In the heart of Savannah, Georgia, a city steeped in history and shadowed by legends, stands a tale as chilling as any ghost story. On certain nights, in a quiet warehouse off Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, the past seems to stir. Witnesses have reported faint moans echoing in the darkness, cold spots in the sultry Southern air, and even the inexplicable appearance of dark red stains on old brick walls – as if the very building is bleeding with memories. Locals speak in hushed tones of restless spirits lingering there, unable to move on. To those who know Savannah’s secrets, this comes as no surprise: the ground beneath that warehouse was once the site of the Gribble House, home to one of the most brutal crimes in the city’s history. It was here, over a century ago, that three women met a violent and tragic end. Their story – the Gribble House murders of 1909 – would shock the city, stoke the fires of paranoia and prejudice, and ultimately become the stuff of both historical record and spectral lore. Savannah’s Dark Heart: The city of Savannah has long been called “a city built on its dead,” famous for its moss-draped oaks, stately mansions, and ghostly tales whispered on midnight tours. By 1909, Savannah was already old and filled with the echoes of wars, plagues, and passions. Every cobblestone seemed to have a story. Yet even in a place accustomed to tragedy, what happened at the Gribble House that year stood out as exceptionally horrific. Contemporary newspapers would dub it “the most diabolical crime in the history of Savannah,” a reputation it maintains to this day. The gruesome triple murder that occurred within those walls not only left a stain of blood on the floors, but also – as many believe – an imprint on the very fabric of the location, an imprint that might explain the eerie phenomena reported decades later. To truly understand why the spirits of the Gribble House might still roam, one must step back in time and meet the people who lived there, walk the rough streets they called home, and witness the events that unfolded on that fateful day. In this story, we will journey through the history of the house and its occupants, relive the awful crime that took their lives, and explore the ghostly legends that have arisen in its aftermath. It’s a tale that interweaves history and hauntings, blending the factual with the phantasmal – exactly the kind of story that has made Savannah one of America’s most haunted cities.
The House on the Outskirts of Town
In 1909, the Gribble House stood in a neighborhood known by locals as “Frogtown,” on Savannah’s western fringe. Back then, West Broad Street (today’s Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard) marked the boundary of Savannah’s more genteel districts. Beyond it lay a grittier part of town, carved up by railroad tracks and industrial yards. Frogtown was a patchwork of modest homes and boarding houses, many of them leaning with age and coated in the soot of passing locomotives. It was not the most prestigious address – far from the manicured squares and grand avenues that tourists frequent – but it was home to those of meager means and hard lives. It was a place where the clatter of train wheels and the whistle of steam engines provided a constant soundtrack, day and night. In this blue-collar enclave, surrounded by saloons, warehouses, and the transient bustle of the nearby rail depot, stood the narrow, weathered structure known as the Gribble House.
Described by those who saw it as a simple, unadorned dwelling with peeling paint and murky windows, the Gribble House didn’t draw much attention in its day. It was a small one-story home with a shallow front porch and a walled yard out back. Like many houses in that area, it likely had a detached kitchen or carriage house toward the rear of the lot, accessible from the alley. The house’s address was 401 West Perry Street, a short side street just off West Broad. It was close enough to the commerce of the city’s center to be convenient, but far enough into Frogtown that respectable society tended to overlook it. For years, the house had been owned by Mrs. Eliza Gribble, a quiet older widow who took in boarders to make ends meet. Those who passed by might occasionally notice Eliza sitting on her porch or glimpses of her tenants through the lace curtains, but nothing about the place outwardly signaled the horror that would one day occur within.
Yet, perhaps there was a subtle aura of sadness clinging to the Gribble House even before the tragedy. The people living under its roof each carried their own sorrows and struggles. Understanding who they were provides crucial context to the events of that terrible afternoon.
The Residents of Gribble House
By late 1909, the Gribble House had three occupants. Each was a woman seeking a semblance of stability in a world that hadn’t been kind to them.
Eliza Gribble, the matriarch, was 70 years old and the owner of the house. Born in Cornwall, England, Eliza had come to America as a young woman decades earlier, before the Civil War. She still spoke with a trace of her Cornish accent, and one imagines she carried with her the toughness and practicality of someone who had crossed an ocean and survived hard times. Eliza had married in the United States – her late husband, Mr. Gribble, had passed on years before – and she was left a widow with limited means. The world in 1909 was not gentle to widowed women of advanced age. But Eliza was resourceful: she turned her home into a boarding house to earn a modest income and keep herself occupied. This was a fairly common path for widows in that era; it provided both financial support and companionship under one’s own roof. Eliza was known to be a bit frail in health – she had trouble getting around, described by neighbors as “crippled” and often relying on a cane or the support of others to walk. Despite her physical difficulties, she maintained her independence as best she could, with the help of her daughter.
Carrie Ohlander lived here too. At 36, she was the only child of Eliza and her late husband. Carrie had been born with a partial hearing loss that worsened over time, eventually leaving her profoundly deaf. She could discern very loud, low sounds, but the nuances of everyday conversation were largely lost to her ears. Not much else is known about Carrie’s early life, except that she had recently been through a marital upheaval. She married a man named Andrew J. Ohlander and moved with him to far-off Memphis, Tennessee, but that union did not last. By 1909, Carrie had separated from Andrew and returned home to Savannah to help her mother with the boarding house. A divorced (or estranged) woman in those days often drew whispers, but Carrie’s priority was to support Eliza and manage the practical affairs that her aging mother could not handle alone. Neighbors would later note that Carrie was a devoted daughter. Perhaps moving back home was a relief for her as well – a familiar harbor after the storm of a failed marriage, even if it meant adjusting to life as a single woman with a disability in a society that offered little accommodation.
Maggie Hunter was the newest face under Eliza’s roof. At 34, Maggie was closer to Carrie’s age and had arrived only a day or two before tragedy struck. Maggie was, in many ways, the most mysterious and controversial of the trio. She had just separated from her husband – remarkably, her third husband – and was seeking shelter and a new beginning at the Gribble House. In an era when most women married once (if at all) and typically stayed in that marriage come what may, Maggie’s history of three marriages by her mid-thirties was exceedingly uncommon and likely the talk of any neighborhood she lived in. To some, this made Maggie a scandalous figure; to others, perhaps a woman of resilience and defiance, unwilling to remain in unhappy unions.
Her most recent husband was a man named J.C. Hunter, a Civil War veteran around thirty years her senior. Maggie had married him about five years prior, when she was not yet thirty and he was in his sixties – a considerable age gap that raised eyebrows. J.C. Hunter was known in Savannah, though not necessarily for good reasons: he had a checkered past that included allegations of horse theft and even a stint in prison. Rumor had it that “J.C. Hunter” wasn’t his original name at all, but an alias he adopted after some legal troubles (his birth name was said to be David Taylor, which he changed after being convicted of theft years earlier). He walked with a cane and wore a glass eye, souvenirs from an old war wound and a rough life.
