Now I have approximately seventeen questions, several theories, and a mild existential crisis.
So naturally, I’m bringing all of you with me.
Welcome to Down the Rabbit Hole—the place where I wonder about something completely normal, look it up, and somehow resurface several hours later knowing entirely too much about it.
For our first rabbit hole, I wanted to start with something I think almost everyone has said at some point:
Where the hell did the time go?
My niece just turned four.
FOUR.
And I swear she was born approximately six months ago.
She was three months premature and so tiny when she was born that she was barely bigger than the palm of my hand.
Now?
She’s more than half my height.
And apparently four years have passed while I wasn’t paying attention.
Rude.
So that got me thinking.
When I was a kid, a year felt like an eternity.
Summer vacation might as well have lasted seventeen years.
Waiting for Christmas?
Absolute torture.
Thirty minutes until we left the house?
Might as well tell me we’re never leaving.
Now I blink and somehow another month has passed.
I swear I was just writing July on things.
It’s August.
Soon it’ll be Halloween.
Then Christmas.
Then somebody will say, “Can you believe it’s 2027?”
And I will become violent.
So…
Why does time seem to move faster the older we get?
Down the rabbit hole I went.
🕳️ First of all: apparently, we’re not imagining it.
Which was comforting for approximately three seconds.
Researchers have actually asked people of different ages how quickly time seems to pass.
One study surveyed nearly 500 people between the ages of 14 and 94. When people thought about shorter stretches—a week, a month, even a year—age didn’t make as much difference as you might expect.
But when they looked back across decades, something changed.
Older adults were more likely to describe time as having sped up, particularly compared with childhood.
So the clock isn’t secretly getting faster.
Obviously.
But our experience of our lives can make it feel that way.
And one explanation involves something incredibly boring:
Routine.
🕳️ Your brain apparently hates reruns.
Think about being a kid.
Everything was new.
Your first day of school.
Your first sleepover.
Learning to ride a bike.
Your first best friend.
Your first roller coaster.
The first time you stayed up until midnight.
The first time you went somewhere without your parents.
Even ordinary things were discoveries because you hadn’t done them a thousand times yet.
Now think about an average adult Tuesday.
Wake up.
Get ready.
Go to work.
Come home.
Make dinner.
Watch something.
Scroll your phone.
Go to bed.
Repeat.
When days contain similar events, our memories can essentially compress them together. Research has found that routine periods tend to be remembered as having passed more quickly than periods containing less-routine experiences.
Which explains something weird about time:
A boring day can feel incredibly long while you’re living it…and incredibly short when you look back on it.
Meanwhile, a vacation can fly by while you’re actually there but feel surprisingly large in your memory afterward because there are so many distinct moments attached to it. Researchers sometimes describe this kind of mismatch between experienced time and remembered time as the holiday paradox.
Basically:
Your brain doesn’t remember your life like a clock.
It remembers events.
And apparently that distinction matters a lot.
🕳️ Which means childhood cheated.
This is where my existential crisis really started.
As children, we are constantly creating memories because we’re constantly encountering things we haven’t experienced before.
As adults?
We’ve seen some shit.
😂
The hundredth drive to work isn’t particularly noteworthy.
Neither is the 900th load of laundry.
Your brain doesn’t need a beautifully detailed autobiographical memory of every Tuesday afternoon you spent folding towels.
So similar experiences get bundled together.
Looking backward, there are fewer distinctive memory markers separating one stretch of time from another.
And suddenly:
Where the fuck did August go?
Psychologists have been thinking about this idea for a very long time. Modern research still considers routine and memory important possibilities for why parts of life seem compressed in hindsight—although newer reviews point out that there probably isn’t one neat explanation for the whole phenomenon. Our judgments about how quickly life passed can also involve attention, emotion, expectations, nostalgia, satisfaction, and what a period of our life meant to us.
So unfortunately I cannot tell you:
“Scientists solved time. It’s this one thing.”
They did not.
Rude again.
🕳️ Wait. What about the whole “a year is a smaller percentage of your life” thing?
You’ve probably heard this explanation.
When you’re four years old, one year is one-fourth of your entire life.
When you’re 20, it’s one-twentieth.
When you’re 50, it’s one-fiftieth.
Therefore, each year feels shorter because it represents a progressively smaller percentage of everything you’ve experienced.
It sounds wonderfully logical.
And it may be an intuitive way to describe what aging feels like.
But psychology’s actual explanation of long-term time perception is much messier than that simple fraction.
There isn’t currently one universally accepted formula that explains why life seems to accelerate. A recent review of the research basically concludes that multiple mechanisms may contribute, and the evidence for some popular explanations is still incomplete.
Which I actually find more interesting.
Because apparently our brains don’t measure our lives with a ruler.
They measure them with memory.
Meaning.
Emotion.
Change.
Expectation.
And probably several other things we’re still figuring out.
🕳️ So…can we slow it back down?
Not the clock.
Unfortunately, I have not discovered immortality during Rabbit Hole #1.
Give me time.
😂
But if routine contributes to that feeling of years collapsing into one another, then adding novelty and distinct experiences to our lives may give memory more landmarks to hold onto.
That doesn’t mean you need to travel the world or jump out of an airplane every Thursday.
It can be tiny.
Take a different route somewhere.
Try a restaurant you’ve never been to.
Learn something.
Cook something you’ve never made.
Go somewhere you’ve never been in your own town.
Listen to a different kind of music.
Take pictures.
😂
Actually pay attention to something you normally walk past.
Do something that makes your brain go:
Oh. This is new.
Research on unique experiences suggests they can create richer episodic memories and change how a period of time is remembered.
And suddenly this rabbit hole has accidentally collided with something I’ve already been trying to do:
look closer.
Notice things.
Remember them.
Maybe we can’t make time move slower.
But perhaps we can give ourselves more reasons to remember where it went.
And now I’m sitting here thinking about my niece again.
Four years.
I remember when she was impossibly tiny.
And now she talks constantly, has opinions about everything, makes me cupcakes, cuddles with me, runs around my house, and occasionally calls inanimate objects “mother fuckers.”
🥲😂
Maybe those four years didn’t disappear.
Maybe they’re just stored differently than they felt while I was living them.
And maybe that’s why watching children grow is such a strange way of measuring time.
You don’t notice it happening every day.
Then one day you look at them and realize an entire version of them is already gone.
The baby became a toddler.
The toddler became a little kid.
And somehow, while you were busy living your ordinary Tuesdays, years happened.
Well.
This was supposed to be a fun little question.
Now I’m staring into the void.
Excellent.
I came here wondering why childhood summers seemed to last forever.
I am leaving with an existential crisis and the sudden urge to make my life slightly less repetitive.
Rabbit hole successfully entered. 🐇🕳️
Until next time,
— Destiny
P.S. What completely random question should I fall down the rabbit hole with next?
Sources & Further Reading
For this one, I’d put a small sources section at the bottom—not nearly as elaborate as History After Dark, but enough that readers can follow the research if they want. The strongest ones are the peer-reviewed study on routine and remembered duration, the recent Frontiers in Psychology review of “life tempo” judgments, and the Scientific American explainer on why time seems to speed up with age.
I used to think growing up meant learning that monsters weren’t real.
Monsters
As we got older, the monsters crept from under our beds to inside our heads.
We stopped checking closets.
Stopped leaving the hallway light on.
Stopped pulling blankets over our faces because someone told us
there was nothing there.
And we believed them.
For a while.
We laughed at the children we used to be.
Afraid of shadows.
Afraid of footsteps.
Afraid of something reaching from beneath the bed and grabbing our ankles.
We didn’t know yet
that monsters grow up too.
They stop hiding beneath mattresses
and start answering to ordinary names.
Anxiety.
Grief.
Shame.
Trauma.
Loneliness.
The voice that says everyone you love will eventually leave.
The memory that waits until 2 a.m. to remind you it never really went anywhere.
The fear that maybe you are difficult to love.
The thought that everyone else was given instructions for being alive
and somehow yours got lost.
As children,
we could run to another room.
Climb into someone’s bed.
Whisper,
“I’m scared.”
And sometimes that was enough.
Someone would check the closet.
Look beneath the bed.
Turn on the light.
Promise us
nothing was there.
God,
I miss when fear could be proven wrong with a flashlight.
Because now
the monster knows my name.
It knows my history.
It knows exactly which memories to pull from the shelf
when I am finally having a good day.
It knows which insecurities still have teeth.
It knows how to sound exactly like me.
That’s the cruelest part.
Eventually,
you stop knowing
which thoughts belong to you
and which ones belong to the monster.
So I became my own night-light.
My own open door.
My own voice in the darkness saying,
“There’s nothing there.”
Even when I wasn’t sure.
Especially when I wasn’t sure.
As we got older,
the monsters crept from under our beds
to inside our heads.
And maybe growing up
was never about discovering
that monsters aren’t real.
Maybe it was realizing
no one else
can check beneath the bed
for us anymore.
So now,
when the darkness comes,
I sit beside the frightened child still living inside me.
I take her hand.
I turn on the light.
