Submitted by Christine Whelan

Oct 28th, 2021, VOL. 3 ISSUE 5

Did you know Ridgeway had a legend?

The best word to describe this moment of realization, for me, was surreal — a Twilight Zone kind of experience. So, as we step into the days of All Hallow’s Eve, I would like to share with you, my story of coming face to face, with the legend.

I stumbled across the bizarre moment when a new friend and new resident to the area, while discussing the souvenirs left behind by the farming community, now past — the lone silos, standing tall, dark, and silent — grabbed her laptop as she mumbled the words, “Silo, I remember seeing something online.”

She spun the laptop around to face me, revealing a heading, “Ridgeway Witch Prison Tower”, dated December 10, 2012.

My first reaction was a quick laugh. But curiosity took over, accompanied by a slight and slow chill.

There, on the screen, was a photo of an ominous-looking silo, accompanied by a paragraph introducing the story. “Every small town has its urban legends – most just get laughed off half-heartedly. But every once in a while, in between chuckles, the eyes of those who remember the truth will nervously meet and unconscious understanding will pass from one person to another: some secrets must be kept.”

I read the words of the unbelievable legend first, accompanied with the photos of a farmhouse that had been abandoned for so long it had fallen over and in on itself — or was helped along the way, as one site image of a newspaper clipping indicated, ‘Accused Witch Missing After Vigilante Townsfolk Destroy Home’. To my disappointment, no other words on the alleged newspaper article could be made out.

I then read the comments. People had gotten drawn in. The people who were being drawn in and were commenting were not from the area; everywhere but the area. Not one local verifying anything or otherwise. Gotta love the internet.

The Legend

So, as this legend is written, in a nutshell, there was a witch who lived as a recluse on the outskirts of town, in an old farmhouse. There, she captured and caged children. Someone found the children and killed the witch. The witch had become immortal and came back to life, thus the need to create a prison out of the silo on the property. At some point, the townsfolk took matters into their own hands. The house was burnt to the ground. And this all went down in the early 1980s,

A local legend. Ridgeway had a legend.

But, this legend could not possibly be true, I thought, as I shook my head after reading all of the details. I was here, living in Ridgeway in the early ’80s. I would have heard about it. No way.

There was a more recent post about this witch in a silo. This one included a YouTube video.

I watched the video.

The reporting explorers – three teenagers, two boys, and one girl — drove a fairly new vehicle down Dominion Road. Just outside Ridgeway, they mispronounced Burleigh Road, rhyming it with sleigh. I took note; they probably were not locals. At least not long-time locals. The camera, held by the young passenger, swayed left, showing a row of newly-risen homes, reminding me that there were many new residents settling in Ridgeway. Some commuters with families, perhaps. I began to imagine how a legend could ignite and spread.

As I watched the passenger cam footage of the vehicle turning off Dominion and onto Burleigh, then halfway up the country block, I felt like I was entering into an episode of The Twilight Zone. The location of this legend was the property of a farm I once treasured, where I went to as often as I could, where I felt I belonged, where I was loved — where I fell aimlessly in love.

In the early ’80s, when I was 15 years old, this big, old farm was the home of my boyfriend and his family.

I watched without movement as the explorer’s camera revealed a lonely silo surrounded by years of field growth, partnered with crumbled, concrete ruins of barn foundation. The door of the silo wore the words in blue spray paint, “Save me”, across it, now faded. Around the back of the silo had a painted triangle with an eye in the middle, also now faded, with the words, “We are everywhere”, and, “We see all”, surrounding it.

The kids seemed to have fun creating a dramatic story as they went, scaring themselves, using what they had already read online, the visual prompts, and whatever their overactive imaginations could come up with for the camera.

I had to watch it twice. The first time was wrapped in shock.

Return to the Farm Land

The following day, I set out to see for myself, the ruins of the sanctuary of my youth, and the lonely silo — the prison of a legendary witch.

