On a summer night in nineteen-twenty-one,
Beneath Ohio stars and a fading moon,
A farmer named Carl walked land he owned,
A dream fulfilled, a future sown. pasted
Lantern in hand and gun at his side,
He crossed his fields with swelling pride,
Barns and horses, cattle fed,
One final round before his bed.
The farm was cheap, the deal was strange,
The former owners eager for change,
But Carl saw chance, not reason to fear,
What haunted the land was never made clear.
Then silence stirred and the night grew tight,
Neck hairs rose in the lantern light,
That heavy sense you can’t explain—
The feeling eyes are on your frame.
He spun around, the shadows bare,
No steps, no breath, just empty air,
No beast, no man, no sound, no sign,
So Carl blamed nerves and crossed the line.
Inside the barn, the animals slept,
Yet still that watching presence crept,
A second chill, a deeper dread,
As unseen thoughts filled Carl’s head.
With steady breath and courage forced,
He left the barn, his pace divorced
From comfort, calm, or peaceful ground,
Each step a scan, each sound profound.
Halfway home, the lantern caught
A shape no mind should ever spot—
A white still figure, tall and thin,
Near the well where depths begin.
“Who are you?” Carl shouted loud,
The figure stared, untouched, unbowed,
Then drifted back, no word, no run,
Toward the well—then it was gone.
Carl chased, his lantern wildly swung,
Gun drawn tight, his heart outrun,
But when he reached that cursed old well,
The night stood still. No trace. No spell.
Threats rang out to empty land,
But silence gave no counter-stand,
And so he fled to lock his door,
Believing it would end—no more.
But every night at half past nine,
That ghost returned like clockwork time,
Always watching, never near,
Always fading, crystal clear.
Shots were fired, screams were made,
Yet still the figure never stayed,
It drifted back, its path well known,
To where the water swallowed bone.
Carl knew then, with trembling breath,
This was no man escaping death,
A ghost bound fast by time and place,
A pale unresolved human trace.
One year passed, then August came,
The animals refused the same
Cold well water they drank before,
Their fear a sign of something more.
The well was drained—truth rose from deep,
A secret the dark had sworn to keep,
A body lay where water stood,
Bones of a man long misunderstood.
Henry Leipenstick, missing, lost,
A farmhand vanished at great cost,
Killed by blows, betrayed by trust,
Thrown to darkness, rot, and rust.
His watch still worn upon his wrist,
Frozen time could not resist—
Nine-thirty-five, the hour exact
The ghost appeared, the haunting fact.
When Henry’s bones were laid to rest,
The land at last was finally blessed,
No ghost returned, no shadow fell,
No watcher near the water well.
And now they say that those before
Who sold that land and fled the door,
Saw the same ghost, pale and thin—
And left before the truth walked in.