And together,
we remind the monsters
that this time—
they’re the ones
who should be afraid of us.
Between the Lines
When I was little, monsters were easy.
Not necessarily less scary—but easier.
They lived under beds.
Inside closets.
In dark hallways.
Behind doors that looked completely harmless during the day but somehow became suspicious as hell once the lights went out.
And when you were scared, you could call for someone.
Someone bigger would come into the room, turn on the light, open the closet, look underneath the bed, and show you there was nothing there.
Fear could be proven wrong.
I think that’s what sits underneath this poem more than anything else.
God, I miss when fear could be proven wrong with a flashlight.
Because somewhere along the way, the monsters changed.
They stopped having claws and shadows and glowing eyes.
They became things like anxiety.
Grief.
Shame.
Trauma.
Loneliness.
Memories.
The things we tell ourselves when it’s late and everything feels heavier than it did during the day.
And nobody can walk into the room and prove those things aren’t there.
Nobody can shine a flashlight underneath your thoughts.
That might be one of the cruelest parts of growing up.
But while writing this poem, I realized something else.
When I was a child, I needed someone else to turn on the light.
Now I can do it myself.
Not always.
Not perfectly.
And sometimes I turn it on with shaking hands.
But I can sit beside the younger versions of myself who are still scared. I can remind them that we survived the things we once thought we wouldn’t. I can question the voice that tells me every fear is a fact simply because it sounds like my own.
Maybe that’s part of growing up, too.
Not becoming fearless.
Not finally reaching some magical age where the monsters disappear.
Just learning that when they come back, you don’t have to hide beneath the blankets anymore.
You can turn on the light yourself.
And maybe, eventually, the monsters learn to be afraid of you.
Until next time,
—Destiny
P.S. What was the thing you were most afraid of in the dark when you were a kid?
So at this point, I’m not entirely sure whether I’m observing nature or if I’ve accidentally entered into some kind of snack-based agreement with a squirrel.
Either way, she keeps coming back.
And I’ve started noticing little things.
How cautiously she approaches at first.
How she pauses like she’s deciding whether I can be trusted.
How quickly that hesitation disappears once food is involved.
Relatable, honestly. 😂
The first time I saw her, she was just a squirrel.
One of those little things you notice outside for a few seconds before going back to whatever you were doing.
But then I stopped.
I watched her.
I fed her.
And suddenly she wasn’t just a squirrel anymore.
She was Sandy.
There’s something kind of funny about that.
The world is full of things we pass every day without really seeing them.
Birds in the yard.
Bugs on the window.
Squirrels running across fences.
Sunsets behind trees.
They’re always there.
But sometimes all it takes is slowing down for a minute before something ordinary starts feeling a little less ordinary.
Maybe that’s what I like most about photography—and about this little series.
It gives me an excuse to stop.
To notice.
To pay attention long enough for a random squirrel to become Sandy. 😂
And apparently Sandy knows where the snacks are now.
So I have a feeling this won’t be the last time you hear about her.
Until next time,
—Destiny
P.S. Have you ever accidentally made friends with a wild animal?
I think I accidentally opened a daycare this week.
I don’t remember applying for a license.
I don’t remember filling out any paperwork.
But there were three children in my house for most of the week, somebody was always coughing, somebody was always pooping somewhere they weren’t supposed to, and at one point I had two children sitting in a bathtub full of ball-pit balls.
So.
I’m pretty sure that makes it official. 😂
Last Sunday, I ended Sunday Things by deciding my dirty laundry could become Monday’s problem.
Apparently Monday saw that and said:
Oh, you think laundry is your biggest problem? Cute.
Because this week had everything.
Sick babies.
A sick boyfriend.
Very little sleep.
Poop.
Pee.
Bubble baths.
A friendship conversation that somehow lasted approximately four business days.
And a cake that nearly broke me psychologically.
But before we get to that—
there was one very important development this week.
One I have been waiting patiently for.
Very.
Patiently.
ahem.
SEX IS BACK ON THE TABLE.
😂😂😂
After surgery, recovery, restrictions, and my hoohoo essentially being placed on administrative leave, she has officially returned to active duty.
Was I a little sore afterward?
Yep.
Was it worth it?
BABBBBBYYYYY.
😂
Unfortunately, the universe apparently decided once was enough.
Because immediately afterward, my house became a plague ward full of sick children, sleepovers, coughing, snot, and eventually a sick boyfriend.
So that was Monday.
And that was also the end of that.
😩😂
Honestly, that pretty much establishes the tone for the entire week.
☕ This Week’s Comfort
The kids.
Which is a ridiculous answer considering they were also responsible for approximately 87% of the chaos.
But still.
My niece and both nephews spent most of the week with me, and somehow my house became their house.
There were sleepovers.
Cartoons.
Cuddles.
Snot.
A truly concerning amount of bodily fluids.
And a ball-pit bubble bath.
That one happened by accident.
My niece was trying to poop.
My nephew was annoying her.
Naturally, I put him in the bathtub.
As one does.
He wanted water.
Then she wanted in.
Then she wanted bubbles.
I didn’t have bath toys.
But I did have an empty body-wash bottle, a bowl, and an entire bag of ball-pit balls.
And that is how Ball-Pit Bubble Bath™ was born.
They loved it.
More importantly?
They weren’t getting on my nerves.
😂
We did it again Friday.
Apparently this is just something we do at NeeNee’s house now.
We also watched The Fairly OddParents, Jurassic Park, and Rugrats.
Or, more accurately, I watched The Rugrats Movie while one kid slept in the recliner, one slept in the playpen, and another sat on the potty.
I looked around at one point and thought:
Yep.
This seems about right.
There was also something really sweet about watching my boyfriend with them this week.
At one point, he was curled up in the recliner with my niece and youngest nephew watching Gabby’s Dollhouse.
Later, everybody was watching CaseOh.
I love how much those kids love him.
And how much he loves them right back.
Even if one of them apparently infected him with the plague.
Which brings me to something I still cannot get over.
This man has survived me having COVID multiple times.
Kissed me.
Ate after me.
Shared a bed with me.
Nothing.
A ONE-YEAR-OLD GETS A RUNNY NOSE?
Man down.
Absolutely defeated.
I’m still salty about it.
🤣
📸 Through My Lens
If I had taken one photograph that could somehow capture this entire week, it would probably look like this:
One child headbutting something.
Another biting someone.
My niece yelling something wildly inappropriate.
My boyfriend coughing in the background.
Me holding a roll of paper towels wondering whose bodily fluid I am currently cleaning off my floor.
And Rugrats playing somewhere in the distance.
😂
My one-year-old nephew spent Monday walking around saying:
“Well, shit.”
Meanwhile, my four-year-old niece has apparently expanded her vocabulary to include:
“You mother fucker.”
Beautiful.
Educational.
We’re doing great over here. 🥲
Then came the poop.
My niece has been battling constipation again, which eventually turned into her pooping twice in her panties, once in her pull-up, and once on my floor.
My nephew peed on the floor.
At that point I stopped asking questions.
This house has seen things.
But there were softer moments mixed into all of it.
My best friend stopped by before moving to Tennessee to start a new career.
The kids curled up everywhere.
We watched old cartoons.
We invented ridiculous bath-time traditions.
And somewhere between the snot, potty accidents, and sleep deprivation, I realized how much I love having this kind of chaos in my house.
Not permanently.
Let’s not get carried away.
😂
But someday?
Yeah.
Someday.
💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying
Sometimes clarity is weird.
I had a conversation with a longtime friend Tuesday night that somehow managed to make things clearer and more confusing at the exact same time.
Nothing was really said outright.
Nothing was completely answered.
And yet I walked away understanding certain parts of our friendship better than I had before.
Then we talked Wednesday.
And Thursday.
And basically all day in between.
At some point I realized:
Sir.
I think we have officially exceeded the recommended weekly dosage of one another.
😂
But I’ve been thinking about how strange long friendships are.
Especially the ones that have changed shape a hundred times.
There are people who knew versions of us that don’t exist anymore.
People who remember things we’ve forgotten.
People who can disappear for stretches of time and somehow return to a conversation that feels like it never completely ended.
Sometimes you think you understand what someone has been to you.
Then one conversation shifts the angle slightly.
Nothing necessarily changes.
You just see it differently.
I don’t know that every relationship in our lives needs a perfect definition.
Maybe some of them just need honesty.
And occasionally—
a little fucking space.
😂
❤️ This Week’s Gratitude
This week’s gratitude belongs to a hug.
A very small hug.
A side hug, actually.
And it meant more to me than that kid will probably ever realize.
Today was my friend’s son’s surprise birthday party.
He isn’t a touchy kid.
At all.
Hugs aren’t really his thing.
So when I was getting ready to leave and he asked me for a side hug, I threw that helium tank down so damn fast.
😂
His dad looked genuinely shocked.
Then asked him if he was feeling sick.
🤣
But I got my hug.
And after everything that went into this weekend—the planning, decorating, shopping, baking, failing, trying again, wanting to quit, and somehow eventually making everything work—that tiny moment was the thing that mattered most.
