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HUNTINGTON COUNTY

In 1831 a city was established on the site of a Miami village, Wepecheange, “place of flints.” That same year General John Tipton purchased the land and the following year Huntington County was formed. Tipton had a town platted on his land in 1833 and then offered a portion to the county for use as the county seat.

Both the city and the county were named for Samuel Huntington, a Connecticut delegate to the Continental Congress and signer of the Declaration of Independence.

At Roanoke on July 4, 1835, the Wabash and Erie Canal was officially opened from Fort Wayne to the Dickey Lock, approximately fifteen miles west of Fort Wayne. While the canal’s success was short-lived, its path followed the prime right-of-way through the area, and in 1856 the Wabash Railroad laid its tracks along the old canal towpath. Today US 24 runs along that same route.

Beyond Roanoke, just 1. 7 miles east on US 24, can be seen a depression which is one of the last remnants of the Wabash and Erie Canal. Once the longest artificial waterway in North America, the canal extended 464 miles between Toledo, Ohio, and Evansville, Indiana.

Today Huntington County is primarily agricultural.

The Haunting of Canal House

A member of the Indiana Canal Society was investigating the only visible reminder of the Wabash and Erie Canal just 1.7 miles east of Roanoke on US 24—a depression in the land where the canal lock had been. While intent on mentally picturing how the canal looked back in the mid-1800s, he heard someone call out for help. He spent several minutes looking around and found no one in need of assistance. Deciding teenagers where having fun with him, he returned to Fort Wayne.

At one of the Canal Society’s meetings he told another member about the Roanoke site and then laughingly described to him the prank supposedly played on him by area teenagers. The man, a lifelong resident of the Roanoke area, told him that it had not been a hoax. What he had heard could have been one of the ghosts connected with the farmhouse which once sat along the canal. And therein, of course, lies a tale.

The opening of the Wabash and Erie Canal increased commerce to Roanoke, which is just fifteen miles west of Fort Wayne.

Lorenzo “Van” VanBecker’s farm one mile north of the village of Roanoke bordered the canal and afforded opportunities to increase his wealth. This successful farmer had just moved his family into a new, impressive, two-story white house with green shutters above the canal lock.

Passengers sharing cramped space with cargo, cattle and hogs, traders, land speculators, settlers, and a few unsavory individuals all seeking opportunities in the newly acquired lands could see the house as they approached on the canal and looked at it as a convenient “getting off” place. Van and his wife often offered board and meals to the weary travelers.

Just below the hill where his grand house sat Van built a boatyard to meet the need for more canal boats. This was, after all, the “canal age.” Once a boat was completed and until it was purchased, he would fit it out with a crew and operate the boat between Roanoke and Fort Wayne.

Though the canals brought the promise of prosperity, they also brought death: malaria, typhoid and yellow fever. The humid heat of summer made it worse. Many workers, passengers and those who served them became ill, VanBecker’s wife among them.

He realized that if he were to continue providing lodging and meals for travelers, he needed a housekeeper. He offered the job to Mariah Heddwick, about whom he knew virtually nothing except that she had the reputation of being one of the finest cooks on the Wabash and Erie. There were those, however, who thought her a bit odd. From being considered odd to being considered dangerous, maybe even a witch, was a short jump in the 1840s.

VanBecker was a drinking man, as were many of the men who worked for him. James Furman, the orphan son of his neighbors, was an exception. Van never tried to force liquor on the boy, but when he and his men sat down to enjoy more than a few, he’d hand the boy a coin, saying it was no more than right that he should have some reward, as they did.

In the winter James would chop wood; in summer he’d work in the boatyard. After completion of the Nettie Cook, VanBecker turned to the young boy James and said, “Well, do you think you’d like to be a part of the crew for the shipment of hogs to Fort Wayne?”

For a time after the boat had left the yard, the mules slowly walking the tow path pulling the boat along, the small group was quiet. One of the men, Coyle, was the first to break the silence. “Well, James, how do you like working for Van?”

“Just fine,” he answered.

The men looked at each other. Then John Trichett blurted out, “Ah, hell. Let’s get it over with. Boy, have you heard or seen anything strange up at the big house that you couldn’t explain? Well, keep alert, boy. Some say the house is haunted.” During the rest of the trip the story was told.