By 1909, Maggie had had enough of this marriage. Accounts suggest J.C. could be quarrelsome and possibly abusive; at the very least, the marriage was an unhappy one. So Maggie did something bold for a woman of her time – she left him. She packed up her belongings, including a prized new sewing machine that she intended to use to earn a living as a seamstress, and she moved out. That is how Maggie came to rent a room from Mrs. Gribble. The plan was to start anew: Maggie would support herself with sewing and finally find peace away from her much-older husband. On the first days of December 1909, Maggie Hunter must have felt a mix of trepidation and hope as she settled into her rented room. Little could she know that she was stepping into the final chapter of her life.
A Neighborhood of Shadows
Daily life at 401 West Perry Street was likely modest and routine. Each of these women had their chores and small pleasures. Perhaps in the mornings, Eliza and Carrie shared tea in the tiny kitchen, communicating in a mix of written notes and loud, slow speech due to Carrie’s deafness. Maggie might have spent her day setting up her sewing corner, organizing fabrics and threads, or stepping out to buy groceries and introduce herself to local shopkeepers as the newest resident of Frogtown. Outside, the neighborhood bustled in its own rough-edged way – laborers trudging to work, porters and yardmen hauling goods, and trains chugging in and out of the nearby station with whistles that Carrie could just barely sense as vibrations. The streets were muddy when it rained and dusty when dry. The smell of coal smoke from the locomotives hung in the air, and the ground often trembled from the force of railcars coupling and uncoupling not far away.
Still, one could find camaraderie in such quarters. People in Frogtown knew hardship, which often bred fellowship among neighbors. Eliza likely knew the local handyman – a fellow named Bingham Bryan – whom she occasionally hired as a yardman for odd jobs around the property. Maggie had at least one friend not far away: Willie Walls, a family friend who some say was Maggie’s admirer or sweetheart. In fact, Willie Walls had kindly paid Maggie’s first month of rent at the Gribble House in advance, concerned for her welfare after she left her husband. Whether Maggie saw Willie as merely a friend or something more, his support meant she wasn’t entirely alone as she embarked on her independent life.
Even so, Frogtown could be a rough place, especially for women living without male protectors. The area had a reputation for saloons and transient railroad workers. At night, the gaslights cast long shadows down West Perry Street, and the clatter from the rail yard would echo through the darkness. Perhaps the women double-checked their door locks each evening, just to feel a bit more secure. December in Savannah can be damp and chilly; a winter fog might have often crept in from the river, softening the glow of street lamps and giving the modest homes a ghostly outline. We have no record of what Eliza, Carrie, and Maggie chatted about on the eve of December 10, 1909, but one imagines they might have shared a simple dinner and conversation about their plans – maybe Maggie spoke of dress patterns she wanted to sew, or Carrie mentioned an errand in town. The world around them was the same as ever, giving no hint of the horror about to erupt.
The Diabolical Crime in Broad Daylight
It was just after three o’clock on a gray December afternoon when the horror at the Gribble House came to light. The first person to realize something was dreadfully wrong was a passerby on Perry Street – some accounts say it was a concerned neighbor or a curious gentleman walking his daily route, while others claim it was a city patrolman on his beat. Whoever he was, as he strolled along the quiet little street he heard an unsettling sound coming from inside the Gribble House. It was a faint moan, a human noise of pain that shouldn’t have been emerging from behind that front door.
The man approached the house. The front door was slightly ajar, swaying open just a crack. Perhaps his heart quickened; a door left open in that neighborhood was unusual. He called out, but got no response besides another low, agonized groan. Stepping onto the porch, he gently pushed the door further. It resisted movement, as if something heavy was wedged behind it. Summoning his courage, the man gave a firmer shove. With a scraping sound, the door moved a foot or two – just enough for him to slip inside.
The dim interior of the front hallway gradually came into view, lit only by weak afternoon light filtering through the doorway. The sight that met him was like something from a nightmare. Lying across the threshold, partially blocking the door, was a woman drenched in blood. She was still alive, but only barely. One look and he could tell she had suffered unimaginable wounds: the side of her head was caved in, her skull cracked and glistening with wet blood. Blood pooled beneath her and smeared in gruesome streaks on the floorboards. The woman’s hand – slick with gore – weakly clutched at the air toward the open doorway, as if she had been trying desperately to crawl outside to safety.
This was Maggie Hunter, though the man would not have known her name at that moment. All he could see was a bloodied victim in dire need of help. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air, and the house was eerily quiet save for Maggie’s faint, pained moans. She was conscious, but likely delirious from shock. The man knelt quickly by her side. Perhaps her eyes fluttered open, glassy with terror, and she tried to form words or reach for him. He realized speaking to her was futile – she needed medical help immediately if she stood any chance.
Stumbling back out onto the porch, the man shouted for help. In 1909, without a phone handy, the quickest way to get assistance was to run to the nearest business or flag down the first person you saw. He dashed down the street – one account says he ran to a nearby drugstore on the corner, another says he managed to find a police officer – and breathlessly raised the alarm. “There’s been a murder! Come quick!” Within minutes, several policemen and concerned neighbors converged at the Gribble House, ready to confront whatever horror awaited inside.
Stumbling back out onto the porch, the man shouted for help. In 1909, without a phone handy, the quickest way to get assistance was to run to the nearest business or flag down the first person you saw. He dashed down the street – one account says he ran to a nearby drugstore on the corner, another says he managed to find a police officer – and breathlessly raised the alarm. “There’s been a murder! Come quick!” Within minutes, several policemen and concerned neighbors converged at the Gribble House, ready to confront whatever horror awaited inside.
The first officers on the scene gingerly pushed the door open, moving Maggie’s limp form enough to squeeze past without causing her further injury. The interior of the house was dim and deathly still, save for Maggie’s faint whimpers. Revolvers drawn (for no one yet knew if the perpetrator might still be lurking in a back room), the police began a room-to-room search. What they discovered would be recounted in shocked voices and lurid headlines for years to come.
Just beyond where Maggie lay, further down the narrow hall toward the rear of the house, another body was sprawled on the floor. This was Carrie Ohlander, Eliza’s daughter. Carrie was clearly beyond saving – she had likely died moments after the attack. Her skull had been beaten in as well, with bits of bone and brain matter spattered about. It was evident to the horrified investigators that Carrie had endured what the authorities euphemistically described as a “criminal assault” prior to her death. In other words, she had been sexually violated by the attacker in the moments before or during her murder. In addition, her throat had been slashed open. A gruesome wound like that ensured there was no hope for her survival.
The position of her limbs and the state of the hallway suggested that Carrie had put up a ferocious fight against her assailant. It appeared she had been caught in the hall, perhaps trying to flee toward the back door. Indeed, Carrie’s body lay closer to the rear exit, as if she had almost reached it before collapsing. Blood smeared along the walls and floor hinted at a desperate struggle. The officers exchanged grim glances; the savagery of this assault was unlike anything they’d seen in their careers. Not only had this villain attacked a woman in her own home, but he had brutally raped and butchered her. It was a scene that could unnerve even seasoned policemen.