The cake was almost gone before I left.
The kids were asking me for the recipe.
He had fun.
But that hug?
That’s the part I’m keeping.
There are some moments that look incredibly small from the outside.
You have to know the person to understand how big they really are.
I knew.
His dad knew.
And I think he knew, too.
That was enough.
🥰
😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”
THE FUCKING CAKE.
Oh my God.
The cake.
What began as:
I’m going to make a tornado picking up a dump truck!
eventually became:
I have made a terrible mistake.
😂
First, the cake wasn’t big enough.
Fine.
We need more cake mix.
My mom went to the store.
She came home with two boxes.
I dumped everything into the bowl.
Started mixing.
Looked at it.
Something wasn’t right.
I looked at the box.
Brownies.
🥲
So.
Now we had brownies.
My sister ordered actual cake mix.
We checked the boxes this time.
Because apparently that was necessary.
Then came Saturday.
My sister and the kids came over, and what should have been cake decorating became an all-day engineering crisis.
We tried.
Failed.
Tried again.
Failed.
Tried AGAIN.
Failed AGAIN.
I got mad.
I wanted to quit.
We tried again.
Failed again.
I damn near cried.
And then there was the fondant.
Fuck fondant.
The fondant made everything too heavy and literally crumbled BOTH CAKES.
At this point, I was spiritually done.
We went back to the store.
Again.
Bought two more boxes of cake mix.
Bought more eggs.
And I decided I would try one. more. fucking. time.
I scrapped the dump-truck idea.
Went back to the original idea I had before all of this started.
And—
IT WORKED.
😭😂
Six boxes of cake mix.
Two boxes of brownie mix.
Twenty-two eggs.
Multiple failed cakes.
One fondant-induced structural collapse.
Several trips to the store.
Approximately seventeen emotional breakdowns.
And one woman who became increasingly hostile toward baked goods.
But I made the fucking cake.
And you know what?
I was proud of it.
Then came today’s final boss:
the thirty-minute car ride to the party.
I swear I spent the entire drive mentally preparing myself to watch this cake collapse in real time.
But—
THE CAKE FUCKING MADE THE TRIP.
😭😂
It survived.
The birthday boy loved it.
The kids nearly demolished the entire thing before I left.
Some of them even asked me for the recipe.
Kids, the recipe is:
Six boxes of cake mix.
Two boxes of brownies.
Twenty-two eggs.
Rage.
Denial.
Several trips to the grocery store.
And the refusal to let a fucking cake win.
Enjoy.
😂
Now it’s Sunday evening.
The party is over.
The cake survived.
The birthday boy had fun.
I got my hug.
The kids are home.
I’m home.
And I am officially declaring this week over.
I don’t care that there are technically several hours left in Sunday.
Those hours no longer belong to society.
They belong to me.
I am putting my phone down.
I am cuddling up.
I am watching my boyfriend play Palworld.
And I am doing absolutely fucking nothing else.
Because apparently last week’s lesson did not stick, so I’m going to try it again:
Whatever needs me now?
Can become Monday’s problem.
Until next time,
—Destiny
P.S. What is something that went completely, spectacularly wrong for you—but somehow worked out in the end anyway?
The kind of history that didn’t quite make it into your textbooks.
The Legend
By December of 1820, John Bell was dying.
He had been sick for some time, and whatever was happening to his body had gradually left him weaker. Some days were worse than others. Eventually, he reached the point where swallowing became difficult and he spent much of his time confined to bed.
None of that is particularly unusual for a seventy-year-old man living in rural Tennessee in the early nineteenth century.
What makes John Bell’s death unusual is the thing people claimed had been waiting for it.
For years, the Bell family had reportedly shared their home with something they couldn’t explain.
It started small.
There were strange noises outside. Knocking against the walls. Scratching sounds around the house. The children complained that something was pulling at their blankets while they slept.
Then things got worse.
The noises became whispers.
The whispers became a voice.
Eventually, whatever was haunting the Bell family could supposedly carry on entire conversations with them and with the people who came to visit.
They called her Kate.
Kate was strange, even for a ghost.
She sang hymns. She quoted scripture. She repeated conversations she supposedly couldn’t have heard. She gossiped with visitors and seemed to know things happening miles away.
Sometimes she was friendly.
Sometimes she was funny.
And sometimes she was absolutely horrible.
Especially to John Bell.
Whatever Kate was, according to the legend, she hated him.
She tormented him while he was sick and supposedly announced more than once that she intended to kill him.
Then, one December morning, John wouldn’t wake up.
His family found him unconscious in his bed. When they went looking for the medicine he normally took, it was gone.
In its place sat a small vial containing a dark liquid nobody recognized.
Now, I’m not entirely sure what I would do after discovering a mysterious bottle next to an unconscious family member.
The Bells, according to the story, decided to test it on the cat.
The cat died.
Almost immediately.
And because apparently that wasn’t horrifying enough, Kate supposedly spoke up and explained exactly what had happened.
She claimed she had given John some of the same liquid during the night.
John Bell never regained consciousness.
He died on December 20, 1820.
If the story ended there, the Bell family would already have one hell of a ghost story to tell.
It didn’t.
The following day, family, friends, and neighbors gathered to bury John.
As his coffin was carried toward the cemetery, a familiar voice reportedly followed the procession.
Kate was singing.
Some versions of the story say she laughed. Others describe her singing songs more commonly heard in taverns. Whatever version you read, the point is basically the same.
Kate was celebrating.
The thing that had supposedly spent years tormenting John Bell had watched him die and then followed his family to his funeral.
And she wasn’t mourning him.
At least, that’s how the story goes.
Because there’s a problem.
I just told you the legend of John Bell’s death.
That doesn’t mean I just told you exactly what happened.
John Bell was real.
His family was real.
Their farm was real.
And John Bell really did die in Tennessee on December 20, 1820.
But the talking witch, the mysterious vial, the dead cat, and the voice singing at his funeral?
That’s where things become much harder to untangle.
The Bell Witch story has had more than two hundred years to grow. Stories were told by family members, repeated by neighbors, passed through generations, written into books, rewritten by other authors, printed in newspapers, and eventually spread far beyond the little Tennessee community where they began.
Some details can be traced surprisingly far back.
Others appear much later.
And some of the most famous parts of the Bell Witch story may tell us just as much about the people who kept the legend alive as they do about whatever happened to the Bell family.
That’s what makes this story so interesting to me.
I’m not going to try to convince you that the Bell Witch was real.
I’m also not going to tell you that she wasn’t.
Instead, we’re going to do what we always do here.
We’re going to look at what we know.
We’re going to look at what we don’t.
And somewhere in between, we’re going to meet one of the most infamous ghosts in American history.
But to understand how John Bell ended up unconscious in his bed with a mysterious vial sitting nearby, we have to go back a few years.
Back before the voice.
Before the scratching.
Before anyone called her Kate.
Back when the Bell family was simply a family trying to build a life in Tennessee
.
The Bell Family
Before any of this supposedly happened, the Bells were just a family living on a farm in Tennessee.
John Bell and his wife, Lucy, had moved there from North Carolina with their children in the early 1800s, settling near the Red River in what would eventually become Adams, Tennessee.
John purchased a large piece of land and began farming it. The family grew crops, raised children, attended church, and became part of the small community developing around them.
For a while, life seems to have been fairly ordinary.
Which probably isn’t the version of the Bell family you’ve heard about.
Two hundred years later, it’s difficult to read about them without already knowing what supposedly happened in their home. John Bell is remembered as the man a witch wanted dead. His daughter Betsy became the focus of some of the most disturbing stories associated with the haunting.
But none of that had happened yet.
In 1817, Betsy was still a young girl living at home with her parents and siblings. John was a farmer with land to manage and a family to provide for.
Then one day, according to the story, John noticed something strange while walking through one of his fields.
There was an animal among the rows.
Seeing an animal on a Tennessee farm wasn’t unusual, but John couldn’t quite figure out what this one was. Later versions of the story describe it as having the body of a dog and the head of a rabbit.
John reportedly raised his gun and fired.
He missed.
Or maybe he didn’t.
Either way, when he went looking for the animal, there was nothing there. No body. No injured animal disappearing into the field. Nothing he could find to explain what he’d just seen.
Eventually, he gave up and went home.
And if we’re being reasonable, a farmer seeing a strange animal in a field isn’t exactly evidence of a haunting.
John probably didn’t think he’d just met a ghost either.
But not long afterward, the Bell family began hearing things around their home.
At first, the noises were easy enough to explain away.
Something scratching outside.
Something knocking against the house.
The kind of sounds an old farmhouse surrounded by animals and open land probably made all the time.
Except these sounds didn’t go away.
They came back.
And then they started coming from inside the house.
Something Begins
At first, the family tried to explain the noises.
There were scratching sounds along the walls and knocking that seemed to move from one part of the house to another. Sometimes it sounded like an animal was outside. Other times, the noise seemed to be coming from somewhere much closer.
John reportedly searched around the property looking for whatever was causing it.
He found nothing.
The sounds continued.
Then the children started complaining about noises in their bedrooms at night.
