Entry VI: Haunting in the Delta

The Mississippi Delta is a place where stories linger.

Beneath the moss-draped oaks, along forgotten roads, and in the shadows of historic buildings, legends continue to echo through the generations. Some speak of restless spirits. Others tell of curses that refuse to fade. And a few stories are so deeply woven into the landscape that separating fact from folklore becomes nearly impossible.

In this entry, we travel into the haunted heart of the Delta to explore three chilling tales: the mysterious Boyington Oak, where the dead are said to speak through the branches; the tragic legend of the Red Lady of Huntingdon College, whose presence is still rumored to wander the halls she never truly left behind; and the Witch of Yazoo, a story of vengeance, fire, and a curse that some believe remains unbroken to this day.

Whether these stories are history, folklore, or something in between, they all share one unsettling truth:

Some places never forget.

Transcript

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This also contains discussions of suicide, death, and emotional distress that some listeners may find difficult or trigger. Please take care while listening. If you or someone you know is struggling, help is available. In the United States and Canada, you can call or take 988 to reach the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline anytime, day or night. For free and confident support. You can also visit 988Lifeline.org for additional resources and live chat options. The last one day disappeared into the sun. And today we're one of the stories that still echo through it. Welcome to the book of Lore. In 1833, a 19-year-old drifter arrived in Mobile, Alabama. His name was Charles R. S. Boington. Originally from Connecticut, Boington worked as a printer by trade, and like many young men drifting through southern port cities at the time, arrived carrying little more than the hope of starting over. Money was scarce, work was inconsistent, and for a while, Boington rented a room inside a local boarding house where he became close friends with another struggling traveler named Nathaniel Frost. The two men reportedly spent much of their time together. Two outsiders trying to survive in a city that barely noticed either of them existed. And then, one afternoon in May, everything changed. The two men left together for a walk, but by sunset, only Boeington returned. Nathaniel Frost was discovered not long afterward beneath an oak tree, dead. His pockets turned inside out, empty. At first, the whispers moved quietly through Mobile. People questioned Boeington almost immediately. He was a drifter, poor, unknown to most of the city. And as suspicion spread, authorities soon learned Boeington supposedly owed Frost money. And for investigators, that was enough. Boington was arrested almost immediately, and in what many later described as a rushed and deeply flawed trial, he was convicted almost entirely on circumstantial evidence. Within days, Charles Boeington was sentenced to death. And according to legend, as the noose was placed around his neck, Boington continued proclaiming his innocence to the crowd gathered to watch his execution. But when it became clear no one believed him, he made one final declaration. He swore that an oak tree would grow from his grave. And when it did, it would prove he had died an innocent man. Moments later, the trapdoor opened beneath him, and Charles Boyington was hanged. His body was buried in the Potter's Field of Church Street Graveyard on February 20th, 1835. A section reserved for the poor, the forgotten, the disgraced, and for a while, life moved on. Mobile continued growing. People forgot his name, forgot the trial, forgot the drifter buried beneath the soil. But according to the legend, the earth had not forgotten him. Not long after Boyington's burial, visitors to the graveyard reportedly noticed a small sprout pushing through the ground directly above his grave. At first, nobody thought much of it, just another sapling forcing its way through old soil. But over time, the tree continued growing. And eventually, people began remembering Boeington's final words. Because a sapling growing from his grave was identified as an oak. Year after year, the tree grew larger, its roots twisting deeper into the earth below, its branches stretching wider over the graveyard itself. And slowly, the story surrounding Boeington began changing. Some people dismissed the tree as a coincidence. Others wondered something far more unsettling. What if Boeington had been telling the truth? And then, years later, the story took another turn. According to local legend, two separate individuals eventually confessed to Nathaniel Frost's murder on their deathbeds. If true, it meant Boeington had died for a crime he never committed. And suddenly, the oak tree no longer felt like a coincidence. It felt like a warning. Or maybe a refusal. As though the land itself would not allow Boeington's innocence to remain buried forever. But over time, the legend surrounding the tree grew darker. During the Civil War, soldiers camped near Church Street Graveyard reportedly claimed they heard strange groaning sounds coming from the large oak late at night. Others described whispers moving through the cemetery despite the air standing completely still. And throughout the years, tragedy seemed to collect around the tree itself. Fires destroyed nearby buildings, storms tore through Mobile. Yet, somehow, the tree