Ghost Stories and Encounters – PennStory Paranormal https://pennstory.com Where Haunted History Comes to Life Thu, 14 May 2026 16:21:05 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.1 https://pennstory.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/08/cropped-ChatGPT-Image-Aug-5-2025-12_07_17-PM-1-32x32.png Ghost Stories and Encounters – PennStory Paranormal https://pennstory.com 32 32 The Forgotten Barber of Rice’s Landing https://pennstory.com/forgotten-barber-rices-landing-benjamin-roseberry/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=forgotten-barber-rices-landing-benjamin-roseberry Thu, 14 May 2026 15:45:39 +0000 https://pennstory.com/?p=2864 Some people disappear from history quietly, like Benjamin Roseberry. A late-night investigation inside the Greene County Historical Society unexpectedly brought one of those people back into memory. The story of Benjamin Roseberry is one that deserves to be told. The Legacy of Benjamin Roseberry On the night of Aug. 16, 2025, members of Steel City Ghost Hunters and I were sitting in the doctor’s office across from the barber shop on the second floor of the Greene County Historical Society. We were laughing about the television show Resident Alien when the tripwire in the hallway suddenly lit up. Joking that perhaps someone nearby enjoyed the same shows, Kim from Steel City turned on her vox device and began asking questions. A voice came through clearly: “Ben.” When we responded and asked for clarification, the voice answered again: “Benson.” Moments later, the cat balls inside the barber shop lit up. Kim decided to stop the session and asked us to walk around and look for the name Benson on any of the portraits hanging on the upper floor in that wing. We did not find anything until we went into the barber shop and noticed the barber’s licenses hanging on the wall. The one license was for B. C. Roseberry. Ashley, another member of Steel City, quickly googled the name Benson Roseberry, and it returned Ben Roseberry, Barber of Rice’s Landing, PA. This is where our story begins.  Rice’s Landing is a small, rural river town nestled on the western bank of the Monongahela River, approximately 50 miles (80 km) south of Pittsburgh. Fueled by valuable resources such as coal, clay, and timber and benefiting from river transportation, the town became a boomtown. Shops, taverns, and trading posts once filled its streets, earning it the reputation among frontier settlers as the “Gateway to Western Pennsylvania.” (Wikipedia, 2026)  To learn more about Benson Roseberry of Rice’s Landing, I started with the 1930 census records. What I found changed what I thought we had discovered that night at the museum. The record revealed that 68-year-old Benjamin Roseberry (b. 1862), a barber, lived on Main Street with his wife, Aura, age 56, and son, Purl, age 36. It states on the record that he owns his barber shop.  However, looking back at the 1920 Census, we find that he is using the initials B.C. instead of Benjamin. I know I have the right person because his wife and son match the 1930 record. Now the question becomes, what is the “C” in his name?  Through years of research, I have found that many times middle initials, and sometimes first names, are linked to the mother’s maiden name. In this case, it appears that indeed Benjamin carried the family name Craft, his mother’s maiden name. According to Find A Grave, his father was Elijah Michael Roseberry, and his mother was Harriet Jane Craft Roseberry.  Now that I know that his name is not Benson, but Benjamin, it was time to learn more about Barbers and Rice’s Landing. Why? Because I was curious, this particular place still seemed connected to him. Pulling the 1925 Sanborn Fire Insurance maps (see above), I found Benjamin’s barber shop standing along Main Street. This can also be confirmed by the census, which shows Benjamin Roseberry and his family live on Main Street. I would surmise that he lived above the shop.  I am not sure what year Benjamin opened his Barber shop. Census records indicate that he was a barber in 1910. From 1899 to 1901, or possibly later, he held a civil service job on the “Slackwater,” a repair boat.  Rice’s Landing was home to Lock and Dam No. 6 on the Monongahela River navigation system. As a civil service employee on the Slackwater repair boat, Benjamin Roseberry would routinely dock at Rice’s Landing to perform heavy maintenance on Lock 6. (Slackwater, 2026) This information lines up with the 1900 census; he was a skilled laborer. One detail continued drawing my attention: the aging barber’s license still hanging on the wall inside the museum shop. When did he get his license? A quick web search found the following information.   “Pennsylvania began formally issuing barber licenses following the passage of the Barbers’ License Law on June 19, 1931. The 1931 act was established to promote public health and safety, regulating barber schools, shops, and the profession through examination and licensure.” Barber shops in small towns and rural areas served as informal meeting places where men gathered to talk about local news, politics, farming, and personal matters. In many rural counties, men’s conversations often centered on agriculture, road conditions, government policies, and regional developments. These spaces fostered a sense of belonging and enabled the exchange of information vital to isolated communities. It is easy to imagine Benjamin Roseberry spending much of his life inside the barber shop, visiting with friends and serving as part of the community’s daily rhythm. Rice’s Landing never had a population of more than 1,000 people. It was a very small community.  Whether the voice that answered us that evening truly belonged to Benjamin Roseberry is impossible to know. What remains undeniable, however, is that for a brief moment inside an old barber shop in Greene County, a man nearly forgotten by history was remembered again.  Sources Many thanks to Greene County Historical Society and Steel City Ghost Hunters for their accommodation and help in the investigation.  