According to later accounts, they could hear what sounded like rats gnawing at the bedposts. Blankets were pulled from beds. Some of the children claimed their pillows were moved or thrown onto the floor.
At first it was annoying.
Then it became frightening.
Imagine trying to sleep while something scratches beside your bed, only to light a candle and find nothing there.
You put the blanket back.
You lie down.
Eventually, the scratching starts again.
The Bells reportedly dealt with this for weeks before John finally told anyone outside the immediate family what was happening.
That detail has always interested me.
If we believe the later accounts, John initially wanted the family to keep the disturbances to themselves. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he thought there had to be some perfectly ordinary explanation and didn’t want his neighbors thinking something strange was happening in his house.
Or maybe he simply had no idea what he was supposed to tell them.
Something keeps scratching our walls, stealing the blankets, and we can’t find it isn’t exactly an easy conversation to start.
Eventually, though, keeping it within the family stopped working.
John turned to a neighbor and friend named James Johnston.
According to the story, Johnston and his wife agreed to spend the night at the Bell home so they could hear the disturbances for themselves.
And they did.
The same strange sounds reportedly followed them into the night. Their bedcovers were pulled away, and Johnston tried confronting whatever was responsible.
Nothing answered him.
At least, not yet.
Johnston supposedly left the Bell home convinced that something unusual was happening there.
Once other people became involved, the story began to spread.
Neighbors visited. Friends stayed overnight. People came to listen.
And the more attention the Bell home received, the stranger the disturbances reportedly became.
The scratching and knocking began to change.
People started hearing what sounded like faint whispers.
At first, no one could understand them.
Gradually, according to the legend, they became clearer.
Whatever had been scratching at the walls of the Bell home was beginning to find its voice.
And once it did, the noises were almost the least interesting thing about it.
Because the voice knew them.
The Voice
At first, the voice was difficult to understand.
It supposedly sounded weak and distant, almost as though someone were speaking from another room. Over time, though, it became clearer.
Soon, the family could make out words.
Then sentences.
Eventually, the thing haunting the Bell home wasn’t simply making itself heard.
It was having conversations.
People asked questions, and it answered them.
It reportedly called members of the family by name. It sang hymns and quoted passages from the Bible. Stories even claimed it could repeat sermons delivered at churches miles apart on the same day.
Sometimes it seemed to know things it shouldn’t have known at all.
And people became fascinated.
This is one of the stranger turns in the Bell Witch story, because the Bell home supposedly went from being a place the family was afraid to sleep in to somewhere people actually wanted to visit.
Word spread beyond the immediate community. People came hoping to hear the mysterious voice for themselves.
Some tried to trick it.
Others questioned it.
Some simply sat and listened.
And apparently the thing was more than happy to entertain company.
It joked with visitors. It argued with them. It discussed religion. It shared gossip.
Depending on who it was speaking to, it could be charming one minute and cruel the next.
It was especially affectionate toward Lucy Bell.
According to the legend, when Lucy became ill, the spirit comforted her and, in some versions of the story, even brought her fruit.
Her husband received very different treatment.
John Bell was cursed, threatened, pinched, slapped, and tormented. As his health began to decline, the entity supposedly took pleasure in making things worse.
And Betsy Bell?
Betsy became one of its favorite targets.
By then, she was also approaching an age when courtship and marriage were becoming part of her life.
She had caught the attention of a young man named Joshua Gardner.
The two wanted to marry.
The thing living in the Bell house apparently had opinions about that.
Very loud ones.
Betsy
Of all the Bell children, Betsy is probably the one most closely associated with the haunting.
She was still young when the disturbances reportedly began, and according to the stories that followed, what happened to her went far beyond hearing noises in the walls.
Betsy claimed she was slapped by something she couldn’t see.
Her hair was pulled.
She was pinched hard enough to leave marks.
Sometimes she reportedly felt invisible hands sticking her with pins.
At night, her blankets were pulled away just as the other children had described, but the attacks against Betsy supposedly became more persistent and more personal.
There were witnesses, at least according to the later accounts.
Visitors claimed they saw Betsy’s hair being pulled by something invisible. Others reportedly heard the sound of slaps or watched the girl react to blows when nobody was standing close enough to touch her.
Whether any of those events happened exactly as they were later recorded is something we’ll come back to.
For now, we’re still inside the story the Bell family left behind.
And in that story, the spirit wasn’t finished with Betsy.
By this point, Betsy had become involved with Joshua Gardner, a young man who lived nearby. They intended to marry, and under normal circumstances, that probably would have been a fairly ordinary chapter in the life of a teenage girl in early nineteenth-century Tennessee.
There was just one problem.
The voice hated the idea.
Over and over, the entity reportedly told Betsy not to marry Joshua.
It interrupted conversations. It followed her. It repeated the same warning until ignoring it became nearly impossible.
Don’t marry Joshua Gardner.
Why a disembodied voice living in the Bell house cared so much about Betsy’s love life is where the story gets considerably more complicated.
Because there was another man in Betsy’s life.
His name was Richard Powell.
He was older than Betsy, worked as her schoolteacher, and according to later versions of the story, had feelings for her himself.
Eventually, Richard Powell would marry Betsy Bell.
Which raises a fairly obvious question.
If someone wanted to frighten a young woman out of marrying another man…
would they really need to be a ghost to do it?
Kate
By now, I’ve been calling the voice Kate.
That makes it sound as though the Bell family knew exactly who—or what—they were dealing with.
They didn’t.
At least, not at first.
The thing speaking inside the Bell home apparently wasn’t very helpful when it came to explaining what it actually was. Depending on the account, it gave different answers at different times.
Sometimes it claimed to be the spirit of someone buried nearby. Another story had it searching for treasure hidden somewhere on the property. At one point, it supposedly claimed there were several spirits involved rather than one.
For something capable of answering questions about everyone else, it was remarkably inconsistent when people started asking questions about it.
Eventually, though, one name became permanently attached to the haunting.
Kate.
There really was a woman named Kate Batts living in the area, and the Batts and Bell families knew one another. Later versions of the story claim that Kate Batts and John Bell had been involved in a disagreement over a business transaction and that Batts believed John had cheated her.
From there, the story gets much better.
Historically, it gets much worse.
According to the legend, Kate Batts was so angry with John that she swore she would haunt him even after death. When the strange voice later appeared in the Bell home, people began connecting it to her.
There are a few problems with that explanation.
The biggest one is fairly obvious.
Kate Batts was still alive.
So whatever was supposedly talking to the Bell family wasn’t the ghost of Kate Batts.
That didn’t stop her name from sticking.
Over time, the spirit became known as Kate, and the haunting became the story of the Bell Witch.
Exactly when that connection became firmly established is difficult to pin down. Like so many pieces of this story, the version most people recognize today comes to us through accounts written long after the alleged events.
That doesn’t necessarily mean nobody called the spirit Kate at the time.
It means we have to be careful about assuming they did.
And honestly, the spirit itself doesn’t make things any easier.
According to the stories, Kate seemed perfectly happy to answer to the name.
Whatever she was supposed to be, she had become much more than a strange noise in the walls.
She had become part of the household.
Not exactly a welcome part.
But definitely a talkative one.
The Haunting Grows
Once Kate could speak clearly, keeping the Bell family’s problems private became almost impossible.
People wanted to hear her.
Neighbors who had once been asked to help figure out what was happening were joined by visitors who came simply because they’d heard the stories. Some wanted proof. Some wanted answers.
And I’m sure at least a few were there because somebody told them about a talking ghost and they needed to see that shit for themselves.
I can’t exactly blame them.
According to the legend, Kate rarely disappointed an audience.
She answered questions and called people by name. She supposedly knew details about visitors she had never met and repeated private conversations held beyond the Bell property.
One of the strangest stories claimed that Kate could repeat sermons.
Two ministers preaching in different churches were supposedly asked to deliver their sermons at the same time. Later, Kate repeated both of them, complete with the ministers’ voices.
It’s a great story.
Whether it happened is another question entirely.
What is clear from the later accounts is that Kate developed a personality.
She wasn’t simply the thing in the house anymore.
She had favorites.
Lucy Bell was one of them.
When Lucy became sick, Kate reportedly treated her with surprising kindness. She sang to her, spoke gently to her and, in some versions, even brought her food.
Then there was John.
Kate’s feelings toward him hadn’t improved.
If anything, they were getting worse.
She insulted him. She interfered with his sleep. She supposedly slapped and pinched him and repeatedly promised that eventually, she was going to kill him.
Betsy continued receiving her own share of attention too, particularly whenever Joshua Gardner was involved.
Kate’s message remained the same.
Betsy should not marry him.
Eventually, Betsy listened.
She and Joshua ended their engagement, according to the traditional timeline of the story.
Richard Powell, Betsy’s former teacher, would later become her husband.
We’ll come back to that.
Because yes, I also have questions.
For now, something much stranger was happening around the Bell farm.
The haunting was becoming famous.
Stories about the talking spirit traveled beyond the Red River community, and eventually, according to one of the most famous parts of the legend, they reached someone whose name you probably weren’t expecting to find in a ghost story.