endured. Scarred, twisted, but still standing. In 1847, local stories claimed a grieving widow took her own life near the tree, adding another layer of sorrow to the legend surrounding it. And eventually, many people began avoiding Church Street graveyard entirely after dark. Some claim they saw figures moving silently between the graves. Others describe hearing footsteps following behind them, only to turn and find nobody there. One particularly strange detail surfaced again and again throughout the stories: the smell of ink. Witnesses claim sudden gusts of wind near the oak carried a faint scent of old printer's ink through the cemetery air. A detail many connected directly back to Boeington's former trade. And according to local legend, some visitors even claimed they saw the outline of a man leaning silently against the tree late at night, watching, waiting, as though still trying to tell his story. Today, the Boyington oak still stands in Mobile, its roots still buried deep beneath Church Street graveyard. And depending on who you ask, the tree is more than just a part of the city's history. Some believe it's a monument to injustice. Others believe something of Charles Boyington still lingers within it, reaching upward from beneath the soil, still pleading to be believed. And maybe that's what makes stories like this survive for so long. Not the ghost itself, but the fear that somewhere, someone innocent was forgotten. And that even death wasn't enough to silence him. The Borington Oak legend is ultimately a story about memory, about someone refusing to disappear quietly beneath the soil, and maybe that's why Southern ghost stories lingered the way they do. Because in places shaped by tragedy, lost in time, emotions seemed to settle into the land itself, into buildings, into graveyards, into the people still living beside them. And according to generations of students in Montgomery, Alabama, one spirit has been walking the hall of Huntingdon College for decades, always dressed in red, still searching for something she lost long ago. For decades, students at Huntingdon College in Montgomery, Alabama have told stories of a figure dressed entirely in red wandering the halls late at night, appearing beneath dim hallway lights before disappearing again without a sound. They called her the Red Lady. And depending on which version of the legend you believe, she may have been haunting the school for more than a century. One of the earliest stories connected to the Red Lady dates back to the late 1800s, when Huntington College was still located in Tuskegee, Alabama. According to the legend, students inside a woman's dormitory awoke one night to the sight of a young woman moving slowly through the halls. She wore a scarlet dress, carried a scarlet parasol, and according to witnesses, seemed surrounded by a strange reddish glow. The figure never spoke, never acknowledged the students watching her. She simply drifted through the hallways before eventually passing through a gateway outside and vanishing completely. No one ever identified who she was. And according to the story, she was never seen again. But years later, another version of the Red Lady legend became spreading through Huntington College, and this one carried a far sadder tone. According to historians Daniel Barefoot and author Catherine Tucker Wyndham, the second Red Lady was believed to be a young woman named Martha, though some versions of the story call her Margaret instead. Unlike most of the students attending Huntington, Martha never truly wanted to be there. She had come reluctantly from New York after her father's dying wish required her to attend the same Alabama college once attended by her grandmother. And despite inheriting enormous wealth, Martha arrived deeply unhappy. Almost immediately, students began noticing her obsession with the color red. She wore red clothing, decorated her room with crimson drapes, and covered her bed with a red bedspread. Even the objects she surrounded herself with seemed carefully chosen in shades of scarlet. A red prayer rug from Turkey. Small red figurines resting silently on her shelves. At first, the other girls became fascinated by her. Curious even. But fascination quickly turned into distance. Martha struggled socially almost immediately. She rarely spoke during meals, sat alone whenever possible, and according to the stories, carried herself with such a cold detachment that many students mistook her shyness for arrogance. Roommates quickly came and went, one after another, requesting transfers away from Martha's room. Some described her as withdrawn. Others described her as openly bitter. But beneath all of it, the story suggests something far sadder: loneliness. The more isolated Martha became, the more deeply she seemed to retreat into herself. Eventually, the dorm president herself moved into Martha's room, hoping kindness and patience might finally break through the walls surrounding her. And for a while, it almost seemed possible. But according to the legend, Martha had already become consumed by resentment. The harder people tried to reach her, the more distant she became. And eventually, even the dorm president decided to leave. According to the story, as she packed her belongings to move out, Martha returned unexpectedly to the room. And from one of the only times anyone could remember, she spoke emotionally. With bitterness in her voice, she allegedly told the girl, So you couldn't stand me either, like all the rest of your stuck-up friends. I was beginning