Once isolated in the middle of a large, bare field, a long, bent driveway ran to it. There were 6-foot hedges traveling up and down both sides so the trip up the driveway was private and quiet. One foot stepped in front of the other, moving me steadily up the curvy, abandoned path.

The driveway stopped halfway up, blocked by piles of recycled brick ready to be used as fill and large fallen, cut, and piled trees. The rest of the driveway no longer existed. Forgotten. To the left where it would have once been in front of the first barn, were more large piles of recycled brick ready to go.

TrekkIng silently, farther left around the piles, passing crumbling ruins of the foundation, I remembered the two barns mixed with several smaller buildings for storage and work, now overtaken with growth, abandoned, lost in decay.

I had to walk to the far left, in the field, around tall, thick growth, around the back of the silo itself to get to the front and the door of the tall, concrete cylinder of a tower. The witch’s prison.

It hovered over me in expectation, the row of rectangular windows serving as eyes, one atop the other, staring down on me. And me, back at it. I felt it’s years of being used then abandoned by its residents, now visited and mocked by others. I touched the metal door, chained shut with the top half of it bent down, I figured by aggressive explorers.

Then I remembered the house, the flash of good memories all within a few seconds, the warmth inside, the belonging. I headed back to where the driveway was blocked and forced walkers to veer left to the brick piles. Instead, I walked right, into the next field, back towards more growth and field, to what once had been abandoned, then destroyed, then forgotten.

But I had not forgotten.

I knew the house used to stand old, tall, and worn back there, past the growth that once was the last part of the long drive, past the patch of field that once was the parking area. I knew it once proudly held safe, the people I once felt were like family.

Local legend. I remembered reading this term on one of the posts. It drew me to head out of this time warp and into town. The locals. It was time to do some investigating of my own.

The Long-Time Locals

I visited a few of the core residents who made up the foundation and the main stem of the grapevine — the town’s powerful line of gossip — and asked them, had they heard of this legend? What did they know?

Everyone I spoke to about this legend had no idea. Maria, who owns one of the more popular restaurants in the downtown core and the hub of the town, had no idea. Darlene, who had lived in town for many years and was considered connected to the local grapevine, laughed uncontrollably when she was shown the online postings. Stephanie, who grew up in the area and worked for the very newspaper that, according to the legend’s webpage, the article about the townsfolk taking action was written in, never heard of it. I asked a few more long-time residents. Everyone was both shocked and entertained.

I found it both an oddity and a miracle that none of the town’s people I asked were aware of the story of the witch in the silo. This was not a true local legend, but it is, I believe, a sign of the times.

Sign of the Times

It was my personal conclusion, maybe assumption, that this legend was the result of a combination of an old farmland, simply abandoned, a time span of a mere 30 years, community development bringing new families into the area, a wealth of imagination — and of course, the internet.

I imagined myself as a 20-year-old, coming to Ridgeway for the first time, driving around and wondering about the stories behind all that I was seeing. I imagined what I might think had I come across the property, the piles of ruins, and the silo for the first time.

Since then, there have been a couple of additional links in the search results as the legend is now catching on in real-time. The property has begun to return to life. A local resident, who was aware of and drawn to this property that is now surrounded by new development, since his high school years, has been building a garage right next to the silo. Bill Davidge plans to eventually build his new house on the property as well. He has kept the silo as he found it, sharing that he sees the graffiti as art.

As far as the legend of the witch, Bill spends many hours working right next to the silo. The door is most often wide open. Not once has he been spooked by anything resembling a witch. Although, he has commented that the whole idea has been entertaining.

So yes, it seems, every small town has its urban legends, and most just get laughed off half-heartedly. Yet I wonder, in the small town of Ridgeway, in between chuckles, do the eyes of those who remember the truth nervously meet? Does unconscious understanding pass from one person to another?

I guess we will never know…

I guess some secrets are meant to be kept.

Happy Halloween!

Photos provided by Christine Whelan