Andrew Jackson.
Andrew Jackson Comes to Tennessee?
Yes.
That Andrew Jackson.
Years before he became the seventh president of the United States, Andrew Jackson was already one of the most recognizable men in Tennessee.
And according to Bell Witch legend, sometime during the haunting, Jackson decided he wanted to meet Kate himself.
The story says Jackson traveled toward the Bell farm with several men and a wagon.
They didn’t make it very far onto the property before something went wrong.
The wagon stopped.
The horses pulled.
The men pushed.
Nothing worked.
The wheels supposedly wouldn’t move.
After several attempts to get the wagon going again, Jackson is said to have joked that the Bell Witch must be responsible.
Then a voice came from somewhere nearby.
Kate.
She reportedly told Jackson to continue toward the house and promised she would see him later that night.
And suddenly, the wagon moved.
If that sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a campfire story, just wait.
Apparently one member of Jackson’s group wasn’t impressed.
The man claimed to be some kind of “witch tamer” and announced that he had a special weapon capable of killing supernatural beings.
Kate did not appreciate the introduction.
According to the story, the man suddenly began shouting that something was attacking him. An invisible force kicked him, hit him, and eventually chased him from the house while everyone else watched.
Jackson supposedly loved it.
One of the most repeated quotes attributed to him has him declaring that he’d rather fight the British again than spend another night dealing with the Bell Witch.
It’s a fantastic quote.
There’s also no good evidence that Andrew Jackson ever said it.
And that’s where we have to leave the ghost story for a minute.
Because the Andrew Jackson visit is repeated constantly in modern versions of the Bell Witch legend. You’ll find it in books, articles, documentaries, and retellings all over the internet.
What you won’t find is contemporary documentation showing that Jackson actually visited the Bell farm to investigate a ghost.
For a man whose life generated an enormous paper trail, that’s a problem.
There doesn’t appear to be a surviving letter from Jackson mentioning the Bell Witch. No diary entry describing the visit. No contemporary record of him hauling a wagon full of men to the Bell farm to meet Kate.
The famous story comes through later accounts of the haunting.
Could Andrew Jackson have heard about the Bell family?
Certainly.
Could he have visited?
It’s possible.
But possible and documented aren’t the same thing.
And this is exactly where the Bell Witch becomes so difficult to write about.
Some of the best stories are also the hardest ones to prove.
The wagon that wouldn’t move.
The witch tamer being chased from the house.
Andrew Jackson supposedly deciding he’d rather fight the British again than spend another night with Kate.
I would love to tell you all of that definitely happened.
I can’t.
What I can tell you is that by the time the Bell Witch legend was being written down and circulated to a wider audience, Andrew Jackson had become part of it.
And adding one of the most famous men in American history to your local ghost story certainly doesn’t make the story less interesting.
Whether Jackson ever met Kate or not, the Bell family had a much bigger problem than curious visitors.
John was getting worse.
John Gets Sicker
John Bell’s health had been declining for some time.
The exact nature of his illness isn’t clear, and descriptions of his symptoms come largely through the same later accounts that preserve the haunting.
He reportedly suffered from episodes that affected his face and made swallowing difficult. As his condition worsened, he became weaker and spent increasing amounts of time confined to the house.
Kate, according to the legend, was delighted.
She had never hidden her dislike for John, but now her torment supposedly followed him through his illness.
When he struggled to eat, she mocked him.
When he tried to rest, she disturbed him.
When his body failed him, she reminded him that she intended to finish the job.
For the Bell family, whatever had started with scratching sounds a few years earlier had become something completely different.
Their daughter had supposedly been attacked.
Strangers were coming to their home hoping to speak with the thing responsible.
A voice no one could explain had inserted itself into their conversations, their relationships, and even their illnesses.
And now the head of the family was dying.
By December 1820, John had become extremely weak.
On the morning of December 19, according to the story, one of his sons went to check on him.
John wouldn’t wake up.
The family searched for the medicine he had been taking.
It wasn’t there.
Instead, they found something else.
A small vial.
Dark liquid.
No one knew where it had come from.
And if that sounds familiar…
it should.
We’ve been here before.
This is where our story started.
Except the first time, I told you how the legend remembers John Bell’s death.
Now we need to ask a much harder question.
What do we actually know happened?
The Death of John Bell
We already know how the legend ends.
John Bell is found unconscious. His medicine has disappeared. A mysterious vial is discovered nearby. The liquid is tested on the family cat, which dies almost immediately. Kate announces that she gave John the same substance during the night.
John dies.
Kate celebrates.
It’s a good ghost story.
It’s also where the history of the Bell Witch becomes especially frustrating.
John Bell really did die on December 20, 1820.
That much isn’t particularly controversial.
The problem is everything surrounding his death.
There isn’t a surviving medical report telling us exactly what killed him. There isn’t a bottle of mysterious liquid sitting in a museum somewhere waiting to be tested. We don’t have a contemporary newspaper reporting that a Tennessee farmer had just been poisoned by an invisible spirit.
And we certainly don’t have anything explaining what happened to the cat.
What we have is a story.
More specifically, a story that was preserved and published long after John Bell was gone.
One of the most important names here is Richard Williams Bell, one of John and Lucy Bell’s sons.
Richard was a child during the years the haunting supposedly took place. He was there, at least according to family tradition, while strange noises filled the house, Betsy was tormented, visitors came to speak with Kate, and his father’s health deteriorated.
Years later, Richard reportedly wrote down his memories of what had happened.
His account became known as Our Family Trouble.
If you’re thinking that sounds like exactly the kind of firsthand source we’ve been looking for, you’re right.
Sort of.
Because there’s another problem.
The original manuscript hasn’t survived for us to examine.
What most readers know of Richard’s account comes through Martin Van Buren Ingram, a newspaper editor who published An Authenticated History of the Famous Bell Witch in 1894.
That’s seventy-four years after John Bell died.
Ingram said Richard’s manuscript had been written decades earlier and that he used it while putting together his book. He also collected stories from people connected to the Bell family and the surrounding community.
That makes his book incredibly important to the Bell Witch story.
It doesn’t make everything inside it automatically true.
By the time Ingram’s book appeared, John Bell had been dead for most of a century. Betsy Bell had lived the rest of her life. Children who supposedly experienced the haunting had grown old. Stories had been told, repeated, and remembered for generations.
And memory is messy enough after a few years.
Give it seventy.
That doesn’t mean the Bell family invented what happened.
It doesn’t mean Ingram did either.
It means that when we’re talking about the vial, the cat, and Kate proudly announcing that she poisoned John Bell, we’re relying on a chain of storytelling rather than evidence created at the moment John died.
There’s another detail worth remembering.
John had already been sick.
The accounts describe an illness that affected his ability to swallow and sometimes caused strange episodes involving his face. Whatever was happening to him had been getting worse before that final morning.
Could he have died naturally from that illness?
Absolutely.
Could he have been poisoned?
Possibly.
Do we have enough evidence now, more than two hundred years later, to determine which happened?
No.
And that’s probably the most frustrating answer I can give you.
Because the mysterious vial is the detail everyone remembers.
It’s tangible.
A ghost making noises in a wall is difficult to prove. A voice coming from nowhere is even worse.
But poison?
Poison leaves evidence.
At least, it would have if anyone had preserved it.
According to the legend, after the liquid killed the cat, the vial was thrown into the fireplace, where it burst into a blue flame.
Which is wonderfully convenient for a ghost story and incredibly inconvenient for anyone trying to investigate it two hundred years later.
Whatever was inside it was gone.
John couldn’t tell anyone what had happened either.
He never woke up.
He died the next day at the age of seventy.
The Bell family buried him in the family cemetery near their farm.
And then, according to the story, Kate showed up for the funeral.
We’ve already heard that part.
The singing.
The laughter.
The celebration as John’s coffin was carried to the grave.
But there’s something different about hearing it now.
At the beginning of this story, Kate was already a fully formed ghost. She had a name, a personality, and a man she supposedly wanted dead.
Now we’ve watched the story build around her.
We’ve seen strange noises become whispers.
Whispers become a voice.
A voice become Kate.
Neighbors became witnesses. Visitors became part of the story. Even Andrew Jackson got pulled into the legend.
And eventually, everything leads back to the same place.
A seventy-year-old man died after a long illness.
That is history.
Whether something calling itself Kate killed him?
That’s the legend.
Maybe that’s the most important distinction in the entire Bell Witch story.
Not because it proves nothing happened.
But because more than two hundred years later, we’re left trying to separate the life and death of a real man from the ghost story that grew around him.
John Bell was buried on December 21, 1820.
Kate, however, wasn’t finished.
At least, not quite.
The Haunting Ends
You might expect John Bell’s death to be the end of the story.
After all, if Kate really had spent years tormenting him and repeatedly announcing that she intended to kill him, she had supposedly gotten what she wanted.
John was dead.
There was no reason for her to stay.
And according to the legend, she didn’t.
Not for long, anyway.
Kate reportedly remained around the Bell family for several months after John’s death. She continued talking, singing, and making herself known around the house, but something had changed.