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Some people disappear from history quietly, like Benjamin Roseberry.

A late-night investigation inside the Greene County Historical Society unexpectedly brought one of those people back into memory.

The story of Benjamin Roseberry is one that deserves to be told.

The Legacy of Benjamin Roseberry

On the night of Aug. 16, 2025, members of Steel City Ghost Hunters and I were sitting in the doctor’s office across from the barber shop on the second floor of the Greene County Historical Society. We were laughing about the television show Resident Alien when the tripwire in the hallway suddenly lit up.

Joking that perhaps someone nearby enjoyed the same shows, Kim from Steel City turned on her vox device and began asking questions. A voice came through clearly: “Ben.”

When we responded and asked for clarification, the voice answered again: “Benson.”

Moments later, the cat balls inside the barber shop lit up. Kim decided to stop the session and asked us to walk around and look for the name Benson on any of the portraits hanging on the upper floor in that wing. We did not find anything until we went into the barber shop and noticed the barber’s licenses hanging on the wall. The one license was for B. C. Roseberry. Ashley, another member of Steel City, quickly googled the name Benson Roseberry, and it returned Ben Roseberry, Barber of Rice’s Landing, PA. This is where our story begins. 

Benjamin Roseberry Barber License
Original Barber Shop License

Rice’s Landing is a small, rural river town nestled on the western bank of the Monongahela River, approximately 50 miles (80 km) south of Pittsburgh. Fueled by valuable resources such as coal, clay, and timber and benefiting from river transportation, the town became a boomtown. Shops, taverns, and trading posts once filled its streets, earning it the reputation among frontier settlers as the “Gateway to Western Pennsylvania.” (Wikipedia, 2026) 

Benjamin Roseberry Barber Shop Sanborn Fire Map
Rice’s Landing Sanborn Fire Map

To learn more about Benson Roseberry of Rice’s Landing, I started with the 1930 census records. What I found changed what I thought we had discovered that night at the museum. The record revealed that 68-year-old Benjamin Roseberry (b. 1862), a barber, lived on Main Street with his wife, Aura, age 56, and son, Purl, age 36. It states on the record that he owns his barber shop. 

BC Rosebrry Census Record
Benjamin Roseberry and Family – Work: Barber

However, looking back at the 1920 Census, we find that he is using the initials B.C. instead of Benjamin. I know I have the right person because his wife and son match the 1930 record. Now the question becomes, what is the “C” in his name? 

Through years of research, I have found that many times middle initials, and sometimes first names, are linked to the mother’s maiden name. In this case, it appears that indeed Benjamin carried the family name Craft, his mother’s maiden name. According to Find A Grave, his father was Elijah Michael Roseberry, and his mother was Harriet Jane Craft Roseberry. 

Gravestone BC Roseberry
Final Resting Place of Benjamin Craft Roseberry

Now that I know that his name is not Benson, but Benjamin, it was time to learn more about Barbers and Rice’s Landing. Why? Because I was curious, this particular place still seemed connected to him.

Pulling the 1925 Sanborn Fire Insurance maps (see above), I found Benjamin’s barber shop standing along Main Street. This can also be confirmed by the census, which shows Benjamin Roseberry and his family live on Main Street. I would surmise that he lived above the shop. 

