In the autumn of 1850, John Gamble was a man building a life—he worked as a carpenter, a farmer, and a river trader—anchored across the Ohio River from Sardis. He had settled his family on a stretch of land rich in timber in what would eventually be called Wetzel County. His flatboat runs transported barrel staves and tanbark to Cincinnati, and his cider press operated slowly yet steadily during a season abundant with crabapples. He was a man with calloused hands and plans for the spring.
On November 12, 1850, John Gamble loaded his skiff with empty barrels to fetch more from New Martinsville, floating them downriver through the waters of the Ohio River. However, he had one stop to make first—the Whiteman brothers’ farm. He climbed the hill by the creek to collect on a $20 note owed to him for a wagon.
The brothers didn’t have the money. But standing in the yard that day was another man—Leban Mercer, who had sold Gamble a calf and was owed a meager $2.
**The Man with Wet Boots**
Gamble offered a five-dollar bill, but Mercer had no change. The tension rose like smoke from an unseen fire. Trying to ease the man’s pride, Gamble confessed he had nearly $200 in his pocket and would pay the debt in full within days. He shook hands, said his goodbyes, and walked back down the winding creek trail toward his skiff, the barrels still bobbing lightly in the water. It was the last anyone ever saw of him.
Two days later, the skiff was found drifting, empty of its captain, with the barrels still neatly stacked.
**A Quiet Accusation**
Rumors spread quickly. Mercer had returned to his boarding house wet and mud-caked, even though the ground had not seen rain. Soon after—without explanation—he began flashing money he hadn’t earned, money that looked a lot like Gamble’s. But there was no body, no warrant. Just whispers.
**The Dead Speak at Harvest**
Almost a year passed. It was November 1, 1851. Corn husks piled high, and farmers gathered for a husking bee near Point Pleasant Ridge—a work party meant to lighten the burden of harvest with laughter and community. When the last ear was shucked and the moon began its slow ascent into the sky, the young men gathered for one last contest: a race home by separate paths.
John Hindman, skeptical and sharp-witted, took the flat route down a shadowy hollow called Ray’s Run. He moved quickly—alone. But not for long.
**The Thing in the Meadow**
In a clearing, a man joined him. Quiet, pale, and walking as if weightless beside the wagon path.
“I do believe you don’t know me,” the man said.
“No,” Hindman replied, “can’t say that I do. You from around here?”
“I’m John Gamble. Leban Mercer killed me. Take him to justice.”
The figure turned his face, half-shadowed, and spoke of details never made public—how he died, what he wore, and what Mercer had taken. And then… the ghost was gone.
Hindman stood in an empty field beneath the silver light of a full moon, his heart thudding against his ribs like a fist striking a coffin lid.
**The Trial That Wasn’t Justice**
At first, he told no one. He searched for signs of a prank but found none—no boot prints, no whispers, no snickers behind hands. Eventually, Hindman broke down. He described the ghost, elaborating on the coat Gamble wore the night he vanished—details he could not have known.
He confronted Mercer directly and, using what the ghost had told him, tricked the man into confirming details that had never been made public. The constables then acted. Witnesses emerged: two boys had seen Gamble and Mercer walking together near the creek.
A six-foot smear in the mud was found near the riverbank. Strands of black hair and bits of wool cloth were collected. A man who had shared a room with Mercer testified that Mercer had cried out in his sleep, yelling at Gamble to let go of the money. In Mercer’s possession was the Whiteman promissory note Gamble had been carrying the night he died.
**But the Law Does Not Fear Ghosts**
Still, it wasn’t enough. No body, no blood—just too many cold truths and a whisper from the grave. The jury acquitted him. Mercer lived out his life proclaiming his innocence, but he was never far from a lamp and never far from town. He never again walked near the creek at night.
**Where the Ghost Walks Still**
The stream that ran beside the Whiteman place is small—narrow enough to leap across in two steps. But the old folks say it runs deeper than it looks. They named it Gamble Run after the man who walked down it alive and came out the other side. . .dead.
Or some say, undead.
Because his ghost can be seen at harvest time, standing near the dark trees when the corn has been harvested and the wind turns sharp. Waiting. Watching. And very well aware of anyone passing by.
You can find this and other ghostly Ohio tales in my book: Haunted West Virginia
If you like these old folk tale stories from the past, you can find my WV books on Amazon:
**West Virginia Ghost Stories, Legends, and Haunts **
**West Virginia Ghost Stories, Legends, Haunts, and Folklore **
**West Virginia Ghost Stories: The Classics **
And delving deep into the old folk tales:
**Haunted West Virginia: More Scary Stories and Creepy Tales including Ikey’s Grave **
**When the Dead Walk in West Virginia: Scary Stories and Creepy Tales to Keep You Up at Night **
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