240th Avenue: Caryville, Wisconsin (my report)

ok, so the following is my research paper i'm spose to turn in on thursday, and i just want to know if it sounds good or not...it's about my adventures with Anthony during our brief relationship. though it ended quite horridly, the time spent together ment the worl to me and i will charish the memories for the rest of my life. i still feel the twinge of pain everytime something reminds me of him or my mind strays to his face, but i'm hoping i will soon forget the pain and only remember my dear, happiest memories.

enough about that though, here goes:


240th Avenue:
Caryville, Wisconsin



Erin M. Gebert





Written Communication
Earl Akey
July 24, 2008

Most People, when asked about it, have never heard of Caryville, WI. Why would they? What reason would they have to ever need to know the name of this tiny unincorporated town? Caryville may be unincorporated, but it holds bigger things than you can imagine. Located just south of Eau Claire, this town—consisting of a drug store, a bar, and a few farm houses—holds more secrets than any other place I’ve been to or heard of, dark secrets. The extent of it being named ‘Wisconsin’s Most Haunted’ is not untrue; I’ve been there. In the following pages, you will read not only my experience in this town, but many others’ experiences there.

Just imagine a warm night in the middle of June. It’s humid and the clouds are beginning to cover the moon and the stars. Only the breaks in the clouds give the full moon a chance to light up your surroundings as you drive west on Highway 29, heading into Eau Claire. Taking exit 75A, you begin to head south on 53, the city lights now enlightening the cloudy sky that threatens to rain down on you. You take another exit, number 87; you are now heading west on Hwy. 12—Clairemont Avenue. Another left and your are southbound on 37, heading back into the darkness of the country on a stormy night. Lightening begins to crack in the distance, lighting the farmlands on either side of you. Finally you take your last turn, a right onto 85. The rain begins to fall and your windshield wipers can go fast enough, so you stop in the nearest town to wait out the storm. Welcome to Caryville.

Now that you are here, let me tell you a little bit about this place. There are some stories—legends if you will—you should know about before you decide to stay here. I will start with the “safest” first. Taking County Hwy. H (the one you passes about 2 miles back), will put you on your way to our first haunted location here. After crossing the Chippewa River, the first road you come to sprouts off to the left. Its proper name is 240th Avenue but locals will call this Caryville Road. The road is more like a trail, barely big enough to fit one car on it but it gets worse, winding through the empty open farm lands. The road breaks off for a little while when you come to the next intersection, a T. You should be able to see it now, the twin buildings to your right. Go towards them; take that right onto 930th avenue. On the left side of the road stands the big white church, and on the right mimics a small school house.

The Caryville School House, also known as Spring Brook School. It shouldn’t be scary, this tiny, one-roomed school house, but you can feel the chills pulsing through your spine. Something in your better senses tells you to turn around and go back, but your curiosity gets the better of you, you turn into the small gravel lot in front of this not so intimidating building. The clock on your dash reads 11:28. The police don’t usually start patrolling this area until at least mid-night so you have some time to explore. Go ahead, go in and take a look around. The hairs on the back of your neck should be standing on end right about now. The light draft in the entryway feels like a cool breath blowing on the back of your neck. It shouldn’t be cold in here, you think to yourself, it’s so hot outside. The doorways on either side should take you into the main room, so pick one. Both will lead you to the same fate, but don’t look up. The belfry is just above you, and the visual is unpredictable. So don’t stop here, you’ve come so far.

Inside the main room, rows of desks fill the majority of the room but if you think you are hearing music, it is not all in your head. In the corner on your right stands an ancient piano and the legend will tell you to get out of there, for the little boy who died in the one of the desks beside you, haunts this room and he likes to abuse his visitors as his father did to him. He’ll make you freeze to death, giving you the same death sentence that was forced upon him. Another version of this story takes you down a slightly different path. Some of the stories say the preacher is the one who committed the awful crime. Legend has it that it wasn’t just 7-year-old, David James Grohn’s life that was taken. It was all of the children. After killing all of the students, the preacher took his own life and hung himself in the belfry, punishing himself for what he had done. As you walk back to your car you get the feeling that someone, or something is watching you, following you, standing just behind you. As you turn slowly to take one last look at that retched building, lightening flashes in the sky and in that instant, you see the noose still swaying from the belfry in the breeze of the oncoming storm. The worst of it is still to come, though the rain has stopped for the time being.

