“Ah, horseshit,” yelled LJ as he swatted yet another Cessna-sized mosquito. The nasty bloodthirsty critters had been following us for about the last half-hour like a squadron of Flying Aces watching for the next opportunity to wreak havoc on their defenseless victims.

What brought us here to this place?
It all started in the spring of 2005…
While on a trip, we had heard tales of a haunted shack deep in the bayous of Louisiana. Local stories abounded of ghostly apparitions, missing children, and strange laughter in the night.
Wanting to check the stories out for ourselves we traveled to Louisiana, hired a bayou guide and began the trek into the swamps that would change our lives forever.

The day had grown long on the waters but the light was still good. As the tiny motor spit and sputtered, our guide’s boat shuddered us through the murky waters below. From time to time an alligator could be seen slipping off the banks and disappearing below the surface, hidden by water so cloudy it reminded me of coffee that had been left on heat too long until it more resembled mud than a breakfast drink.
Birds moved between the old oak trees that dangled with Spanish Moss like the grass skirt of a hula girl swaying to some ancient melody to the enchantment of island visitors. Cardinals and red-winged blackbirds were easily recognized but others escaped our knowledge.
As we drew nearer our destination the oaks and red maples gave way to bald cypress trees, some as tall as 100 feet and 15 feet in diameter. Their giant roots bowed out of the ground like tremendous spider legs. With the sun beginning to set, the shadows passing through the legs gave the appearance that the trees were moving, flanking our position like nocturnal sentries guarding an ancient secret.
Suddenly, there was a great splash and thrashing off to the left! Our guide said that it was likely a nutria, or giant swamp rat, that had just become dinner to a hungry alligator.

Pulling the boat to the shore at a small clearing, the guide told us this was the farthest that he would go.
Our guide was a burly old man, not small by any stretch of the imagination. His leathery skin and graying hair bore witness to many years working under the Louisiana sun. Looking at the deep lines of his face, worn like badges of honor earned by a seasoned veteran of war, it was hard to imagine what would bring the sudden haunting to his eyes that he just now displayed as he told us that he would go no closer and we would have to approach the shack on our own.
When we had exited the boat, the guide unexpectedly backed the boat away from the shore. Moving out to deeper water, the guide dropped an old concrete block into the water with a rope tied on to anchor his position. It was obvious that he did not like this place.

The sun had set…the moon was glowing through partial clouds casting an eerie light on the cypress roots. A light fog lifted from the water and moved like witching fingers drawn by an onshore breeze began to pool at our feet. Memories of the tales told caused chills to creep up our spines.
Turning inland, the cypress trees stood as giant ogres blocking our way to the shanty itself. A faint light seen amongst the roots gave the impression that the shanty lay straight ahead about 75 yards. Slowly we made our way under, around and over the cypress roots. Nocturnal noises filled the air…crickets, bullfrogs, and something else. A raspy guttural sound, almost as if the ground we walked on was breathing deeply beneath our feet.
Coming around the final sentinel giant, we at last could see the shanty. Soft yellow lights lit up the frontal area. Old milk cans, barrels, and some old fencing could be made out in the low light. The slatted front and roof of the shanty was about what we had expected, yet seeing it now sent shivers through our bones. For a moment, I was sure I had seen someone looking back at us through the front window, but when I focused my attention on the area, no movement could be detected and I figured it was just a play of the light on the glass.
Slowly rocking in a chair on the front porch was a kindly looking man. He was tall with thinning hair and bright smiling eyes. A large toothy smile seemed out of place here but it had a disarming effect, and we all relaxed a bit with his greeting.
“Evenin’ Folks,” said the man.
“Hello,” replied LJ. “We’re looking for Jim Duboise. We were told this was his place.”
“’tis ‘at, and ya got ‘im. Whatcha wantin’ ‘round ‘ere?” asked Jim, still rocking… still smiling.
Jim’s perpetual smile was a bit disconcerting. After all, we had just traveled hundreds of miles with the intent of seeing a real “haunted” house for ourselves and it was starting to seem that this was just another hoax, and over the last several months we had certainly had our fill of those. We had visited everything from haunted schoolhouses to haunted warehouses, haunted woods to haunted cornfields, each with a “history” of being haunted only to be disappointed in the end. Funds for this venture were beginning to run low so this was likely our last effort at finding what we wanted and it too was quickly turning into a disappointment.

LJ said, “Well, Jim, to get right to the point, we had heard your place was haunted and we wanted to see for ourselves if the stories were true. Now that we’re here, I can see that this place is a bit spooky, especially at night, but I’m afraid we might have come a long way for nothing.”
“Mmm…hmm…I see,” replied Jim, his eyes taking on a strange look at the mention of the word haunted. “And why would ya be lookin’ for a haunted house for anyhow?”
“We would buy it, move it back to the Cincinnati, Ohio area and open it up for visitors who are interested in seeing a real haunted house.”
Slowly, Jim’s smile began to fade. His left eye closed slightly and his face took on an expression of great suspicion. “She ain’t fer sale,” he said.
“So, you’re saying that the house is haunted?” LJ asked.
“I ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, Boy. Jus’ that y’all might jus’ wanna go back to wherever it is ya come from and go on an’ forget all ‘bout this ‘ere place,” answered Jim, looking not nearly as friendly as before.
On into the night the conversation continued. However, whenever the subject turned back toward the history of the shanty, Mr. Duboise’s attitude would shift darkly and the slight twitch of the left eye would return.
At some point we became acutely aware that whenever Jim’s attitude shifted, the low guttural sounds that we had heard earlier would increase, except we didn’t exactly hear it as much as we felt it deep inside ourselves.
From time to time a shadow would pass by the inside of the front door, the movement being visible between the gaps in the slats. This would often be followed by a sort of ticking sound like what one might hear from an old fashioned typewriter along with a mumbling voice. Though we couldn’t make out the words, we could tell that the voice was not as friendly as Mr. Duboise’s was on our arrival.

