The Haunted Town of Quanah, Texas

Photo by Adrian Dascal

Many years ago, my husband — at the time — was transferred to Quanah, Texas, population of over 4,550, by his company Georgia Pacific, to work his way up to a plant manager’s position. That meant the move was a temporary one of about three years. The plant in Quanah was smaller but was geographically important.

My twins were born in Quanah. In fact, the babes and I were featured on the front page of the newspaper for being the first twins to be born in the new hospital.

It had seemed to us that Quanah was an up-and-coming community with some vibrancy from the community’s support of the school’s sports teams, artist groups, and especially the prominent church groups. I thought it odd that the first question asked of us when meeting some of the locals was: “What church do you belong to?” Not, ‘What does your husband do?’ or ‘Where are you from?’ or ‘What is your name?’ It was always a question of what church we’d be going to in that small community.

We made lots of friends while there. My husband, of course, knew the people he worked with, which were the same guys he’d spend half the night drinking with, whereas I knew the people in the Art Guild. That creative group would get together to challenge and encourage each other, arrange for art exhibits to show off the group’s artistic talents, and occasionally invite other well-known artists to the town for receptions to introduce the artists to the community. One of those artists, whom I remembered well, was Plains Indian painter Rance Hood — when he was much younger and just becoming a rising star.

After my husband’s training stint was over, we moved to another part of the country and started over making friends and settling in. That was many years and many changes ago.

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Now, my children are grown with children of their own, and best of all, I have a new husband. One who is interested in my life, which is why I suggested a return visit to Quanah, Texas while we were traveling in our RV through Texas to get to Houston to visit my son. He was game and we found an RV park with an amiable office worker who brought us up to date about the community. The biggest news was that Georgia Pacific had just shut its doors for good two months prior.

Whoa! That was big news, as it had been the biggest industry around. What did that say for the town? I wondered, soon seeing that the population had declined considerably since I had lived there so many years ago.

As we took a drive around the town to see the familiar sights and get a sense of what had changed, I was stunned by the unfamiliarity of the community and its changes. Not only did I not see anything that looked familiar, but the whole town looked empty and dead. There were people, but they seemed unanimated, as if living in a dream world where their participation was minimal. The lovely houses I’d remembered were now empty and rotting away, one after another, including one I had lived in back in the day.

What had happened to this community? I wanted to know. It was obvious that time had not been kind.

Perhaps it was the power of suggestion from my husband’s comment, “I’ve never seen such a ghost town as this,” or maybe it was the fact that the place was indeed, a true ‘ghost’ town, complete with its haunts that made me quiver. I’m not sure, but as we drove down street after street seeing the many empty and forlorn houses that were neglected by humans, yet overly nurtured by Mother Nature with overgrowth and decay, I couldn’t help but feel that we were more in a ‘Twilight Zone’ rather than in a town where I had once lived and enjoyed being in.

To top off the disquiet of my insides and their churning feelings that said, ‘Things just ain’t right in this village, my dear’, we went to a newly made-into-a-restaurant train station for dinner, which was across the highway from where we were staying. The building was refurbished nicely with a ‘Cowboys and Indians’ theme, specifically of Chief Quanah Parker, the last chief of the Comanche and name’s sake of the town. There were pictures of Chief Quanah Parker on the walls — paintings, drawings, and photographs — along with headdresses and other chief-like apparel on display that kept my interest while we waited for dinner to arrive and then when my husband, at one point, left to go to the baño.

While I waited, I sat looking around at the building and the items on the wall when movement caught the corner of my eye to my left. When I turned my head to zero in on what had caught my attention, my eyes locked on the drawing of Chief Quanah Parker that hung to the right of an old photo of the man. The photo was dark and damaged with details I couldn’t decipher from where I sat, but the drawing was excellently drawn in pencil with great details and it was those details that had my attention. The serious face, with a straight mouth and not quite a scowl, was smiling at me. Eyes that had been looking forward were now turned in my direction.

That can’t be possible, I told myself. It’s a drawing, after all. But there was no mistake. Quanah Parker was looking at me and smiling.

When my husband returned, I told him to look at the drawing to see if he saw what I was seeing. He said he saw a smile, but then in a moment said that the drawing of the Indian chief looked serious as it stared out into the room. I saw that, too, at that moment, but when my husband turned away and I looked again, the face was once again smiling and watching me. At one point he even pursed his lips in kiss mode. I told my husband to hurry and turn to look, but the face, once again had returned to its normal position and serious look.

Photo by Andrew Neel

Was I seeing things?

It couldn’t have been from what I had been drinking because the place didn’t serve alcohol and we had just ordered water. I kept looking over at the picture hoping to see it for what it was, what it had been when we first entered the room, but each time I looked, it would change. The face would turn to look at me and either smile or purse his lips in a kiss.

I don’t have validation for this happening, since my husband didn’t see all that I saw, but I am certain I was not hallucinating. The town was turning into something beyond normal, either by regressing into its beginnings or moldering into a future state of nothingness, I was convinced, as I gave a definite shudder.

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Later, after dining and we stood to leave, the drawing suddenly dropped to the floor. Startled, we both turned to look. We were surprised that it had fallen, but even more surprised when seeing that the glass, miraculously, had not shattered.

The owner, whom we met when we were served dinner, came running over with apologies for the noise and said, “It’s the darndest thing. That has been happening a lot lately.”