The person she seemed to hate most was gone.
Betsy’s relationship with Joshua Gardner was also coming to an end, giving Kate one less thing to complain about.
By the spring of 1821, the haunting that had supposedly consumed the Bell family for years began winding down.
Then Kate announced that she was leaving.
Not forever.
Just for a while.
According to the story, the spirit told the family she would return in seven years.
And because apparently disappearing without making future plans would have been too simple, she supposedly kept her promise.
In 1828, Kate was said to have returned.
This time, much of her attention was directed toward John Bell Jr.
For several weeks, the voice reportedly spoke with him about religion, politics, and events that hadn’t happened yet. Some later accounts even credit Kate with making predictions about the future of the United States.
Then she left again.
But not before making another promise.
This time, Kate supposedly said she would return in 107 years.
That would have placed her next appearance in 1935.
If you’re waiting for me to tell you that a ghost showed up in Tennessee in 1935 right on schedule, I’m going to disappoint you.
There is no well-documented 1935 return of the Bell Witch.
By then, though, Kate didn’t really need to come back.
Her story had already survived without her.
The Bell family grew older. Betsy eventually married Richard Powell and lived for decades after the haunting supposedly ended. The children who had grown up inside the Bell home went on with their lives.
The farm changed.
The people who claimed to have heard Kate’s voice disappeared one by one.
But the story stayed.
It passed through the Bell family and the surrounding community. People remembered the strange noises, the invisible attacks, the voice that supposedly knew things it shouldn’t, and the spirit that claimed responsibility for John Bell’s death.
With every retelling, Kate became a little harder to separate from the place itself.
Eventually, it didn’t matter that the original haunting had supposedly ended.
The Bell Witch had become part of Tennessee folklore.
And this is where our story changes again.
Because everything we’ve talked about so far supposedly happened between 1817 and 1821.
But the book that would do more than almost anything else to shape the Bell Witch story wouldn’t appear until 1894.
More than seventy years later.
So how did a haunting that supposedly lasted only a few years become one of the most famous ghost stories in America?
For that, we have to meet the man who helped make sure Kate was never forgotten.
How the Story Became the Bell Witch
By the time Kate supposedly disappeared, the Bell family had spent several years living with something they couldn’t explain.
Or at least, that’s the story we inherited.
There’s an important difference.
Most of what we know about the Bell Witch wasn’t written down while the haunting was supposedly happening.
There are no stacks of letters from frightened neighbors describing nightly visits to the Bell farm. No newspaper reporters arrived in 1819 to interview Kate. No diary lets us follow the events day by day as they unfolded.
Instead, the story survived largely through memory.
The Bells told it.
Their neighbors told it.
Their children grew older and told it.
Eventually, other people started writing it down.
One of the most important was Martin Van Buren Ingram.
Ingram was a newspaper editor who became fascinated by the Bell Witch story. In 1894, he published An Authenticated History of the Famous Bell Witch, the book that would become one of the most influential sources for the legend we know today.
The title sounds reassuring.
Authenticated.
That’s a pretty confident word.
The evidence underneath it is considerably more complicated.
Ingram said he collected information from people who knew the Bell family and from people who had grown up hearing the story. Most importantly, his book included an account attributed to Richard Williams Bell.
That account was called Our Family Trouble.
Richard supposedly wrote about the haunting from the perspective of someone who had lived through it as a child.
If we had his original manuscript today, it would be incredibly valuable.
We don’t.
What survives is the version published by Ingram.
That doesn’t automatically make it worthless. Family histories and oral traditions can preserve real events, sometimes remarkably well.
But seventy years is a long time for a story to travel.
People forget things.
Memories blend together.
Something gets repeated so many times that eventually nobody remembers who said it first.
And sometimes a good story simply becomes a better one.
That’s the uncomfortable part of researching the Bell Witch.
The farther you follow the legend backward, the harder it becomes to find the moment when everything supposedly happened.
Andrew Jackson’s visit is a perfect example. It’s one of the most famous stories connected to the haunting, yet contemporary evidence for it is missing.
The same problem follows several other familiar parts of the story.
That doesn’t prove nothing happened at the Bell farm.
It simply means we can’t take every detail from a book published in 1894, place it neatly into 1817, and call the whole thing documented history.
Somewhere between those two dates, the Bell family’s story became folklore.
Then folklore became legend.
And more than two hundred years later, we’re still trying to figure out what started it.
So let’s separate what we can.
What We Know
After spending this much time with a talking spirit named Kate, it helps to come back to solid ground.
There are pieces of this story we can establish without needing to believe in ghosts.
• The Bell family was real. John Bell, his wife Lucy, and their children lived in Tennessee near the Red River community later associated with Adams.
• John Bell was a farmer and landowner. The Bells were part of a real community and left traces in the historical record outside the haunting.
• Betsy Bell was real. So were several of the people who later became characters in the story surrounding her, including Joshua Gardner and Richard Powell.
• John Bell died on December 20, 1820. He was seventy years old and, according to later family accounts, had been suffering from declining health before his death.
• The Bell Witch story existed before Ingram’s 1894 book. He didn’t simply create the Bell family haunting from nothing. Stories about the Bells were already circulating, although determining exactly which details existed at which point is much harder.
• M. V. Ingram published An Authenticated History of the Famous Bell Witch in 1894. His book became enormously influential in shaping and preserving the version of the story familiar today.
• Ingram included an account attributed to Richard Williams Bell.Our Family Trouble was presented as Richard’s recollection of what his family experienced, but the original manuscript is not available for independent examination today.
• The Bell Witch became part of Tennessee folklore. Whatever happened—or didn’t happen—inside the Bell home, the story itself outlived everyone involved.
And then we reach the much longer list.
The things we can’t prove.
What We Don’t Know
We don’t know what happened inside the Bell house.
That’s really the heart of it.
Maybe something happened and the surviving story grew around it.
Maybe several unrelated things eventually became one haunting.
Maybe people were frightened by ordinary events they couldn’t explain at the time.
Maybe someone was deliberately creating them.
Or maybe the Bell family experienced exactly what they later claimed.
We simply don’t have enough contemporary evidence to know.
We don’t know what caused the scratching and knocking.
We don’t know whether blankets were actually pulled from beds or whether Betsy’s hair was pulled by something nobody could see.
We don’t know whether a disembodied voice ever spoke inside the house.
We don’t know when that voice first became known as Kate—or how closely the historical Kate Batts was connected to the original story.
We don’t know whether Andrew Jackson ever visited the Bell farm.
We don’t know whether a mysterious vial was actually discovered beside John Bell.
We don’t know whether anyone fed its contents to a cat.
We don’t know whether Kate claimed she poisoned John.
And we don’t know whether anyone sang or laughed while his family buried him.
Most frustratingly, we don’t know how much the story changed before the versions we rely on were finally written down.
That’s the problem with folklore.
You can follow a story backward for generations and still never reach the first person who told it.
Somewhere, there was a beginning to the Bell Witch.
Maybe it was a noise in the wall.
Maybe it was a family dispute.
Maybe it was a frightened child.
Maybe it was a prank that got completely out of control.
Or maybe, if you believe the legend, something really did follow John Bell home from that field.
There have been plenty of attempts to explain it.
None of them explains everything.
Leading Theories
Ask ten people what happened to the Bell family and you’ll probably get ten different answers.
Some require a ghost.
Others don’t require anything supernatural at all.
A Hoax
The simplest explanation is that someone was faking at least some of the disturbances.
A person inside or near a farmhouse could make noises. Objects could be moved. Blankets could be pulled. Information supposedly known only to the spirit could have come from ordinary conversations.
A voice would be harder to explain, but not impossible.
The bigger problem is figuring out who would have been responsible and why.
If it was a prank, it supposedly continued for years, attracted visitors, and eventually became associated with the death of a real man.
That’s a lot of commitment to a joke.
Still, deliberate deception remains one of the more obvious possibilities.
Richard Powell
Remember Richard Powell?
Betsy’s teacher.
The older man who reportedly cared for her.
The man she eventually married after her relationship with Joshua Gardner ended.
Some later theories have suggested that Powell may have had something to do with the haunting, particularly Kate’s obsession with convincing Betsy not to marry Joshua.
You can see why people make the connection.
If a mysterious voice repeatedly tells a girl to leave one man and she eventually marries another man who already wanted her, questions are going to be asked.
But suspicion isn’t evidence.
There is no solid proof that Powell created the Bell Witch, and turning him into the secret mastermind behind the entire haunting solves one mystery by creating several others.
If Powell was responsible, how much did he fake?
How did he supposedly fool an entire household?
What about events reported when he wasn’t there?
And how much of the Powell connection itself belongs to later versions of the story?
It’s interesting.
It isn’t a solution.
A Family Under Pressure
Another possibility is that there was never one single cause.
Families are complicated now.
They weren’t any less complicated in 1817.
Illness, courtship, religion, financial disagreements, family tension, and the expectations placed on children could all create conflict inside a household.
Add unexplained noises, frightened people, and a community willing to listen, and individual experiences can start feeding one another.