Suppressing their revulsion, the police pressed deeper into the house. If Maggie was at the front and Carrie in the hall, where was Mrs. Gribble? They carefully stepped into a small bedroom at the end of the hall – Eliza’s room. There, on the floor beside the bed, they found the third victim.
Eliza Gribble lay on the floor near her wooden rocking chair, her body ominously still. At first glance, she almost appeared to be peacefully resting on the floor – except for the blood. A closer inspection revealed that Eliza’s head had been brutally bashed. Her gray hair was matted with clotted blood and brain matter. There were no signs of a struggle here; unlike her daughter, Eliza likely never saw the attack coming.
Her reading glasses and a newspaper were found on the floor at the foot of the bed, right next to where her body fell. This poignant detail suggested that Eliza had been sitting down reading the paper when the killer crept up on her from behind. She probably didn’t even have time to look up or cry out. One moment she was absorbed in the day’s news; the next, a powerful blow to the back of her head struck her down. Eliza, at 70, and with her limited mobility, never had a chance. If there can be anything like mercy in such a crime, perhaps it’s that her death came swiftly, without prolonged fear or pain.
By now, the police had seen enough to piece together a rough sequence of events. The murder weapon itself was soon discovered: a blood-smeared axe was found discarded inside the house (accounts differ on exactly where – some say near one of the bodies, others say by the back door). It was presumably a household axe used for chopping firewood or kindling, now turned against the household’s inhabitants. That axe, caked with hair and gore, confirmed that the women had all been attacked by the same brutal instrument.
Outside, word of the tragedy spread like wildfire. Neighbors who had initially gathered out of curiosity now recoiled in horror as the bodies of Carrie and Eliza were carried out, covered in sheets. Maggie, miraculously still alive, was rushed on a stretcher to the nearest hospital (likely Savannah Hospital) with a police escort, her survival hanging by a thread. The scene drew an ever-growing crowd. Men removed their hats and women dabbed tears, aghast at the thought of such carnage happening in their community. Murmurs rippled through onlookers: “Who could have done this? Was it a madman? Did someone see anything?” Savannah, though a city, had a small-town familiarity at its core – and now that core was shaken.
The crime scene itself was chaotic. Remember, this was 1909 – there was no modern forensic protocol, no crime scene tape to cordon off evidence. Policemen tromped through the rooms followed by the police chief, maybe the coroner, and even a few city officials who rushed over upon hearing the sensational news. Curious neighbors pressed at the door until they were firmly ordered back. In the disarray, it was hard to discern if anything had been stolen or if the killer had left any clue beyond the weapon. What was clear was the sheer violence of the act and the brazenness of doing it in broad daylight. How was it that no one heard screaming or the thud of the axe? One officer stepped outside to survey the surroundings – just across the way, beyond some warehouses, loomed the Central of Georgia rail yards. At that very time of day, a locomotive might have been pulling in with brakes screeching, or a switch-engine could have been coupling cars with thunderous clangs. It dawned on some that the noise of industry might have masked the noise of murder.
As twilight descended on December 10, the Gribble House was left as a dark, silent tomb, the blood of its inhabitants soaking into its floors. But all around Savannah, an uproar was building. By that night, nearly every citizen in Savannah had heard of the “triple murder on Perry Street.” Fear and outrage blossomed in equal measure. A murderer was on the loose – and until he was caught, who knew who else might be in danger?
The Frenzied Investigation and Public Outrage
The response to the Gribble House murders was immediate and intense. News of the atrocity hit the streets by the evening of December 10 itself. The Savannah Evening Press rushed out a special edition with a horrifying headline. By the next morning, the story of Savannah’s “triple axe murder” was blazing from newspapers up and down the East Coast. Within days, even the New York Times and the Los Angeles Herald carried reports of the crime, spreading the name “Gribble House” far beyond Georgia. But while national papers printed the story as a sensational curiosity, in Savannah it was a daily, urgent reality: a killer had to be found, and fast.
A City on Edge: As word spread through Savannah, a palpable sense of panic took hold. Residents bolted their doors and peered nervously at strangers. Unfortunately, many citizens leaped to a conclusion that was sadly common in the Deep South of that era: they assumed the killer must be an African American man. In 1909, racist stereotypes often influenced crime investigations, and a trope of the time was the “crazed Negro” assailant. In the immediate aftermath, this prejudice ignited a dangerous frenzy. Some witnesses claimed to have seen “a black man” running away from the area around the time of the murders. That was all it took for suspicion to avalanche into action.
Law enforcement, under pressure and perhaps influenced by the same biases, began rounding up black men en masse. By the day after the murders, at least 150 African American men had been detained for interrogation, snatched off the streets or from their homes in an indiscriminate dragnet. The city jail was overflowing with bewildered, frightened black suspects who had the misfortune of being in the vicinity of West Broad Street that afternoon. Mobs of angry white citizens gathered outside the police station and the jail, clamoring for swift justice. Some among the mob spoke openly of lynching the perpetrator if he were found – or even lynching one of the suspects if no clearer target emerged. The tension between white and black Savannahians, always present under the surface in those days, threatened to erupt into violence. At one point, furious white vigilantes began marching through Frogtown and adjacent neighborhoods, tearing down fences and bursting into the shanties of innocent black families in a blind search for the “monster” who had done this. It was as if the horror at the Gribble House had unchained an even wider horror – that of racial terror and mob justice.
Savannah’s officials realized the situation was spiraling out of control. The police force, to its credit, did not simply settle for the easiest scapegoat. Even as they questioned scores of black detainees, they also pursued other leads. The brutality of the crime suggested to some of the more seasoned detectives that this may not have been a random intruder at all, but possibly someone with a personal motive. They started piecing together information from the surviving victim, Maggie, and those who knew the household. Detectives canvassed the area for anyone who might have seen or heard something useful (beyond the vague “black man running” account, which was too general to solve the case).
A big break in the investigation came from the fragile lips of Maggie Hunter herself. Maggie had been rushed to the hospital and, remarkably, she clung to life for the next few days. Physicians operated and bandaged her savaged skull as best they could, and for a short while she was semi-lucid. The police were desperate to get her testimony – she was the only witness who could potentially identify the attacker. Stationed at her bedside was a local Baptist minister, Reverend John S. Wilder, who had taken it upon himself to comfort the dying woman. Wilder was a newcomer to Savannah, an itinerant preacher who happened to be in town and, by chance or design, got very involved in this unfolding drama. Over the course of Maggie’s final days, Rev. Wilder stayed close, praying and gently asking if she could reveal who had hurt her.
At first Maggie was barely able to whisper, but on the second or third day, she had a burst of clarity (or so Wilder later claimed). In that moment, when asked if she knew her assailant, Maggie reportedly gave a name: “J.C. Hunter.” She indicated – either in words or as a nod of confirmation – that it was her estranged husband who had attacked her and the others. This deathbed accusation changed the direction of the investigation dramatically.
