Scotts Creek is a narrow, winding stream, bordered by ancient forests and fertile croplands outside the town of Logan, Ohio. Today, travelers trace its banks by car, winding their way into the mysterious Hocking Hills from Columbus or Charleston, where the landscape shifts from open fields to deep, ancient hollows and towering cliffs. Locals say that, as dusk settles and fog drifts low over the water, the creek takes on an uncanny stillness. Some claim to glimpse shadowy figures slipping between the trees, while others whisper of sudden chills and disembodied voices echoing near the bends. Even the bravest admit that, when the moonlight glimmers on the current, Scotts Creek feels like a place where the past lingers—and restless spirits are never far away.
For centuries, the creek’s banks have borne witness to the comings and goings of Shawnee, pioneer settlers, and ambitious farmers. It meanders briefly beside what is now State Route 93—a road that, in the late 1800s, was a vital artery for commerce and travel in the Hocking Valley. Long before asphalt and automobiles, horse-drawn wagons and stagecoaches jostled along its rugged path, connecting isolated communities and bustling mill towns.
On a stifling August morning in 1887, 29-year-old John Bensonhafer heaved twenty bushels of golden wheat onto his creaking wagon, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of harvest. At his side was his radiant new wife, Clara—just 19, her cheeks flushed with excitement, still reveling in the novelty of married life after less than six months together. As the sun glared down, the couple climbed into their wagon, its iron wheels grinding over the dusty track that would one day become State Route 93, but was then the more ominously named Scotts Creek Road. At precisely 10:25 a.m., they splashed through the ford at Scott’s Creek, wagon rattling, and rolled past a jagged shelf of stones locals whispered about in hushed tones—“The Falls.”
Not far behind, a lone traveler in a carriage watched as the couple vanished around the bend. Then, the air was shattered by a violent crash—a sickening clamor of splintering wood and the shriek of panicked horses. Heart pounding, the man spun his carriage and raced back toward the noise. The sight that awaited him was the stuff of nightmares: the Bensonhafer team thrashed wildly in a swirling, black pool, eyes rolling in terror.
Of John and Clara there was no sign—only a battered hat and a wicker basket bobbed eerily among the ripples, while sinister bubbles clawed their way to the surface. John’s jacket lay abandoned on the muddy bank. The wagon had veered into a forbidden stretch of water, a place whispered about in local legends as a bottomless abyss beneath the falls. Oblivious to the deadly twelve-foot chasm, John had urged his horses forward—and in an instant, wagon, wheat, and both newlyweds were swallowed whole, the couple hurled mercilessly into the dark, unforgiving depths.
By the time help arrived, it was far too late. The lifeless bodies of Clara and John, along with their doomed horses, were dragged from the water and laid upon the cold, stony bank. Word spread like wildfire, drawing crowds who gawked in horrified fascination at the couple’s eerily peaceful faces, as if they slumbered in some unnatural repose—cheeks tinged with a ghostly flush, lips parted as if to whisper secrets from the other side.
The couple was laid to rest in Ewing, but the story refused to die. Newspapers dubbed it the “Awful Calamity” at Scotts Creek, and for years, locals whispered about the tragedy by flickering lamplight. Yet the Bensonhafers’ souls found no peace. Even now, when the night is thick and the moon hangs low, travelers claim they hear the grinding of spectral wagon wheels on lonely Route 93. Some swear they catch the faint, affectionate banter of two young lovers, drifting on the wind as a ghostly wagon edges toward the cursed falls. Then, piercing the silence, comes the blood-curdling scream of phantom horses as the doomed team plunges once more into the bottomless, shadowy waters—forever reliving their final, horrifying descent into oblivion.
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