I am not sure what year Benjamin opened his Barber shop. Census records indicate that he was a barber in 1910. From 1899 to 1901, or possibly later, he held a civil service job on the “Slackwater,” a repair boat.  Rice’s Landing was home to Lock and Dam No. 6 on the Monongahela River navigation system. As a civil service employee on the Slackwater repair boat, Benjamin Roseberry would routinely dock at Rice’s Landing to perform heavy maintenance on Lock 6. (Slackwater, 2026) This information lines up with the 1900 census; he was a skilled laborer.

Slackwater Repair Boat on the Mon River – Courtesy of Wisconsin University

One detail continued drawing my attention: the aging barber’s license still hanging on the wall inside the museum shop. When did he get his license? A quick web search found the following information.  

“Pennsylvania began formally issuing barber licenses following the passage of the Barbers’ License Law on June 19, 1931. The 1931 act was established to promote public health and safety, regulating barber schools, shops, and the profession through examination and licensure.”

Barber shops in small towns and rural areas served as informal meeting places where men gathered to talk about local news, politics, farming, and personal matters. In many rural counties, men’s conversations often centered on agriculture, road conditions, government policies, and regional developments. These spaces fostered a sense of belonging and enabled the exchange of information vital to isolated communities. It is easy to imagine Benjamin Roseberry spending much of his life inside the barber shop, visiting with friends and serving as part of the community’s daily rhythm. Rice’s Landing never had a population of more than 1,000 people. It was a very small community. 

Whether the voice that answered us that evening truly belonged to Benjamin Roseberry is impossible to know. What remains undeniable, however, is that for a brief moment inside an old barber shop in Greene County, a man nearly forgotten by history was remembered again. 

Sources

Many thanks to Greene County Historical Society and Steel City Ghost Hunters for their accommodation and help in the investigation.

 

The post The Forgotten Barber of Rice’s Landing appeared first on PennStory Paranormal .

]]> Whispers in the Hallway: A True Haunted House Story https://pennstory.com/haunted-house-story-exton-pa/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=haunted-house-story-exton-pa Tue, 27 Aug 2024 21:58:43 +0000 https://pennstory.com/?p=1574 Whispers in the Hallway: A True Haunted House Story It wasn’t something I thought about then, but it dawned on me much later: I grew up in a haunted house. The split-level home in Exton, Pennsylvania, appeared ordinary enough, nestled on a quiet street in a neighborhood called Marchwood. But appearances can be deceiving. This is the beginning of my haunted house story. My father purchased the house from Mario and Dorothy Casavecchia on August 7, 1975, for about $39,000. I was only two years old then, far too young to sense what lingered in the shadows of our home. But strange things began to happen, subtle at first but growing more persistent as the years passed in my haunted house story. When I was around seven, I noticed my mother’s odd behavior during the night. She would leave the master bedroom she shared with my father and hurriedly walked down the short hallway to the bathroom at the end, passing the built-in closet along the way. This ritual always struck me as peculiar, especially since the master bedroom had its own attached bathroom. I could only assume it was because my father claimed that space for himself—it had only a shower, not a bathtub like the other bathroom. But what unsettled me was the way she moved in the dark. She’d walk briskly, almost as if trying to escape something unseen in the hallway behind her. By the time I turned eleven, I had followed the same pattern. I would wake in the dead of night with an urgent need to use the bathroom. I’d flip on the light, complete my task, and then—without thinking—I’d bolt back to my bedroom, the hallway suddenly oppressive with an invisible presence. I never felt it wasn’t very hospitable, but it was there, watching. Waiting. This was becoming a central piece of my haunted house story. Around this time, I began noticing other peculiar occurrences in the house. My bedroom shared a wall with the stairs, and I often woke up to creaking footsteps in the middle of the night. The stairs groaned under the weight of someone—or something—moving up and down, up and down. But the steps would stop at the top of the stairs, and no one ever appeared. I would lie in bed, straining to hear more, wondering who could be wandering the house at 1 a.m. But the living room remained dark, the dining room silent, and no footsteps ever moved into the kitchen. One night, my curiosity got the better of me. I slipped out of bed and peeked down the hallway, expecting to see someone at the bottom of the stairs, but only darkness greeted me. My mother didn’t believe in nightlights back then, so the house felt swallowed by shadows. I stood there for a moment, listening. The silence was thick, and then the footsteps returned—slow, deliberate—on the stairs behind me. Heart pounding, I darted back to bed, convinced that something unseen lurked beyond the veil of darkness. This was another element of our haunted house story. But the strangest incident occurred one night after I had returned from the bathroom. Lying awake in the darkness, I heard the unmistakable sound of the closet door in the rec room downstairs clicking shut. My heart skipped a beat. Who could be in the closet at this hour? It was well past midnight, and my parents had long since gone to bed, their nightly routines always ending after Johnny Carson’s monologue. Then, I heard something even more unnerving—the faint scraping of cardboard boxes being dragged out of the closet and stacked, one by one. I sat up, fear prickling at the edges of my mind. Was someone—or something—moving around in the dark downstairs? I had to know. I got out of bed, crept down the hallway, and flicked on the bathroom light. Walking over to the cast iron railing, I expected to see my mother or father sorting through the boxes of seasonal decorations stored under the stairs. But there was nothing—only the eerie emptiness of the rec room below swallowed in darkness. Shaken, I retreated to my room, shutting off the light and hurrying back to bed. The hallway seemed to breathe with a life of its own, and the feeling of being watched intensified. The next morning, I tried to make sense of it all. As my mother sat in the living room sipping her coffee, I asked if she or Dad had been downstairs the previous night, moving boxes. She blinked at me, her brow furrowing in confusion. “No, why would I be in the closet? I haven’t touched those boxes in months.” I insisted that I had heard the noises—boxes shifting, the closet door opening and closing—but she just shrugged, her face tight with uncertainty. A few days later, I noticed she started leaving the lamp on in the living room as a nightlight. My Haunted House Story Gets Real Fast forward to the night of my high school graduation in June 1991. My Aunt Marilyn had come into town to celebrate, sleeping on the couch in the living room since our house didn’t have a guest room. The following day, she greeted me with a question that chilled me to the bone. “Kimmie Ann, why were you sleeping in the hallway last night?” she asked, her voice puzzled. I stared at her, baffled. “What? I wasn’t sleeping in the hallway. I didn’t even get home until after 1 a.m.” She frowned, clearly unsettled. “But I saw you. I got up to use the bathroom around midnight, and you were lying in the hallway under a blanket.” A cold shiver ran down my spine. I hadn’t been home. I glanced over at my mother, who was standing nearby, her face pale and eyes wide with a secret she had long kept hidden. “What is it?” I asked, dread pooling in my stomach. “Well,” she began slowly, “when we bought the house, the realtor