Once informed of Maggie’s statement, the police immediately turned their focus to finding J.C. Hunter. It did not take long – J.C. lived nearby in a small house at the corner of Montgomery and Congress Streets and had been in Savannah the whole time. On hearing the accusation, officers hurried to Hunter’s residence that same day (with perhaps some grim satisfaction – a named suspect meant they could relieve the pressure and maybe calm the lynch mobs). J.C. Hunter, a gaunt 66-year-old with a cane and a missing eye, answered the door to find police ready to take him in. He was promptly arrested and hauled to the station amid intense public interest.
J.C., by all accounts, protested vigorously. He insisted he was innocent, that he loved Maggie and would never harm her. His protestations fell on unsympathetic ears, especially when detectives searching his home discovered what looked like damning evidence. Inside his small house, they found a bloody rag stuffed into the fireplace – as if someone had attempted to burn or hide it – and a bundle of bloodstained clothes tucked away in a corner. The sight of those bloodied garments practically screamed guilt to the authorities. When confronted, J.C. stammered an explanation that they were soiled from some other cause (he mumbled about killing a chicken or cutting himself shaving – excuses that sounded feeble given the volume of blood). The police also learned something chilling: one of J.C. Hunter’s walking canes was missing from his home, and a cane had indeed been found at the Gribble House after the murders, leaning against a wall. If it matched J.C.’s, it placed him squarely at the scene.
With Maggie’s accusation and physical evidence in hand, the police believed they had their man. J.C.’s arrest had an immediate effect on the city: it defused the explosive racial tension. Once a white suspect was in custody, the furious focus on the black community subsided. The 150 detained black men were released (none having any evidence against them). A collective sigh of relief might have passed among them, but also lingering bitterness – they had been terrorized and incarcerated simply due to prejudice. Savannah’s attention now pivoted wholly to J.C. Hunter, the estranged husband seemingly named from beyond the grave by his own wife.
As J.C. sat in his cell, likely in a state of shock and despair, investigators continued to gather any and all leads. They also brought in Willie Walls for questioning, since he had been known to visit Maggie and had even admitted he was near the house on the day of the murders (though he claimed he never went inside). Walls cooperated and maintained his innocence. He said he had simply come by to check on Maggie, saw nothing amiss, and left when no one answered the door. Given that Walls was the one who paid her rent and was considered a “special friend,” there was some speculation in the community that he might have had a motive of jealousy or involvement. However, aside from timing, the police had nothing concrete tying Walls to the scene – no blood on him, no witness of him entering the house – so they held him briefly and released him on bond pending further investigation.
Another man in the web of suspicion was Bingham “Bing” Bryan, the Gribbles’ African American yardman. In late January 1910, over a month after the murders, Bryan was arrested on a theory that he might have killed the women in an attempted robbery. There was a rumor that Mrs. Gribble possessed an old trunk filled with valuable papers, maybe stocks or cash. If Bryan, who worked around the house, knew of this trunk’s contents, perhaps (the theory went) he had broken in to steal it, and things turned violent. Bryan was questioned extensively, but in the end, nothing placed him in that house at the critical time. He vehemently denied any wrongdoing, and even the circumstantial motive was flimsy. He was eventually let go without being charged for murder, although in the court of public opinion, some still cast an eye of suspicion on him for a while.
Over the weeks following the crime, the Savannah police, under enormous public pressure, pursued every lead and rumor, determined to present a solid case to the courts. They employed some investigative methods that were, to put it mildly, unorthodox. For instance, they relied on the emotional shock value of the victims themselves in an attempt to crack the suspects. Detectives brought J.C. Hunter into the presence of Maggie’s body in the morgue, hoping the sight of his slain wife would break his composure and extract either a confession or a telltale reaction. J.C. was led into the cold room where Maggie’s lifeless form lay on a slab, still battered and bloodied. The police watched him intently. J.C., on seeing Maggie’s corpse, reportedly paled and asked weakly, “When did she die?” – as if he hadn’t expected her to be gone. He then broke down in sobs, covering his face, but he did not utter any incriminating words. They returned him to his cell, where he continued to maintain his innocence amid tears.
They tried a similar confrontation with Willie Walls, escorting him to view Maggie’s body. Willie, who had by all accounts truly cared for Maggie, was heartbroken. He gently took Maggie’s hand and said goodbye to her, murmuring that she had been a good friend, and shed tears. But like Hunter, he did not confess to anything – his grief seemed genuine, untinged by guilty fear.
In a grim display, it’s said that investigators even staged a macabre reenactment of the crime to provoke a response. They dressed up mannequins in blood-stained clothing, positioning them exactly where the bodies of Maggie, Carrie, and Eliza were found. The mannequins were smeared with animal blood to resemble the gore of the actual scene. Then, one by one, suspects were brought into the Gribble House under guard and confronted with these ghastly effigies. Detectives would dramatically point and shout, “Look what you have done!” hoping the tableau would jolt a murderer’s conscience into confession. It was a theatrical tactic born of desperation – and if it hadn’t been such a serious matter, one might think it belonged in a penny dreadful melodrama. Not surprisingly, it yielded no confessions, only unsettling memories for those subjected to it.
Meanwhile, the case moved into the courts. On February 23, 1910, a Chatham County grand jury handed down indictments for J.C. Hunter, Willie Walls, and a third man named John Coker (a friend of one of the women, dragged into suspicion by some tenuous claim) for the murder of the three women. It was not uncommon in that era for multiple people to be indicted if there was any inkling they might have been involved, with the expectation that a trial would sort out the truth.
In the end, however, only one man actually stood trial for the murders: J.C. Hunter. The cases against Walls and Coker quickly fell apart. Walls had a credible story and no evidence on him, so he was released and never brought to trial. Coker’s supposed involvement turned out to be based on unreliable gossip; charges against him were dismissed outright due to lack of evidence. All eyes turned to J.C. Hunter as the sole defendant in what newspapers now called the “Savannah Axe Murder” trial.
The trial commenced in mid-August 1910, at the Savannah courthouse. The proceedings attracted packed galleries – society ladies fanned themselves in the summer heat, and curious citizens and reporters squeezed onto benches to witness justice (or drama) unfold. J.C. Hunter, frail-looking and dressed in a modest suit, cut a strange figure: could this aging, one-eyed Civil War veteran truly be the fiend who’d ravaged three women?
The prosecution laid out the narrative that seemed most plausible. They argued that J.C. Hunter, enraged that his much-younger wife had left him, went to the Gribble House on that Friday intent on revenge. Perhaps he tried one last time to win her back – hence bringing the sewing machine as a peace offering – but something snapped. In a jealous fury, they claimed, he attacked Maggie with the axe. Then, to eliminate the witnesses, he butchered Eliza and Carrie as well. They presented the evidence: Maggie’s dying declaration naming J.C., the bloody rag and clothes found at his house, and even the missing cane that matched his. They painted Hunter as a man with a hidden violent streak – mentioning his prior conviction for horse theft and bigamy to imply he was of bad character – and they described the brutality of the scene to impress upon the jury that only a man filled with uncontrollable rage could commit such acts.
