thankful for all of it.

It's a memory I'll cherish for the rest of my life and one that I'm sure many of you can relate to if you grew up on this side of the Black Warrior River.

Do you have any Tuscaloosa County urban legends or scary Halloween stories that remind you of your family?

I'd sure love to hear them.

Happy Halloween from our Tuscaloosa Patch family to yours!

Ryan Phillips is an award-winning journalist, editor and opinion columnist. He is also the founder and field editor of Tuscaloosa Patch. The views expressed in this column are his own and in no way a reflection of our parent company or sponsors. Contact him at ryan.phillips@patch.com