The post Whispers in the Hallway: A True Haunted House Story appeared first on PennStory Paranormal .

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Haunted House Story

Whispers in the Hallway: A True Haunted House Story

It wasn’t something I thought about then, but it dawned on me much later: I grew up in a haunted house. The split-level home in Exton, Pennsylvania, appeared ordinary enough, nestled on a quiet street in a neighborhood called Marchwood. But appearances can be deceiving. This is the beginning of my haunted house story.

My father purchased the house from Mario and Dorothy Casavecchia on August 7, 1975, for about $39,000. I was only two years old then, far too young to sense what lingered in the shadows of our home. But strange things began to happen, subtle at first but growing more persistent as the years passed in my haunted house story.

When I was around seven, I noticed my mother’s odd behavior during the night. She would leave the master bedroom she shared with my father and hurriedly walked down the short hallway to the bathroom at the end, passing the built-in closet along the way. This ritual always struck me as peculiar, especially since the master bedroom had its own attached bathroom. I could only assume it was because my father claimed that space for himself—it had only a shower, not a bathtub like the other bathroom. But what unsettled me was the way she moved in the dark. She’d walk briskly, almost as if trying to escape something unseen in the hallway behind her.

By the time I turned eleven, I had followed the same pattern. I would wake in the dead of night with an urgent need to use the bathroom. I’d flip on the light, complete my task, and then—without thinking—I’d bolt back to my bedroom, the hallway suddenly oppressive with an invisible presence. I never felt it wasn’t very hospitable, but it was there, watching. Waiting. This was becoming a central piece of my haunted house story.

Around this time, I began noticing other peculiar occurrences in the house. My bedroom shared a wall with the stairs, and I often woke up to creaking footsteps in the middle of the night. The stairs groaned under the weight of someone—or something—moving up and down, up and down. But the steps would stop at the top of the stairs, and no one ever appeared. I would lie in bed, straining to hear more, wondering who could be wandering the house at 1 a.m. But the living room remained dark, the dining room silent, and no footsteps ever moved into the kitchen.