The defense tried to poke holes in this narrative. They noted that there were no eyewitnesses actually placing J.C. at the scene. Several of Hunter’s coworkers testified that on the day of the murders, J.C. had been working at a painting job across town around midday (though under cross-examination, the timing of when he left that job was muddled). The defense heavily questioned the reliability of the “dying declaration.” Reverend Wilder was called to recount Maggie’s last words. The defense attorney insinuated that Wilder might have misheard a delirious woman, or even unconsciously imposed the name J.C. Hunter because he had known Maggie’s marital troubles. It didn’t help J.C.’s cause that Wilder was a respected clergyman; his testimony likely carried weight with the jury. The defense also pointed out Hunter’s physical condition – a 66-year-old man with one eye and a limp. Could he really have subdued two relatively young women (and one older woman) all by himself, especially if one fought back fiercely? They argued that if revenge on Maggie was the motive, it made little sense that she was actually the one who survived the initial attack – why would J.C. kill Eliza and Carrie so swiftly but fail to finish off the primary target of his wrath? They floated the idea that someone else, perhaps taking advantage of the situation, might have been the killer.
After days of testimony and dramatic exhibits (including the blood-stained axe itself, which was displayed in the courtroom to gasps from the audience), the case went to the jury. It didn’t take them long – on August 17, 1910, the jury returned a verdict: guilty of murder. J.C. Hunter was convicted for the slaying of all three women. When the judge asked if they had anything to say before sentencing, J.C. reportedly murmured again that he was innocent, but it carried little sway. The judge pronounced the ultimate punishment: death by hanging. The execution was scheduled for December 22, 1911, giving a little over a year for appeals or clemency pleas.
Savannah, for the moment, breathed a bit easier. The beast responsible for the heinous crime was behind bars awaiting his fate. The newspapers lauded the police and prosecutors for getting a conviction. Many citizens likely felt vindicated that someone was going to pay with his life for the lives lost. But under the surface, not everyone was entirely convinced that the truth had been uncovered. There were murmurs of doubt in some quarters – quiet questions about inconsistencies or other suspects. These doubts would only grow with time, as fate took some unexpected turns in the tale of J.C. Hunter and the Gribble House murders.
Twists of Fate and Lingering Doubts
Following his conviction, J.C. Hunter languished in the Chatham County jail as his execution date approached. Appeals were filed on his behalf, but Georgia’s higher courts upheld the verdict and sentence. By late 1911, gallows were being prepared for what would be the first hanging in Savannah in many years. Hunter, once simply an old painter with a troubled past, was now the most infamous prisoner in town – and he was set to be hanged just two days before Christmas.
However, fate took an unexpected turn in the eleventh hour. On December 21, 1911, literally the day before J.C. Hunter was to hang, the Governor of Georgia granted him a last-minute reprieve. The governor commuted Hunter’s death sentence to life imprisonment instead. The development stunned Savannah. Why the sudden mercy for a condemned triple murderer? The answer lies largely with Reverend John S. Wilder – the same minister who had testified about Maggie’s dying words.
It turned out that over the year since the trial, Reverend Wilder had made a project of J.C. Hunter’s soul. Wilder frequently visited Hunter in jail, praying with him, perhaps seeking to guide him to confession and repentance. By the eve of the execution, Wilder was convinced that Hunter’s own proclamations of innocence might actually be true – or at the very least, Wilder felt compelled by Christian charity to intervene. Accounts say Wilder planned to baptize Hunter in his cell on December 21st. When he urged Hunter to confess his sins before meeting God, Hunter reportedly maintained with tears, “I am innocent. I did not kill Maggie.” This adamant plea moved Wilder profoundly. The minister took it upon himself to lobby the governor for clemency, arguing that if there was any doubt at all, they should not shed more blood.
The governor was swayed (perhaps combined with other petitions and an uneasy feeling that the case wasn’t ironclad). Thus, J.C. was spared the hangman’s noose. His sentence was formally commuted to life imprisonment on the eve of his scheduled execution. Savannah’s populace had mixed reactions: some were relieved that a potential miscarriage of justice might be averted, while others were outraged that the “monster” wouldn’t swing. Reverend Wilder’s involvement raised eyebrows – he had, after all, been key in condemning Hunter by relaying Maggie’s accusation, and now he was key in saving him. It was an odd twist that made some people question Wilder’s motives (and as years went on, a few would even whisper suspicions about the reverend himself, though nothing concrete ever emerged).
J.C. Hunter was transferred to the state penitentiary to serve out his life term. Given his age and infirmity, he wasn’t put on a chain gang. Instead, he was assigned relatively light duties at the prison – by some accounts, he worked as a waiter or orderly in the Confederate veterans’ home affiliated with the penitentiary. Hunter became something of a ghost in the prison system: a quiet old man who did his work and caused no trouble. He spent years behind bars as the world outside moved on and eventually began to forget the Gribble House horror.
Then, another twist came. On October 27, 1923, after twelve years of imprisonment and at the ripe age of 77, Governor Clifford Walker of Georgia issued J.C. Hunter a full pardon. It’s unclear what motivated the pardon at that late date. Possibly it was due to Hunter’s advanced age and the sense that he posed no threat. Maybe some felt that he had served enough time given lingering questions about his guilt. Or it might have been simple political patronage or a push from Reverend Wilder’s continued advocacy (Wilder, incidentally, had gone on to establish a church in Savannah and was regarded as a hero by some for sparing Hunter’s life). Regardless, J.C. Hunter walked out of prison a free man in the autumn of 1923.
Old J.C. returned to Savannah a curiosity but not exactly a celebrated figure. He lived his final years quietly and died sometime in the late 1920s. If he carried dark secrets to his grave, he never divulged them. To his dying day, he maintained that he was innocent of the Gribble House murders.
So, over a decade after the crime, Savannah found itself in an eerie predicament: the only man ever convicted of the murders had been released, and no one else had been held accountable. Did this mean the crime was technically unsolved? Officially, no – the case was closed with Hunter’s conviction. But unofficially, doubts festered. In barber shops and on front porches, people would occasionally revisit the case, asking, “Do you think old man Hunter really did it?” The uncertainty was enough that in 1917, while Hunter was still in prison, a strange epilogue occurred: a man named J.B. Garvin approached a Savannah police officer and confessed that he was the one who killed the women. Garvin even claimed he had an accomplice and described details of the Gribble House interior and items stolen (apparently a few things were indeed missing from the house after the murders – possibly petty loot). However, the policeman who heard the confession believed Garvin to be insane or a crank seeking attention. The confession was largely dismissed and not acted upon. Could that have been the truth, bizarrely offered and then ignored? We’ll never know.
The mystery of “who really killed the women in the Gribble House” has lingered ever since. Over the years, various theories have been debated:
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The Revengeful Husband Theory: This is the narrative that led to Hunter’s conviction – a crime of domestic rage. Many still lean toward it because Maggie did name him (if we trust Rev. Wilder’s account), and the circumstantial evidence of his bloody clothes was hard to dismiss. Could an older man muster the strength for such a massacre? Possibly, if fueled by adrenaline and hatred. And maybe he had the element of surprise. Yet, it remains puzzling that Maggie, his supposed main target, was the one who initially survived the attack. If revenge was the sole motive, one would expect the killer to ensure Maggie died first.