After a few hours, we bid farewell to Mr. Duboise and returned to the waters and our guide’s boat.

On the return trip to Cincinnati we discussed what we had seen, heard and felt. We decided that it was worth further investigation, so couple months later we hired a law firm to look into the property, it’s owners, and it’s history. What they found renewed our excitement.
The history didn’t say when the Duboise family had originally moved into the area, but it did show that beginning around 1890 the family started to gain prominence. First it was just old newspaper articles that mentioned the name in and around local events. After some time, however, the family started gaining recognition in local politics. By 1948, they held all of the top local political offices; County Sheriff, Judicial Seats, County Board of Directors. The family fully controlled the whole county for about the last 60 years.
Things started getting really strange around the late 1950’s to early 1960’s. Stories would appear now and again in newspapers of the surrounding counties telling of how people would go exploring the bayou only to be reported missing several days later. Any investigation by the Duboise run Sheriff’s Department would be inconclusive usually citing drowning or alligator attack as the likely cause. More than 50 such investigations could be found in the newspapers dating back over the last 40 years or so.
Rumors were whispered in secluded places about Jim Duboise and the other members of the family currently living at the shanty. Some said that the family was inbred resulting in many members of the family being crazy. Others thought that the family were cannibals and were eating the missing people and that the ghosts of those eaten still roamed the shanty.

In October 2008, we received word that Mr. Jim Duboise had died and that the new head of the family might be more interested in negotiating a sale of the shanty. So, once again we traveled to the Louisiana bayou and this takes us back to where our story began…with LJ yelling his favorite expletive while swatting a mosquito…

When we arrived at the shanty, things didn’t seem quite the same as they had 3 years before. It was earlier in the day, so the sun was still up, however, the size of the cypress trees blocked much of the light. Something about the feel and atmosphere of the house seemed different this trip…it just felt less controlled.
We stopped in front of the shanty and talked about how things seemed on this trip. A cold, calculating energy was sensed about the place. What could only be described as a faint ghostly apparition could be seen in the front window from time to time. Loud banging and screams could be plainly heard coming from somewhere within the shanty.
Also, the tick-tick-ticking sound we heard last time was present, although louder. We would have likely called the police if 1) we could call the police since none of our cell phones worked here, and 2) we hadn’t remember that these people were the police.
Suddenly the front door swung inward and a voice spoke, “Come in, we’ve been expecting you.”

Stepping through the door, we found ourselves in a sort of foyer looking at portraits of what must be members of the Duboise family. We expected to see the person who had bid us to enter but there was no one there. A chill wind ran between us.
Sensing movement behind us, we all turned in unison.
“Who let you in ‘ere? I know I didn’ let you in ‘ere!!” the man boomed.

…then the noise…the tick-tick-ticking noise…that horrible sound…the man….one eye…ghostly eye…shaggy beard…that ticking sound…patch over other eye…tick-tick-tick….clawed hand…gnarled hand…tick-tick….that sound…fiery eye…angry eye…tick-tick…seeing us look at the hand, the clawed hand…he mumbles, “…damned ‘gator…can’t play banjo no mo’…”…tick-tick…

LJ found his voice, “Sir, we came here about 3 years ago wanting to purchase the house from Jim Duboise. We have since heard that he passed away and were wanting to make an offer to the current owner.”
“That’d be me…mm-hmm…name’s Bobby…but in money, got no interest,” the man said.
“For what would you be willing to deal,” LJ asked.
The man just smiled, stroking his shaggy beard with the claw…tick-tick-tick…”Ain’t ne’er been to no Cencennata…nope,” replied the man…tick-tick-tick…

We hired an Architectural Firm to travel to Louisiana and map every inch of the shanty. Blueprints of the entire structure were made, as well as Electrical Engineering prints. A special thanks goes out to the Firm and also to Bill and his staff at the County who inspected the shanty to make sure that it was reconstructed in accordance with the drawings and applicable codes and regulations, even though Bobby Duboise was not terribly happy about the necessary changes made to the shanty to satisfy the Code. When we reminded Bobby of what we offered to make the purchase, he simply smiled, stroked his beard and said, “Mm-hmm.” …tick…tick…tick…

The shanty was disassembled in the bayou and relocated to Hamilton, OH. Bobby and his entire family moved with the shanty and currently reside there.
After years of negotiations and months of reconstruction, we are proud to present to fearless visitors, brave souls, and the unwary….The Jackson Road Haunt.