One night, my curiosity got the better of me. I slipped out of bed and peeked down the hallway, expecting to see someone at the bottom of the stairs, but only darkness greeted me. My mother didn’t believe in nightlights back then, so the house felt swallowed by shadows. I stood there for a moment, listening. The silence was thick, and then the footsteps returned—slow, deliberate—on the stairs behind me. Heart pounding, I darted back to bed, convinced that something unseen lurked beyond the veil of darkness. This was another element of our haunted house story.

But the strangest incident occurred one night after I had returned from the bathroom. Lying awake in the darkness, I heard the unmistakable sound of the closet door in the rec room downstairs clicking shut. My heart skipped a beat. Who could be in the closet at this hour? It was well past midnight, and my parents had long since gone to bed, their nightly routines always ending after Johnny Carson’s monologue. Then, I heard something even more unnerving—the faint scraping of cardboard boxes being dragged out of the closet and stacked, one by one.

I sat up, fear prickling at the edges of my mind. Was someone—or something—moving around in the dark downstairs? I had to know. I got out of bed, crept down the hallway, and flicked on the bathroom light. Walking over to the cast iron railing, I expected to see my mother or father sorting through the boxes of seasonal decorations stored under the stairs. But there was nothing—only the eerie emptiness of the rec room below swallowed in darkness.

Shaken, I retreated to my room, shutting off the light and hurrying back to bed. The hallway seemed to breathe with a life of its own, and the feeling of being watched intensified.

The next morning, I tried to make sense of it all. As my mother sat in the living room sipping her coffee, I asked if she or Dad had been downstairs the previous night, moving boxes. She blinked at me, her brow furrowing in confusion. “No, why would I be in the closet? I haven’t touched those boxes in months.” I insisted that I had heard the noises—boxes shifting, the closet door opening and closing—but she just shrugged, her face tight with uncertainty. A few days later, I noticed she started leaving the lamp on in the living room as a nightlight.

My Haunted House Story Gets Real

Fast forward to the night of my high school graduation in June 1991. My Aunt Marilyn had come into town to celebrate, sleeping on the couch in the living room since our house didn’t have a guest room. The following day, she greeted me with a question that chilled me to the bone.

“Kimmie Ann, why were you sleeping in the hallway last night?” she asked, her voice puzzled.

I stared at her, baffled. “What? I wasn’t sleeping in the hallway. I didn’t even get home until after 1 a.m.”

She frowned, clearly unsettled. “But I saw you. I got up to use the bathroom around midnight, and you were lying in the hallway under a blanket.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine. I hadn’t been home. I glanced over at my mother, who was standing nearby, her face pale and eyes wide with a secret she had long kept hidden.

“What is it?” I asked, dread pooling in my stomach.

“Well,” she began slowly, “when we bought the house, the realtor told us that the wife of the previous owner died in the hallway.”

For a moment, the time seemed to freeze. The creaking stairs, the boxes shifting in the closet, and the oppressive feeling in the hallway all made sense. My aunt had seen something that night, something neither of us had ever expected.

“Great, Mom,” I said, my voice tinged with sarcasm, though fear gripped me tightly. “That explains the creepy hallway.”

“I didn’t want to scare you kids,” she replied quietly.

But now, we knew. And the house no longer felt ordinary. It had never been. Something from the past lingered there, silently watching from the shadows.

Genealogy Research on the Property

This past year, I decided to look up the name of the woman who died in the hallway to see if it was a true story. Here is what I found: Mario’s first wife. She died on December 23rd, 1974, at the age of 54. Mario and Mary bought the house from Bernard Hankin on July 16, 1971. 

CASAVECCHIA On June 10, 1974, MARY T. (nee De Ratelo), wife of Mario J.

Casavecchia, of Exton, age 54; also mother of John F. Casavecchia, and sister of Emma R. Ward and David De Rafelo. Relatives and friends are invited to attend the funeral on at 10 A.M., from the ALLEVA ERAL HOME, 1724 E. Lancaster Paoli.

**Philadelphia Inquirer 12 June 1974. Page 44. 

Read more Chester County History at the Chester County Historical Society

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