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The Lover’s Triangle Theory: Some speculated that perhaps Willie Walls, the friend (or lover), had a hand in it. Did Willie show up expecting a visit with Maggie, only to encounter some conflict or rejection and turn violent? If he did, why kill Eliza and Carrie too? There’s scant evidence beyond town gossip to implicate Walls, and he was never formally tried. The police never found blood on him or inconsistencies in his account. Most likely, he was guilty only of caring for Maggie, not of harming her. Still, for a time, tongues wagged that a lover’s quarrel could have been at the heart of the tragedy.
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The Robbery Gone Wrong Theory: This theory centers on Bingham Bryan, the yardman, or perhaps some unknown thief. If someone believed Mrs. Gribble had valuables in the house (like that rumored trunk of wills and stocks), they might have broken in during the day, thinking only the elderly woman was home. Then they encountered not just Eliza, but also Carrie and Maggie, and in a panic or ruthless decision, killed all witnesses. Supporters of this theory note the story of a trunk and point out that robbery is one of the oldest motives in the book. However, a robber’s aim is usually to steal with minimal complication; the level of gratuitous violence (especially the assault on Carrie) doesn’t fit well if theft were the primary goal. Bingham Bryan himself was never found with any incriminating evidence, and he was let go. The robbery theory grew even colder after 1917, when that curious J.B. Garvin confession was dismissed. If Garvin was telling the truth, he might have been an opportunistic burglar turned murderer. But since he was ignored, the robbery angle remains an intriguing “what if” rather than a proven scenario.
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The Random Madman Theory: There is a possibility that the Gribble House fell prey to a complete stranger – a transient serial attacker who happened upon vulnerable victims. It’s worth noting that a few years later, in 1911-1912, the infamous Villisca Axe Murders and several other axe murders occurred in the Midwest, leading some to speculate about roaming killers. Savannah’s case predates those, but who’s to say a deranged drifter couldn’t have done something similar? A theory advanced by one local researcher much later proposed that a railroad worker might have been responsible. The idea goes that a fireman from a locomotive (who would be covered head-to-toe in black coal dust) could have slipped away from his train during a break, entered the house through the back (maybe finding the back gate unlatched), and attacked Eliza and Carrie knowing one was old and one deaf (easy targets). Then Maggie walked in unexpectedly, and he had to attack her too. The “black man running” sighting could actually have been a coal-dusted white rail worker sprinting back to his engine. It’s a bit far-fetched, but not impossible. In this scenario, the killer could have hopped back on a departing train and vanished from Savannah, never to be caught. Given the lack of forensic techniques back then, such a person would be a ghost to the investigators. This theory leaves us with the unsettling thought that the real culprit might have been neither J.C. nor anyone the victims knew, but simply a violent drifter who got away with it.
And what of Reverend Wilder himself, the man at both the start and end of J.C. Hunter’s ordeal? To most in 1909, Wilder was a Good Samaritan who comforted the dying and championed mercy. But in later decades, some true-crime enthusiasts cast a suspicious eye on him. It is admittedly peculiar that a newcomer preacher ended up the sole witness to Maggie’s accusation and then the savior of the accused. Wilder certainly benefitted in reputation: he went on to found Savannah’s Baptist Tabernacle, a congregation that thrived, possibly boosted by his local fame from the case. Could Wilder have fabricated Maggie’s dying words to ensure J.C. was blamed instead of someone else? Could he even have had any role in the crime itself, inserting himself into events to build his own legend? It seems a stretch – there’s no evidence Wilder ever set foot near the Gribble House until after the fact, and being a killer doesn’t mesh with his subsequent life as a clergyman of good standing. Most dismiss this as a fanciful conspiracy. Wilder likely was exactly what he seemed: an opportunistic evangelist who used a tragedy to elevate his own profile (and perhaps did feel genuine compassion for an old man facing the gallows).
In the end, Savannah never got absolute certainty. The community gradually moved on – new scandals, new sorrows occupied the public mind. The Gribble House itself, however, remained a somber monument to the unknown. After the trial, no one much wanted to live in a place soaked in blood. The property’s ownership wavered; it was rented out occasionally, but it never again was a normal happy home. In fact, before long, people in the vicinity began whispering that the house was haunted – that something of the horror lingered in those rooms. The legends that would later flourish about the Gribble House find their roots in this period, when neighbors claimed that late at night they could see or sense strange things in the empty home. Some said lights would flicker in the windows when no one was inside. Others swore they heard faint cries or the sound of an axe thudding coming from within. One particularly persistent story was that bloodstains kept reappearing on the floors and walls, no matter how often they were scrubbed or painted over. It was as if the very house refused to let the memory of the crime be washed away.
Time did what time does: it blurred the edges of memory and turned immediate trauma into historical anecdote. By the 1930s, the tale of the Gribble House murders was something old-timers would recount to wide-eyed youngsters. The structure itself had grown older too, sagging and deteriorating. Finally, in 1941, the long-abandoned Gribble House was torn down. In its place, after a short interval, a large 15,000-square-foot warehouse was constructed in 1944. That warehouse at 234 Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard (then still West Broad) initially served as an automotive repair garage. Later, it became a storage and workshop facility for the Old Town Trolley Tours company, housing and fixing the tour trolleys that ferried tourists around the historic district. The physical remnants of the 1909 crime – the walls that had been spattered with blood – were gone. But the ground itself remained, and with it, perhaps, something intangible yet persistent.
Little did the builders of that warehouse know: they were not just constructing over history, they might have been building atop lingering spirits. Indeed, by the latter half of the 20th century, reports of odd occurrences at the warehouse began to surface. Savannah, by then embracing its reputation as a haunted city, would soon add the Gribble House site to its roster of ghostly locales.
Ghosts of the Gribble House
As if the ghastly deaths of Eliza Gribble, Carrie Ohlander, and Maggie Hunter weren’t disturbing enough, the story of the Gribble House has a supernatural second act. Locals have long claimed that places touched by violent death never truly quiet down, and the Gribble House site seems to be a prime example. Over the decades, an array of ghost stories and eerie encounters have been linked to that otherwise unremarkable patch of Savannah.
One early account comes from a 1975 interview with a woman named Mrs. John S. Monsees, who grew up near the old house back in the 1910s and ’20s. She recounted that her mother and grandmother used to hush her with terrifying tales about the Gribble House. They said that sometimes, blood would inexplicably appear on the walls inside. According to Mrs. Monsees, the older folks in the neighborhood swore that on certain days – possibly anniversaries of the murders – red stains would seep or manifest on the very spots where the women’s blood had splattered. Supposedly, no amount of cleaning could keep the walls clean; the bloodstains always returned. Whether this was literal or just a bit of folklore to scare children, it established the Gribble House’s reputation as a house that “remembered” its dark past in a chillingly visual way.