to think you really wanted me to be your friend, but you hate me just like the rest. Then Martha reportedly made one final statement before her roommate left. A warning. Or maybe a curse. For the rest of your life, you'll regret leaving this room. And after that, Martha's behavior reportedly became stranger. Students claimed she wandered through the dormitories late at night long after anyone else had gone to sleep, moving silently from room to room, sometimes opening doors without speaking, others simply staring blankly into the darkness before disappearing back into the halls. And according to those who encountered her, the atmosphere around Martha had changed completely. People describe feeling sudden chills when she entered a room, conversations dying the moment she appeared. Even the halls themselves seemed quieter around her, as though something deeply broken had settled around her. Then one evening, Martha failed to appear for classes or meals. And according to the legend, the dorm president, the same girl who had once tried to befriend her, felt suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. So she climbed the stairs to Martha's isolated room at the top of Fratt Hall, intending to check on her one final time. As she approached the corridor, she reportedly noticed flashes of crimson light spilling through the cracks under the doorway, red light pulsating against the walls. At first, she thought something inside the room had caught fire, but when she opened the door, she screamed and collapsed unconscious. According to the story, Martha was found dead on the floor, dressed entirely in red, wrapped in her scarlet bedspread, having taken her own life by cutting her wrist. And according to generations of Huntington students, she never truly left afterward. For decades, stories spread through Pratt Hall, describing strange activity occurring near the old fourth floor corridors. Students claimed to see flashes of red light late at night. Others described doors opening on their own. Some reported seeing the figure of a woman in crimson walking silently through the building before walking directly through walls. And according to campus legend, sightings become especially common on the anniversary of Mother's death. Today, Pratt Hall no longer serves as a dormitory. Its rooms have since been converted into offices and classrooms for Huntington College Department of Education and Psychology. But despite the renovations, the stories remain. And maybe that's because the Red Lady legend was never really about a ghost. Not entirely, anyway. It's about isolation, about what happens when loneliness hardens into despair, and the terrifying possibility that some emotions linger long after a person is gone. Because according to those who still believe the story, late at night, when the halls finally grow quiet, the Red Lady still walks them alone. Maybe that's why stories like the Red Lady continue to endure. Because deep down, almost everyone understands loneliness, the feeling of being unseen. And in places shaped by enough grief, emotions seem to leave impressions behind. Lingering long after the people themselves are gone, but not every southern legend is rooted in sadness. Some are rooted in fear and anger. In vengeance so deep, people believed it could survive death itself. And nowhere does that feeling linger more heavily than in the small town of Yazoo City, Mississippi. Because according to local legend, one woman's dying curse may have condemned the town for generations. They called her the Witch of Yazoo. Many years ago, along the banks of the Yazoo River in Mississippi, there lived a woman the town refused to name. People simply called her the Witch of Yazoo. She lived alone deep within the swamps outside Yazoo City, hidden from the rest of the world inside a crumbling shack surrounded by water, cypress trees, and rumors. Nobody seemed to know exactly where she came from, only that people feared her. And over time, the stories surrounding the woman became darker. Locals claimed fishermen occasionally vanished near the river. Some whispered that during violent storms, the old woman would lure men into her home before poisoning them with arsenic, then burying their bodies somewhere deep within the woods nearby. Whether any of it was true, nobody could ever prove. But in 1884, someone finally saw something horrifying enough to send the entire town into panic. Late one afternoon, a boy named Joe Bob Dugat was floating down the Yazoo River on a small raft when he heard what he later described as a terrible moaning sound coming from the old woman's house. Curious, he tied off his raft and crept toward the window. And according to Joe Bob, what he saw inside stayed with him for the rest of his life. Two men lay stretched across the floor, and standing above them was the old woman, tristed in black, filthy, her arms moving wildly through the air while she muttered strange chants toward the ceiling. Jobob fled immediately. He rushed back into town and alerted the sheriff. Within hours, the sheriff and several deputies arrived at the woman's house. But when they forced their way inside, the bodies were gone. So was the woman. The house itself reportedly looked abandoned and unnatural, the air thick with rot, fish bones scattered across the floor. And according to the legend, when the group opened the attic door, they discovered dozens of starving cats huddled together in the darkness. Wide-eyed, thrashing, almost feral. Nearby, two human skeletons reportedly