It was true VanBecker’s wife had been ill. She needed nursing. Mariah Heddwick had just arrived by boat. She sought out Van and said she’d heard his wife was ill. She explained that she’d survived the illness and thought she could help his wife do the same. Van was thankful for the help and hired her.

But, instead of getting better his wife took a turn for the worse and within three days under Mariah’s care, she was dead.

People began to talk. It didn’t appear to them that VanBecker’s wife had been near death’s door before Mariah began taking care of her. Had Mariah poisoned her, wanting to seize an opportunity to live in a fine house and in time become its new mistress?

After their return from Fort Wayne, the men returned to their duties on the canal and at the boatyard. James Furman stayed in the big house, sharing his bedroom with two other workers, Joe and Aleck. One night they all heard moaning and shrieking. It had really frightened Aleck. He’d jumped clear out of his bed and stood whimpering in the corner. The next day Aleck packed up and left without saying a word to anybody.

During his second winter at the VanBecker farm James Furman, after chopping wood, was warming himself in front of the fireplace, alone in the room. Van was down at the boat dock, Mariah in another part of the house. Suddenly he heard somebody outside call out in distress. He hurried to the door and flung it open. Not a soul was in sight. He didn’t doubt his ears. He knew what he’d heard.

Confused and concerned, he went in search of Mariah and found her in the kitchen. “Did you hear something?” he demanded. She didn’t seem the least bit surprised and merely said, “Oh, that. Why that’s common around this house. I hear it often. The house is supposed to be haunted, you know.”

“So we’ve heard,” he murmured.

One day a young land seeker from Starke County arrived on a canal packet. When he was told that sometimes travelers were given lodging at the big white house, the young man decided to disembark, stay overnight and next morning look for land.

Van told James that the young land seeker was going to stay and share James’ room.

The next morning the young man from Starke County was gone. Mariah said he’d left early, saying he was going to walk into Roanoke to see what he could find out about land sales.

Some weeks later the parents and fiancée of the Starke County man arrived at the boatyard. They’d traced him to this point and could find out nothing else. No one in Roanoke had seen him.

Finally they had to believe that he was dead. Perhaps he’d been jumped on the road to Roanoke, killed and robbed of the money sewn inside his vest and coat.

About this same time James Furman noticed Van was very nervous and drinking more than usual. He seemed to dread being in his fine, big, white house, especially at night. Often he’d spend his nights in the old house up the hill, shunning the canal house.

One day while they were all down at the boatyard Van left to go up to the white house. Quite some time had passed and Van hadn’t returned.

James decided to go look for him. The house was deathly quiet. He called out first to Van and then Mariah. No one answered. Searching the first floor rooms he found no one.

With more than a bit of nervousness he climbed the stairs. The housekeeper’s room was at the head of the landing. Knocking on the door he received no response. Cautiously he opened the door. The room was empty.

The door to VanBecker’s room was ajar. With his heart pounding he slowly pushed it open. All he could see was a pool of blood!

He ran down the stairs and out of the house as fast as he could calling out to the others for help. After what seemed hours they finally gave up the search for Van and the housekeeper, Mariah. They were never seen again. Their mysterious disappearance was never solved, nor was an explanation given for the pool of blood. James wondered if the young land seeker’s disappearance was a part of the mystery surrounding the house. And what about the ghost of the wife? Had she been seeking retribution and found it in the grim disappearance of Van and Mariah?

The boatyard was closed and the farm was sold; James moved on to other things. The property was for sale within a short time. And again the new owners were thrilled with the farm and the beautiful white house on the hill. However, they didn’t stay in the house very long before they, too, moved out. Everyone believed that the big house on the hill above the canal was truly haunted. Both owners had reported hearing moaning, shrieking and pleas for help. The blood stains in the upper bedroom never faded. The newest owners tried to sell the farm, but no one wanted it. Finally they moved away, leaving the white house on the hill empty. Or was it?

The fragile deteriorating house was still standing in 1928 when an old man called “Uncle Jimmy,” shortly before he died, told a Huntington Herald Press reporter the story of the haunted canal house. He knew it was true. He’d worked for Lorenzo “Van” VanBecker. He had heard the moaning, shrieking and pleas for help. His name was James Furman.

The canal is gone, long gone, a tragic failure and loss of money when the railroad era came in. Today all that’s left of that era is a depression in the land where the canal lock had been. There have been a few reports of people hearing someone calling out in distress. But no one is there.