After the house was torn down and replaced by a warehouse, one might expect the eerie phenomena to cease. But if anything, they escalated. The new building had different uses over time, but by the 1990s and 2000s it was largely used by the Trolley Tour company. Workers maintaining the trolleys late at night reported uneasy feelings – as if they were being watched by unseen eyes from the dark corners. Tools would mysteriously go missing, then turn up in odd places. There were incidents where employees heard their names whispered when they were alone, or the distinct sound of a woman sobbing softly near the back of the building where no one should have been. Some shrugged it off, attributing it to imagination or the creaks of an old structure. But a few started to whisper, “The Gribble ghosts are restless.”
A particularly intense concentration of activity seemed to occur in one area of the warehouse which people began calling the “Slave Quarters.” Part of the warehouse incorporated remnants of much older brickwork and foundations – possibly from long ago before the Gribble House, when some antebellum structure (maybe a carriage house or indeed slave quarters) stood there. This section had a heavy feeling to it, as described by many who entered. Visitors would often report feeling sudden anxiety or sadness there for no reason. Others felt the opposite – a spike of anger directed at them, as if an invisible presence resented their intrusion.
It wasn’t long before Savannah’s paranormal enthusiasts took note. By the early 2010s, organized ghost investigations at the Gribble House site became a regular occurrence. The warehouse was no longer just a storage facility; it transformed by night into the Gribble House Paranormal Experience, an attraction where brave souls could explore with ghost-hunting equipment in hand. Ghost tour guides recounted the tragic history, then invited participants to wander in the dark and see if any spirits would make themselves known.
Some nights, it seemed, they did. Visitors and investigators reported startling phenomena. It wasn’t uncommon for someone standing quietly in the shadows to suddenly yelp in pain – upon examination, they’d discover fresh scratch marks on their arm or back, as if clawed by unseen fingernails. Others felt a distinct tug on their clothing or a playful (yet unsettling) stroke through their hair when absolutely no one was near enough to have done it. One guest, after complaining of a burning sensation on his neck, found three long scratches there, reminiscent of the classic “demonic” signature some ghost hunters talk about. Such physical interactions were frequent enough that many entered the warehouse with a mix of excitement and trepidation, not entirely sure they wouldn’t leave with a few phantom bruises or scratches of their own.
And then there were the voices. Modern ghost hunters often carry audio recorders to capture EVPs – electronic voice phenomena – which are believed to be spirit voices not audible to the human ear at the time of recording. The Gribble House investigations yielded an abundance of EVPs, to the point some enthusiasts dubbed the site an “EVP goldmine.” During quiet sessions, people would ask questions of the supposed spirits: “What is your name?” “Why are you here?” Later, on playback, they’d hear uncanny responses. In one case, a very clear, faint whisper answered, “Maggie,” when asked who was present – prompting many to believe Maggie Hunter’s spirit was indeed lingering and willing to talk. Another recording captured a heart-wrenching sob followed by a plea, which some interpreted as a woman saying, “Help me,” sending chills down everyone’s spine. Occasionally, a more aggressive male voice would come through with gruff one-word commands like “Leave” or “Get out.” Whether this was the murderer’s restless spirit or something else entirely, it certainly made investigators’ blood run cold.
Photographs taken in the warehouse have yielded anomalies too. Countless pictures show orbs – those floating balls of light that some say are spirit energy (skeptics, of course, often dismiss them as dust or moisture, but some orbs at Gribble appear in odd self-illuminated ways). More impressive are the photos that have captured misty shapes or shadowy figures. One often-shared image shows a translucent figure of a woman in what looks like a long dress standing in a corner where, legend has it, Carrie’s bedroom would have been located. The figure wasn’t seen by the naked eye, only discovered later on the image. Many believe this is Carrie’s ghost, still protecting the place or perhaps re-enacting her last moments.
Another commonly reported spectral figure is the “Shadow Man.” Unlike a typical apparition which might have discernible human features, a shadow person appears as a dark, silhouette-like shape, often seen peripherally or darting quickly out of view. In the Gribble House warehouse, numerous witnesses have sworn they saw a tall, man-shaped shadow running between the support pillars or peeking out and then dissolving when approached. This shadow man is frequently spotted in the area that aligns with where the back door and yard would have been in 1909. Some wonder: could this be the ghost of the murderer himself, forever lurking and slinking away into the darkness? The notion that the killer’s spirit might be trapped at the scene of his crime is a chilling one. Alternatively, the shadow figure might not be human at all – perhaps an inhuman entity drawn by the negative energy of the murders. Those who have encountered the shadow man report a feeling of intense dread washing over them, as though a malevolent presence was inches away. A few even claimed that right after seeing the shadow, they experienced being shoved or hit by an invisible force. It certainly doesn’t sound like any of the kindly lady ghosts one might expect; it feels darker, angrier.
The Lady in White also purportedly makes an appearance. In ghost lore, a “lady in white” is a common apparition, usually of a woman in a white dress (often associated with tragedy or lost love). Several guests at the warehouse have described seeing a woman in a white dress or gown drifting silently across a distant part of the warehouse floor. Some specifically likened it to a wedding dress, leading to all sorts of conjecture. None of the murdered women was known to be wearing white or a wedding gown at the time (indeed, Carrie and Maggie were separated/divorced, so a bride’s attire seems out of place). So who is the lady in white? One theory suggests that perhaps one of the victims is symbolically manifesting as a bride – Maggie had been a bride three times, after all, and maybe that part of her life was significant enough to imprint on her spirit. Another idea is that the lady in white could be tied to the older history of the land – perhaps a ghost from an earlier era, unrelated to the murders, drawn to the energy in the warehouse. Regardless of identity, those who have seen her describe the figure as eerily beautiful: a pale, glowing outline of a woman that appears for a brief moment before fading into the darkness.
One room in the warehouse became famous for producing spine-tingling experiences: a section dubbed the “Slave Quarters” (as mentioned before). Here, many guests have audibly heard the words “Get out!” barked at them through spirit box devices or even with their unaided ears. Some have felt an oppressive force in that space, as if a presence there really did not want people around. People would enter that room and within minutes run out, breathless and shaken, certain that something unseen was following or pushing them. The nickname “Slave Quarters” itself suggests perhaps an older haunting – maybe the residual anguish of enslaved individuals who once lived and suffered on that property long ago, their spirits now entangled with the 1909 events. It’s not unusual in Savannah for one location to layer multiple hauntings from different eras (“a city built on its dead,” after all). The Gribble House site could well be one of those layered hauntings, where not only the ghosts of Eliza, Carrie, and Maggie wander, but also those from deeper history.
