Haunts and Jaunts: Strange Rumblings in Kentucky

By Rick Hinton

A house similar to the one Robin lived in.

It’s unreal how memories can easily come flooding out of the compartment you’ve buried them in so many years ago. It has given me a sense of just how long the study of the unknown has been a part of my life’s journey. Back then it wasn’t called the paranormal—it was simply Ghosts! My introduction had been through movies, books, and personal experiences. I also had other interests. A normal, red blooded, 14 year old boy wanted a girlfriend, yet, I didn’t know what to do with one if I had one. It’s funny how everything eventually comes full circle. 

   Robin Flint had lived just north of my parent’s house on South Post Road in those days. It was an easy walk. Her brother Tom was my best friend at the time. Robin, his sister, was 13. I spent many nights at his house. Robin would stare at me doe-eyed and make excuses to be in the same room as I. It was a short matter of time before she became my girlfriend.

   Things were not good at the Flint house. The parents were filing for divorce. A large tree in the front yard had fallen during a storm and the mother (a tad on the eccentric side) decided to keep it where it lay because it was aesthetically pleasing to her. It lay on the lawn for years, even after they moved.

   Concerning the divorce, Tom was a wreck. Robin was glad it was over. Tom went to live with his father; I never saw him again. Robin went to live with her grandparents in southern Kentucky; she didn’t want to be with either of her parents. She wrote weekly, filling me in on the small details of her life and some surprises….

   The weekly letters continued, but they had turned dark and ominous. She was not happy. She wanted me to come visit her. And then her grandmother died unexpectedly. It became a paranormal situation for her. Her grandparents’ house was ancient (she had mailed me a photo) and out in the country with no other neighbors in sight. Electrical service was spotty at best, and during a bad storm the house usually lost power. There was a ritual when that occurred. Her grandmother would walk both stories of the house, carrying an oil lamp to check that everything was buttoned up. After her grandmother’s passing, it would seem she hadn’t left the house after all.

My girlfriend Robin during her Kentucky school days. (Photos provided by Rick Hinton)

   Robin wrote that frequently during those same storms, she would hear the footsteps of her grandmother slowly shuffling through the upstairs hallway. Robin watched the light move past under her closed bedroom door. She would hear the clanging of pans in the kitchen below her and the smell of food, yet no one was ever there. On other occasions she was awakened by gentle, weathered hands rubbing her back—just as her grandmother used to do to get her to sleep as a child. The grandfather would have no comment and only stared off into space. Robin felt like she was going crazy. I couldn’t help her! Eventually, her letters dwindled to once a month and then quit altogether. I never found out what happened to her or her haunted house.

   My own paranormal journey also started in Kentucky, nestled in a small town with tourists in the summer and dormant in the winter. It remains the town of my youth. I’ll probably end up there…in the end. Small towns hold their secrets well, usually under lock and key.