hung suspended from the rafters. The sheriff's men stood frozen in silence until suddenly footsteps echoed outside the house. Looking through an upstairs window, they saw the old woman fling toward the swamps behind the property. The sheriff shouted for her to stop, but instead, she ran. And according to Joe Bob Dugat's later account, the woman looked, half ghost and half scarecrow, but all witch. The group chased her deep into the swamp until suddenly the woman became trapped in a patch of quicksand. By the time they reached her, she was already sinking, slowly disappearing beneath the mud. But before the swamp swallowed her completely, she screamed one final warning to the people surrounding her: a curse. I shall return. Everybody always hated me here. I will rise from my grave and burn down the whole town on the morning of May 25th, 1904. And moments later, she disappeared beneath the swamp. Gone. Townspeople later recovered her body using pitchforks and long cypress branches before burying her inside Glenwood Cemetery. And because so many feared the curse she had spoken of, heavy iron chains were wrapped around her grave. Thirty thick links fastened tightly across the burial site. The sheriff reportedly joked, if she can break through that and burn down Yazoo, she deserves to burn it down. And eventually, the town moved on. Years passed, and over time, the story faded into local folklore. And slowly, people stopped thinking about the witch of Yazoo altogether. Until May 25th, 1904. Exactly 20 years after the curse had supposedly been spoken. The morning began normally enough, but according to historical accounts, a small fire suddenly broke out inside a home in Yazoo City. Under ordinary circumstances, it might have been contained quickly, but witnesses ascribe something strange about the wind that day. Violent gusts, unusual for that time of year. As the flames spread, the wind drove the fire rapidly through the town. Street after street ignited, buildings collapsed, smoke swallowed the sky, and before long, nearly all of Yazoo City was burning. Homes, churches, businesses, hotels, entire blocks reduced to ash. Witnesses later described the flames as behaving unnaturally, leaping, twisting, moving almost as though they were alive. And as panic spread through the city, whispers about the witch of Yazoo returned immediately. Because after the fire was finally extinguished, townspeople gathered at Glenwood Cemetery to inspect the witch's grave. And there, they reportedly discovered the chains broken open, as though something had forced its way out. To this day, the witch of Yazoo's grave remains one of Mississippi's most famous legends. Still surround the burial site, and according to local stories, strange things still happen there during storms. Some visitors claim they hear chains rattling despite no wind moving through the cemetery. Others describe flickering lights, laughter echoing faintly between the graves. Even the grave marker itself has become part of the legend. According to local lore, the original stone bore only the letters TW. Some believed it stood simply for the witch. And over the years, townspeople continued repairing the chains surrounding the grave whenever they broke, because according to the story, the day those chains finally disappear for good, the witch of Yazoo will rise again. And honestly, maybe that's what makes stories like this survive. Not whether the curse was real, but the way fear can root itself so deeply into a place, the generations continue carrying it long after the people who created the story are gone. Because even now, deep in the Delta, people still speak about the witch of Yazoo in lowered voices during storms. As though some part of them still wonders what might happen if the change ever fell. Maybe that's why Southern legends linger the way they do. Because down in the Delta, stories don't always stay buried. Not in the graveyards, not in the swamps, not in the old buildings slowly sinking beneath time and heat. A man still pleading his innocence from beneath the roots of an oak tree. A lonely spirit wandering silent hallways and crimson long after everyone else was gone asleep. And a witch so deeply feared, an entire town believed her hatred survived death itself. But all connected by the same unsettling feeling. The same emotions leave stains behind. Grief. Isolation. And maybe when enough of those emotions settle into one place for long enough, something remains. Not always a ghost. Not always something you can see. But something people feel. Something carried through generations in whispers and warnings. Because throughout the South, there are places where history doesn't feel finished. Places where the air grows heavy after dark. Where old stories are still spoken carefully. And where people still glance over their shoulder when the trees begin moving in the wind. Maybe that's superstition. Or maybe some places remember the pain that happened there. And that's why these stories continue surviving long after the people inside them are gone. Because some stories don't fade, they follow. New episodes of the Book of Lore release every Tuesday. Please rate, follow, and review. It greatly helps the show. Have any other lovers of lore in your life? Share with your friends, family, and loved ones to help the show become a place for lovers of the spooky, mythical, and creepy to come together. You can follow the show on Instagram, TikTok, and Threads at Book of LorePod. Have a great week, and thanks for listening.