The accumulation of ghostly evidence eventually drew the attention of national paranormal television. In May 2014, The Travel Channel’s popular show “Ghost Adventures” came to Savannah specifically to investigate the Gribble House as part of an episode titled “Haunted Savannah.” The show’s crew – Zak Bagans and his team – conducted a dramatic overnight lockdown in the warehouse. They brought along their array of high-tech ghost-hunting gear and an eagerness to stir up the spirits. The episode (Season 9, Episode 10) did not disappoint fans: the crew claimed to encounter some highly unusual occurrences. During their lockdown, one investigator felt a sudden sharp pain and behaved as if something were trying to possess her; the camera captured her contorting and speaking in a strange tone before the team intervened, interpreting it as a spirit (perhaps one of the victims, or something darker) momentarily channeling through her. They also recorded multiple EVPs – one of which was interpreted as a woman’s voice pleading, “Why?” – and caught on their specialized cameras what they believed were unexplained light anomalies zipping across the room. In one hair-raising moment, their equipment detected a figure (via an SLS camera, which maps human shapes using infrared dots) standing right next to Zak – yet no living person was there. Zak, known for his provocative tactics, even tried to rile up any spirit of the murderer by reading aloud a description of the brutality and challenging the unseen presence to respond. Some of the crew reported being touched or pinched in return. By the end of the night, the Ghost Adventures team declared the Gribble House site to be one of the most active and mystifying places they had investigated, reinforcing its haunted reputation on a national stage.
With such a wealth of ghostly tales, the Gribble House murders have effectively become two stories: one of history and one of hauntings, forever intertwined. Savannah’s ghost tour guides relish telling this tale because it has all the ingredients of a Southern Gothic thriller: vulnerable women, a gruesome crime, questionable justice, and restless spirits crying out from beyond. When guides lead visitors past the innocuous-looking warehouse lot, they often remark that “the dead never left this place.” Many Savannahians believe that to be true. Even those who might be skeptical of ghosts can’t help but feel a shiver when walking near 416 West Liberty Street (the modern address that corresponds to the site) on a quiet night.
What keeps these spirits tethered here? Some say it’s the injustice – if the real killer was never conclusively identified or punished, the victims’ souls might be unable to rest. Others say it’s the sheer violence of their demise, the trauma echoing in the ether of that space. Perhaps Eliza Gribble stays on because, as a mother, her duty to care for her daughter and friend transcends even death. Perhaps Carrie’s spirit, deaf in life, remains confused and trapped, not hearing the calls to move on. And Maggie – passionate, determined Maggie – maybe she refuses to go until her name is truly cleared or until she finds the peace that eluded her in life. There is also the idea that so many investigators and thrill-seekers visiting the site, asking the spirits to perform, might actually energize the hauntings. By constantly remembering and poking at the past, we could be, in a sense, keeping it alive.
Echoes That Never Die
The tale of the Gribble House murders is more than just a true-crime story from Savannah’s archives – it has become a legend, a cautionary saga whispered on dark trolley rides and midnight walking tours. There’s a poetic symmetry (or perhaps irony) in how a story so drenched in blood has transformed into one so drenched in spirit. In Savannah, where past and present intertwine like the gnarled roots of the city’s ancient oaks, the Gribble House stands as a testament to how some tragedies refuse to fade quietly into history.
By day, the site of the murders might seem utterly ordinary. The warehouse building (when it stood) was just brick and metal, later destined for demolition as the area underwent development. Even now, possibly a paved lot or new construction sits where that house of horrors once did. Tourists and locals pass by, often unaware of what happened there. But come nightfall, imagination (or perhaps memory) seeps back in. One can almost see the outlines of the old narrow house superimposed on the modern landscape, its windows glowing faintly with ghost-light. The live oaks nearby sway, and their hanging Spanish moss becomes the drapery of a grieving city.
If you pause there and listen – truly listen – you might catch it: the distant clatter of a 1909 trolley, the whistle of a train pulling into the station, or perhaps the faint, desperate whisper of a name carried on the breeze. “J.C…. J.C. did this…” was the accusation that echoed from a dying woman’s lips. Did that name fall rightly, or was it spoken in error? The courts decided one way, but the restless dead seem to offer a more ambiguous verdict. The warehouse walls echoed with pleas like “Get out” – maybe the spirits themselves are unsure who to trust among the living.
This story is also a mirror held up to Savannah’s soul. It reflects the human darkness that once resided in a seemingly humble home – the capacity for violence and cruelty that can lurk behind genteel facades. It shows how a community can be torn apart by fear, how prejudice can rear its ugly head when people are desperately seeking someone to blame. And then, on the flip side, it shows how that community, with time, chooses to remember or forget. Savannah chose not to forget. Instead, it folded the Gribble House tragedy into its cultural identity. The city that prides itself on ghosts and “midnight in the garden of good and evil” could hardly find a more emblematic tale: it literally has good (innocent women), evil (a killer in their midst), and a midnight garden of sorts in the form of the spectral warehouse where their souls wander.
In the darker, quieter moments of reflection, one might sense a profound sadness underlying it all. Three women who sought only safety and a fresh start met a fate they did not deserve. Eliza Gribble, who had survived so much (immigration, war, widowhood), should have been able to live out her days in peace. Carrie Ohlander, who overcame the silence of deafness and the collapse of her marriage, should have had a chance at renewal in her hometown. Maggie Hunter, striving to start anew after breaking free from an unhappy marriage, should have had the opportunity to see what life could be like on her own terms. These lives were cut short in the most horrific way, and that is a wound that history cannot heal – it can only record.
Perhaps that is why the ghosts remain: to remind us, to demand that we do not forget them or what they suffered. In Savannah, forgetting is hard – the city’s very streets are layered with history, and its air is thick with the whispers of yesteryear. Every ghost story told on a tour is, at its core, an act of remembrance. When a guide describes seeing a lady in white at the Gribble House site, they are in fact keeping Eliza, Carrie, or Maggie alive in collective memory, ensuring their names and stories are not lost to time. There’s a line often said: “Those who die violently are doomed to walk the earth until justice is done.” Whether or not one believes that literally, metaphorically it rings true – Savannah has given a form of justice (or at least acknowledgment) by immortalizing these women in legend after failing them in life.
The Gribble House murders challenge us to consider the thin veil between past and present, life and afterlife. Standing at that site today, you may see nothing of 1909, but many swear they can feel it. It is as though the normal progression of time hiccupped there, leaving a part of that awful December day perpetually replaying. The faint strains of a 1909 hymn from the church down the block, the clopping of a horse’s hooves, the echo of a knock on a wooden door – sometimes, it seems all so close. And if by some chance on a misty evening you glimpse from the corner of your eye three figures on that old porch – an elderly lady, her daughter, and a younger friend beside them – don’t be alarmed. Perhaps they are simply enjoying a moment of companionship in death that was stolen from them in life.
In Savannah’s tapestry of tales, the Gribble House murders stand out like a blood-red thread. It’s a story to make one shudder at human evil, yet also to wonder at the mysteries beyond our mortal understanding. As we conclude this journey, let’s spare a thought for Eliza Gribble, Carrie Ohlander, and Maggie Hunter. May their souls find the peace that eluded them on that tragic day. And should you ever find yourself walking down West Perry Street (or West Liberty Street as it’s now known) on a quiet night, know that you are not walking alone. The past walks with us here. In Savannah, it always does. The events of 1909 have long since slipped into history books, but their echoes never die – they linger in the humid air, in the stories handed down, and perhaps, in the restless spirits that still roam where the Gribble House once stood.