One person hears scratching.
Another hears it the next night.
Someone tells a neighbor.
The neighbor comes over expecting something to happen.
Then something does.
Before long, everybody is listening.
That doesn’t require anyone to be lying.
People can genuinely experience something and still be wrong about what caused it.
A Story That Grew
This may explain more than any single ghost ever could.
Something unusual might have happened to the Bell family.
Then people talked about it.
The story moved through the community. Children grew up. Memories changed. New details were added. Old ones became more dramatic.
Eventually, people who had never met John Bell were telling stories about what happened to him.
By the time Ingram published his book in 1894, the haunting belonged not only to the Bells but to generations of people who had helped keep it alive.
That doesn’t mean the entire thing was invented.
Folklore rarely works that neatly.
There may be a real event buried somewhere underneath everything.
The problem is getting back to it.
Something We Can’t Explain
And then, of course, there’s Kate.
If you believe the Bell family experienced what the legend says they experienced, none of the other explanations quite works.
A hoax doesn’t easily explain years of activity supposedly witnessed by multiple people.
Family tension doesn’t explain a voice carrying on conversations.
Folklore can explain how the story grew afterward, but not necessarily why it began.
For believers, the answer is simple.
Something was there.
Whether you call it a ghost, a spirit, a witch, a poltergeist, or something else entirely depends on which version of the story you believe.
There is no scientific evidence proving that a supernatural entity haunted the Bell family.
There also isn’t enough historical evidence left to neatly reconstruct everything that happened in their home.
Which leaves Kate exactly where a good ghost tends to survive best.
Somewhere between an explanation and a question.
The Bell Witch Today
More than two hundred years after John Bell died, people are still telling his family’s story.
The community around Adams, Tennessee, remains closely associated with the legend, and the Bell Witch has become one of the best-known pieces of folklore in the state.
There is even a cave connected to the story.
The Bell Witch Cave sits on property associated with the Bell family and has developed its own collection of ghost stories over the years.
According to later tradition, Betsy Bell and other children explored the cave, and Kate’s presence eventually became attached to it too.
But here’s another place where we have to be careful.
The cave plays a much larger role in modern Bell Witch tourism and folklore than it does in the earliest versions of the haunting.
Today, though, it’s almost impossible to separate the two.
People visit hoping to experience something unusual. They take photographs. They listen for voices. They tell stories about strange things happening underground and around the property.
Kate has also escaped Tennessee entirely.
The Bell Witch has appeared in books, documentaries, paranormal television shows, podcasts, and horror movies. The story has been rewritten so many times that someone encountering it today might hear a completely different version from the one another person heard twenty years ago.
Some versions make Kate Batts the unquestioned villain.
Others turn Betsy into the center of the entire haunting.
Some lean heavily into the cave.
Some focus on John Bell’s death.
Some include details that don’t appear until much later in the story’s history.
That’s what legends do.
They change just enough to survive.
And maybe that’s why the Bell Witch has lasted.
A ghost story about noises in an old farmhouse isn’t particularly unusual.
A ghost that talks back?
A spirit with favorites, grudges, and opinions?
A witch who supposedly tormented one family for years, frightened visitors, argued about religion, interfered with a teenage girl’s engagement, claimed to murder her father, and then sang at his funeral?
That’s harder to forget.
Whether Kate ever existed or not, the story certainly does.
And people are still adding to it.
Perhaps We’ll Never Know
I started this story at the end.
A dying man.
A mysterious vial.
A dead cat.
A voice claiming responsibility.
Then we went backward.
We met John before he became the man a witch supposedly killed.
We met Betsy before she became the girl Kate tormented.
We listened as scratches became whispers and whispers became a voice.
We watched that voice acquire a name, a personality, and eventually a legend big enough to pull Andrew Jackson into it.
And after all of that, we’re left with almost the same question we started with.
What actually happened to the Bell family?
I don’t know.
Neither does anyone else.
Maybe there really were strange noises inside their home.
Maybe Betsy experienced something she couldn’t explain.
Maybe John Bell’s illness and death became tangled with a haunting that had already taken hold of the family’s imagination.
Maybe someone was playing an elaborate trick.
Maybe the story changed so much over seventy years that the events of 1817 would barely resemble the version eventually published in 1894.
Or maybe there was something in that house that nobody ever managed to explain.
That’s the frustrating thing about the Bell Witch.
Every time you think you’ve reached solid ground, another part of the story slips back into legend.
And every time you’re ready to dismiss the entire thing as folklore, you remember that somewhere underneath all of it were real people.
John.
Lucy.
Betsy.
Their children.
A family who lived on a farm in Tennessee and became attached forever to one of America’s strangest ghost stories.
Maybe that’s why Kate has survived for more than two hundred years.
Not because anyone proved she existed.
Because nobody ever managed to prove exactly what happened instead.
The Bell family died.
The farm changed.
The people who supposedly heard the voice disappeared generations ago.
But the story kept going.
And somewhere along the way, the question stopped being simply whether the Bell Witch was real.
It became something much more interesting.
Where does the history end…
and the haunting begin?
Sources & Further Reading
Every History After Dark article is built from multiple sources whenever possible.
The Bell Witch is particularly difficult to research because much of what we know today comes from accounts written decades after the haunting supposedly occurred. Some details appear in earlier records and local histories. Others become prominent much later.
For this article, I’ve tried to separate the people and events we can document from the stories that became part of the Bell Witch legend.
Primary & Early Sources
• Martin Van Buren Ingram.An Authenticated History of the Famous Bell Witch: The Wonder of the 19th Century and Unexplained Phenomenon of the Christian Era. Pioneer Press, 1894. One of the most influential books written about the Bell Witch and the source of many details repeated in modern versions of the story.
• Richard Williams Bell.Our Family Trouble. An account attributed to John Bell’s son and presented within Ingram’s 1894 book. It was reportedly written decades earlier, but the original manuscript is not available for independent examination, making its history and authorship a subject of debate.
• Goodspeed’s History of Tennessee. 1886. An important pre-Ingram reference showing that stories about strange disturbances connected to the Bell family were circulating before Ingram published his much more detailed account.
Historical & Critical Research
• Joe Nickell. “The ‘Bell Witch’ Poltergeist.”Skeptical Inquirer, 2014. A critical examination of the historical sources behind the legend, including questions surrounding Our Family Trouble, Ingram’s work, the alleged Andrew Jackson visit, and possible non-supernatural explanations.
Local History & the Legend Today
• Historic Bell Witch Cave — History & Legend. Information about the Bell family, the traditional version of the haunting, the property associated with the legend, and the way the Bell Witch story continues to be preserved in Adams, Tennessee.
Continue Exploring
If you decide to keep digging into the Bell Witch, start with Ingram’s 1894 book.
But don’t stop there.
That’s where this story becomes especially interesting.
Read the legend first.
Then read the people questioning it.
Pay attention to which details appear in earlier accounts and which ones seem to grow more elaborate as the story gets older. Look at Andrew Jackson. Look at Kate Batts. Look at Our Family Trouble. Look at how often a modern retelling presents something as fact when the trail actually leads back to a source written decades after the supposed haunting.
The Bell Witch becomes a very different story when you stop asking only:
Was there a ghost?
There’s another question hiding underneath it.
How does a story become history simply because we’ve repeated it long enough?
A Note on Sources
History is rarely as tidy as we’d like it to be.
The Bell Witch makes that especially obvious.
The people at the center of this story were real, but many of the supernatural events associated with them survive through family recollections, oral tradition, local histories, and books written long after the alleged haunting.
That creates a problem.
A story being old does not automatically make it true.
But a story containing exaggeration does not automatically mean nothing happened either.
Whenever possible, I compared multiple sources and tried to distinguish between documented history, family tradition, later folklore, and modern interpretation. When a famous part of the Bell Witch story couldn’t be independently verified, I tried to tell you that rather than quietly presenting the legend as fact.
And after spending all this time with the Bells, I think that uncertainty is part of what makes their story worth telling.
Not knowing is part of it.
More than two hundred years ago, something supposedly began scratching at the walls of a farmhouse in Tennessee.
Maybe it was an animal.
Maybe it was a prank.
Maybe it was the beginning of a story that grew a little every time somebody told it.
Or maybe John Bell really did walk home from that field with something following behind him.
We’ll probably never know.
But somewhere between the records, the memories, the exaggerations, and the ghost stories, Kate is still there.
Still talking.
Still refusing to give us a straight answer.
Which, after everything we’ve learned about her, feels strangely appropriate.
Some things are easier to say when you don’t know who’s listening.
When the wind carries secrets, I wonder if mine are still looking for me.
I have whispered so many things into the open air— names I no longer say aloud, prayers that never reached heaven, apologies that belonged to someone else.
I imagine the wind keeping them all.
Tucking them beneath its ribs, carrying them over oceans, through forests, past houses where little girls still believe their mothers will always protect them.
Maybe that’s why it never stops moving.
Maybe grief has made it too heavy to rest.
I have secrets that still wake before I do.
