Weird West Virginia
Pecos Bill Presents Peculiar Panhandles: West Virginia Tales
Well now, pardners, I’m excited, and I just can’t hide it. I'm in the process of finalizing the next book in my series. In a week or so, the book should hit the newfangled cyber-presses; in the meantime, enjoy some exclusive bonus content. Enjoy!
Bonus Chapter: The Shadow Man of Moundsville
Now, pardner, Moundsville, West Virginia, isn’t just famous for its rolling hills and the Ohio River—it’s also home to one of the spookiest places this side of the Mississippi: the West Virginia Penitentiary. Now, I’ve seen my fair share of hauntin’ sights, but this place takes the cake. And wouldn’t you know it, Pecos Bill found himself tangled up in one of its ghostly mysteries.
It all started on a dare. A feller in town bet me I couldn’t spend a whole night inside the penitentiary without high-tailin’ it outta there. Never one to back down from a challenge, I saddled up Widowmaker and rode to the prison, figurin’ it’d be a piece of cake.
The place was as creepy as you’d imagine—dark, cold, and full of echoes that didn’t seem to have anythin’ to echo off of. I made my way to the execution chamber, the heart of the prison’s haunted reputation, and settled in for the night.
About midnight, just as I was thinkin’ it was all a load of hogwash, the temperature dropped like a stone, and a shadow moved across the far wall. Now, I’ve seen shadows before, but this one wasn’t cast by any light—it moved like it had a mind of its own.
“Who’s there?” I called out, my hand on my lasso.
The shadow paused, then shifted toward me. It was shaped like a man but darker than the deepest cave. “Leave this place,” it hissed, its voice cold enough to freeze a pot of chili.
“Well now,” I said, standin’ my ground, “seems like you’ve got a story worth tellin’. Why don’t you sit a spell and we’ll talk it out?”
The shadow loomed closer, and I could feel the chill of it seepin’ into my bones. “I am the Shadow Man,” it said. “A reflection of the wrongs done in this place. My existence is a warning, a reminder of what should not be repeated.”
“Well, Shadow Man,” I said, “seems to me you’ve been carryin’ a mighty heavy burden. Maybe it’s time to let go.”
The shadow hesitated, its edges flickerin’ like a candle in the wind. “And how would you propose I do that, cowboy?”
“Simple,” I said, pullin’ out my lasso. “You need to leave a mark, somethin’ folks can look at and remember. But it don’t have to be fear. Let’s turn that warnin’ into wisdom.”
With a quick throw, I looped my lasso around the shadow, not to capture it, but to guide it. Together, we moved through the prison, the shadow touchin’ the walls, leavin’ behind faint handprints and messages etched in frost—reminders of the prison’s past and the lessons it carried.
By dawn, the shadow had faded, but its marks remained. The folks in Moundsville were amazed, and the prison became more than a spooky place—it became a monument to history, a reminder of the need for justice and mercy.
And so, the Shadow Man found peace, and I rode off, leavin’ behind a story to chill your bones and warm your heart all at once. If you’re ever in Moundsville, take a tour of the penitentiary and keep an eye out for those frosty handprints. You just might feel the presence of the Shadow Man, remindin’ you of the power of a good ghost story.