The Haunting of Welsh Mountain
Dating back to 1785, the Mother Goose rhyme “Hush-a-by baby, on the tree top…” has lulled generations of children to sleep. But what if this innocent ditty concealed a darker truth—a haunting melody that transcended time and space?
Key points
In 1875, on a moonless Sunday night near Welsh Mountain, northern Georgia, a group of travelers stumbled upon a spectral vision that defied reason. Their encounter would forever blur the lines between folklore and reality.
Table of contents
The Mysterious Cry
Robert Gorman, Downingtown, and his companions—two women—journeyed along a desolate stretch of road, nestled between Morgantown (Fannin Co.) and Waynesboro (Burke Co.). As they walked, the wind carried haunting cries—a symphony of anguish that seemed to emanate from the very earth.
The Swinging Basket
Miss Ellie Parker of Paoli witnessed an eerie sight: a basket suspended from a tree limb, swaying gently in the breeze. Faint cries echoed from within its woven confines. The couples exchanged uneasy glances, their hearts racing. What unseen force tugged at their sanity?
The Unsettling Reality
Determined to unravel the mystery, the men planned to ascend the small rise and reach the tree. But then, the child screamed—a primal wail that pierced the night. The basket plummeted, crashing through the branches. Shocked, they rushed forward, only to find it restored to its original position, swaying as if untouched by mortal hands. And the child? Still whimpering within.
A Living Ghost
All witnesses swore they beheld a living baby—a spectral infant trapped in a timeless loop. The young ladies wept, clinging to each other for solace. Was it a malevolent spirit or a lost soul seeking release? No one knew.
The Search Party
Desperate for answers, the couple fled to the nearest town. At dawn, a search party returned to the spot. Mr. J.S. Peters, Lancaster’s intrepid investigator, scoured the area. But the swinging basket remained—an enigma defying logic.
Legacy of the Lullaby
To this day, the haunting cries persist, carried by the wind across Welsh Mountain. Was it a curse? A warning? Or a glimpse into a parallel existence? Perhaps the spectral baby still swings, caught between worlds, its cries echoing through time.
Mother Goose rhyme
Hush-a-by baby
On the tree top,
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks,
The cradle will fall,
And down will fall baby
Cradle and all.
Imagine yourself journeying down a solitary country road, the only companion being the whispering wind. Suddenly, the air is pierced by the delicate cries of a baby, the sound echoing hauntingly. Your gaze fixes on a basket, gently swaying in the cool breeze, seemingly suspended between this world and the unknown. Would you dare to investigate, to unveil the mystery concealed within?
As the eerie melody of those cries lingers in your memory, envision encountering the scene again. Would familiarity breed courage, or would each repetition instill a subtle shudder and a minuscule tremor? The verses echo in your mind:
When the bough breaks,
The cradle will fall,
And down will fall baby…
Cradle and all.
These words, penned by Marilyn A. Hudson in an excerpt from “The Ghost Teller Chronicles,”