Secrets that smell like hospitals and old bedrooms.
Secrets that remember what my body spent years trying to forget.
I don’t think silence buries anything.
I think it teaches memories how to echo.
Sometimes the wind finds me again.
It slips through cracked windows. Lifts my hair from my shoulders. Whispers my own voice back to me—
only older.
Softer.
Like someone who survived the telling.
I wonder how many of us are breathing the same air.
How many confessions have passed through my lungs.
How many mothers never heard the words their children carried.
How many lovers mistook silence for peace.
The wind knows.
It has listened to every goodbye spoken too late.
Every I’m sorry that arrived after the damage.
Every I love you that died on the tip of a tongue.
When the wind carries secrets,
I hope it carries this one gently—
I survived.
Not gracefully.
Not without breaking.
But enough
that I can finally say it
without whispering.
And maybe,
just maybe,
the wind isn’t carrying my secrets away.
Maybe
it’s carrying them
to someone
who thought
they were the only one.
I think some things become harder to say the longer we carry them.
Eventually, they stop feeling like words and start feeling like weight.
That’s where this poem came from.
I liked the idea of the wind as something that has heard everything—the things we whispered when nobody was around, the apologies we never received, the words we never managed to say, and the stories we spent years keeping quiet.
But somewhere while writing it, the wind stopped feeling like something that was taking secrets away.
It started feeling like something connecting us.
Because maybe the things we’re convinced we have to carry quietly aren’t as uniquely ours as we think.
Maybe somewhere, someone else has whispered the same thing.
And maybe surviving something doesn’t always mean being able to talk about it loudly.
Sometimes being able to finally say, “I survived,” without whispering is enough.
Until next time,
—Destiny
P.S. If the wind could carry away one thing you’ve never been able to say out loud, would you let it?
It’s a sensory board we have at work, covered in hundreds of tiny sequins. The kids can run their hands across them, flip them back and forth, change the colors, make patterns, or sometimes just enjoy the feeling of them moving beneath their fingers.
Normally, I see it from above.
A bunch of colorful sequins.
Then I put my camera almost level with it.
And suddenly, it looked enormous.
Individual sequins became little overlapping discs of color. The ones closest to my camera stayed sharp while everything behind them melted into tiny circles of light.
It almost looked like a landscape.
Nothing about the sensory board had changed.
I had.
Or, more specifically, my perspective had.
That’s something I love about photography.
It gives me an excuse to look at ordinary things from angles I probably never would otherwise.
Sometimes looking closer really does mean getting closer.
Other times, it means getting lower.
Turning something around.
Looking underneath it.
Standing somewhere you normally wouldn’t.
Because sometimes there isn’t anything new waiting to be discovered.
Sometimes you’ve already seen it a hundred times.
You just haven’t seen it like this yet.
— Destiny
P.S. Pick something ordinary around you today and look at it from an angle you normally wouldn’t. You might be surprised by what it turns into.
Apparently, the second I started feeling better, I forgot I had surgery.
Not completely.
Just enough to become a problem. 😂
Last week, I was talking about how strange it felt to finally start feeling like myself again.
This week?
I apparently took that as a challenge.
I went out to dinner.
I picked up kids.
I had sleepovers.
I baked cupcakes.
I got my nails done.
I went swimming.
I went to a birthday party.
I stayed up half the night with a sick kid.
And somewhere in there, I apparently decided recovery was over because I could finally move around without immediately regretting my existence.
It is not.
For the record.
I’m definitely feeling better, but if I do too much, I still feel it in my hips and lower back.
Apparently feeling better and actually being completely recovered are two different things.
Okay, everybody calm the fuck down.
I said BETTER, not BRAND NEW. 😂
☕ This Week’s Comfort
Honestly?
People.
Which feels weird to say after spending the last few weeks wanting nothing more than my bed, my recliner, and everybody to leave me alone. 😂
Monday night, my best friend picked me up and took me to BDUBS.
Afterward, we sat in her car for about an hour listening to music and talking.
Then somehow we spent another two hours sitting on the porch saying random words just to see how thick our accents were.
I don’t know.
Apparently this is what friendship looks like in your thirties. 😂
There were also lunches out.
King of the Hill in the recliner.
A very necessary nail appointment.
And beef and noodles.
Oh, the beef and noodles.
I had been craving something and couldn’t figure out what it was.
Then I got out of the shower Friday and it hit me:
BEEF AND NOODLES.
I got on DoorDash and ordered everything before I even dried off.
There are moments in life when you have to have priorities.
That was one of them.
📸 Through My Lens
There were a lot of little moments worth keeping this week.
Monday, I picked my niece up from school and helped her wrap her girlfriend’s birthday gifts for Thursday.
Then Tuesday, my younger niece turned four.
Four.
I genuinely don’t understand how that happened.
She was born three months early and was once small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.
Now she’s more than half my height. 🥲
I made her birthday outfit, and I gave her a little toy piano for her birthday.
She—and both of the boys—absolutely love it.
Unfortunately, the piano later betrayed her.
She managed to get her finger stuck between the keys and started going:
“Ow. Ow. Ow. NeeNee!”
I got her finger out and asked why she put it in there in the first place.
She said:
“I don’t know!”
Then she looked at me.
Looked at the piano.
Looked back at me.
And said:
“That mother fucker.”
😭😂
I couldn’t help it.
I laughed.
Her birthday party was Saturday. My sister made the cutest cake, she loved all of her presents, and we went swimming.
It was fun.
And overstimulating.
But mostly, I kept looking at this little girl who used to fit in the palm of my hand and wondering how the hell four years went by that fast.
💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying
Wednesday was my follow-up appointment.
And I finally heard the words I have been waiting to hear:
I CAN PICK THE KIDDOS UP AGAIN.
😭
Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for that?!
Naturally, my niece called afterward to ask how my appointment went—and, more importantly, whether I was allowed to pick her and the boys up yet.
Priorities. 😂
So I picked them up early from the sitter.
Because obviously.
But the appointment also gave me the next part of this whole weird journey.
For the next three to six months, I’ll be getting a monthly injection that will put me into a medically induced menopause.
At 33.
Because apparently I am an overachiever.
The goal is to help treat what remains of my endometriosis and shrink my fibroid. And at the end of all of this, my doctor believes I’ll have a better chance of getting pregnant.
Which is strange to think about.
I’m about to temporarily shut down the very system I’m hoping will eventually help me have a baby.
There’s something almost absurd about that.
But hopeful, too.
This whole process has been one weird contradiction after another.
Surgery so I can heal.
Menopause because I want a baby.
Feeling better while still recovering.
Being excited and absolutely terrified at the same time.
Apparently, two things can be true at once.
I’m learning that a lot lately.
❤️ This Week’s Gratitude
This one belongs to the little moments.
My niece staying the night when she almost never wants to.
Making clay keychains together.
Baking chocolate cupcakes and decorating them with pink and purple icing, pink glitter, and unicorn toppers.
Her doing my makeup.
Watching KPop Demon Hunters.
Random dancing.
Doing a Facebook Live for absolutely no reason.
And eventually having her curled up asleep in my lap.
There was also a conversation with my boyfriend this week about babies.
And proposals.
Apparently his current proposal plan involves taking me somewhere near a cliff so that if I say no, I can “accidentally” fall off.
So.
That’s comforting.
😂
I can’t stand him sometimes.
But underneath the jokes, there are conversations happening now that once felt really far away.
Marriage.
A baby.
Our future.
And after everything my body has been through lately, there is something really nice about talking about what might come next instead of only thinking about what hurts right now.
😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”
Oh, Sunday.
Sweet, innocent Sunday.
On Saturday, I wrote this:
Please, I’m begging you, please let me just relax today, and do nothing. At all. I’m begging you.
—Destiny Written on Saturday.
Apparently Sunday took that personally.
It technically started at 12:23 a.m.
I hadn’t even been to sleep yet because every time I started dozing off, my nephew would toss, turn, whine, or cough.
Then he puked.
On me.
And the bed.
So there I was, shortly after midnight, cleaning vomit and trying to get a sick kid settled back down.
Eventually, he fell asleep lying on my stomach.
Poor DooDoos. 😩
He was up and down for most of the night, so sleep was basically a rumor.
By morning, I was on the couch watching CaRtOoNz with one nephew coughing, snotting, and crying while the other was growling like a demon baby.
If you’ve ever seen Baby Jack-Jack from The Incredibles?
That.
It wasn’t even 10 a.m.
Eventually, Demon Baby left for a visit with his mom and dad, and I developed a craving.
Texas Roadhouse.
And when I say craving, I mean mission.
So yes.
I took the sick nephew with us.
Judge me. 🤷🏻♀️
We came home.
I took a nap.
My nephew eventually got picked up.
And I planted myself in the recliner, turned on King of the Hill, and have barely moved since.
I’m on the final season now.
And remember that laundry I was supposed to do today?
Yeah.
I didn’t do laundry. 😂
You know what?
It’ll still be dirty tomorrow.
Until next time,
—Destiny
P.S. What’s something you absolutely should have done this weekend…but decided could become Monday’s problem instead?