Heading back towards the intersection you had just come from, you’ll see a new road, 230th avenue. It only goes one direction, to your right, so follow it. The road curves to the right and suddenly there is ninety degree turn. You are now on 240th avenue once again, the continuing section of it. Coming over a small hill the rain begins to fall again, and as you are messing with your windshield wipers, every light on your car dims for a second. Looking up you see a frightened 3 legged black cat. The cat stays near the haunted area to protect. Some say he is a figment of your imagination and he is protecting this precious abundance of the spiritual world. Others say he’s trying to protect you from the worst of it, the hell hounds of Meridean.

Meridean, another small town located on County Hwy. O just past Caryville, is not just a town; it’s the name of the island just off of the boat landing on 240th avenue. Several legends hold the answer to how the island got its name. The only thing in common with each version is the girl whose name was Mary Dean. The most famous of legends states that a young Mary Dean was traveling by steamboat with her mother. The beautiful youth became ill, died, and was buried on the island. In an attempt to commemorate her, they named the island Meridean.

The story takes a turn for the worse after her burial. Three ferries mysteriously disappeared in the area, resulting in the ferry crossing being closed. Several years down the road, a sanatorium was constructed on the island. Though in reality it was a part of St. Josephs Hospital and was run by nuns, the legend states that a single doctor ran the sanatorium and owned many vicious pit-bulls. The bit-bulls killed the doctor’s only child and in return he killed and buried them on the island along with the said youth, sprouting the legends of the carnivorous hellhounds. The sanatorium was later torn down and moved closer to the Highway.

With this newfound knowledge, how do you feel as you pull up to our next attraction? A sharp U-bend, some miles down the road brings you right to the edge of the Chippewa River. The road (looking more and more like a rutted up four-wheeling trail) is widened here, stretching down to the shoreline; just big enough to pull a boat around and back it into the river.

In the dark you can’t see it, but another flash of lightening will give you a brief view of the island that is within swimming distance, for humans and dogs. I would recommend you stay in your vehicle this time; it will stall the hellhounds, though I doubt it will keep them for long. If you crack your window just enough to hear the sounds of the thunder, you will hear I slightly more menacing sound; the devilish screaming that no investigator has ever pinpointed to be coming from any known animals. If the school house didn’t make you think twice, I’d hope this place is making you reconsider going on, but there is no point in stopping yet, we’ve only got a mile left of the road, how much scarier can it get?

Sand Hill Cemetery is the proper name of Caryville’s old cemetery, and it is just that. Go just a little farther, just past the boat landing. The road becomes rugged and invisible under the overgrowth. It is more a tractor trail along the side of a field than a road, but I assure you it is recorded as a road on the map. The steep hill allows you only to go on during the summer months, with snow and ice it is impassable. You may pass the entrance to this children’s cemetery a time or two before you finally find it. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT pull your car all the way into the drive, for the headstones of this hidden cemetery in a field have all been smashed and overgrown by the erosion of Earth. You may get out if you please, but I recommend you keep your headlights shining on brights, just an FYI. From the time you place one foot on the ground you will feel the entity that has stuck with you from the beginning at the school house. It follows you and watches you and hangs on you like an attached tour guide, even when you get out of the car. Over the sound of the pelting rain and the thunder, innocent giggles and childish voices float over the hills and to your ears. They whisper your name and mess with your head, playing their invisible games. They have no adult supervision and no deadline, just eternity to play and frolic in their endless childhood. The scattered headstones of this field hold only the lifeless decayed bodies of illness stricken children from the late 1800’s to the early 1900’s; some only moths old, others just beginning their teenage years.

I remind you the boat landing is less than I mile back and the hellhounds are quick to come so do not linger here, for the old man that haunts is home back in the woods will tell you himself of the awful fate his wife encountered. He will eternally protect visitors to the unknown area from the most feared, the two headed hellhound that leads the pack. And you will meet his army truck with blinding headlights when you leave this place, but he will only follow you to the end of this hellish road you just so happened to travel on this fateful night. He will not harm you in anyway just tailgate until you are gone.

When you finally turn off of 240th avenue at the T, my mission is now complete. And the storm has finally passed. You are free to travel the cleared roadway to your original destination, but with a more knowledgeable sense. Your friendly follower has left you back in the cemetery where he will continue to come along for the ride with all visitors and live the repetitive experience, over and over, as that is the after life the so creatively named ‘blacky’ has been damned to.

Looking at the clock on your dashboard will reveal that time travel exists for few moments that you stayed at each location, has in reality taken hours for you to explore. The sun is lighting the horizon to a new day, but your memory of the experience will forever be permanently imprinted in your head, so as to remind you in full detail, if you should ever forget, the shivers, the fear, or the adrenaline rush.