Lucinda The Phantom of Stony Hollow Road

Lucinda waiting on the bluff. Ready to jump
into legend? Maybe.

Out past Burlington, where the cornfields turn to limestone and the road hums under your tires, lies Stony Hollow Road. Quiet, crooked, and empty. A place where headlights vanish faster than they should and the night feels heavier than it ought to. Locals say a woman named Lucinda still waits there—though for what, no one’s sure anymore.

The story is simple and mean. She was supposed to meet her lover at the bluff. He never came. Maybe he got stuck in the mud. Maybe he never planned to show. She waited, heart cracking open, then stepped off the edge. No records. No obituary. Just a story that settled in the dirt and refused to leave.

If you stop there after midnight and say her name three times—“Lucinda, Lucinda, Lucinda”—she’s supposed to appear on the cliff, pale and silent. Yeah! It sounds like Beetlejuice, but Lucinda was there first, so who’s copying whom?

If she leaves a rose by your car, you won't make it to morning.

Some say she drops a rose at your feet as a warning that you won’t see morning. Nobody agrees on why. Nobody questions it either. It’s just how the story works.

There’s no proof. Never has been. No body, no reports, no century-old newspaper clipping. Only kids with flashlights and bad ideas, daring each other to call her name. Reporters still dust off the story every October. Ghost hunters haul their gadgets out there and swear they catch lights, whispers, shadows that move wrong.

It’s easy to laugh about it in the daylight. Harder at two a.m., when fog creeps off the river and the trees start to close in. The place feels watched, like someone’s standing just beyond the headlights. Maybe it’s the wind. Maybe it isn’t.

The Dare. "Lucinda. Lucinda. Lucinda."

Lucinda might never have existed. Maybe she’s just guilt and gossip turned into a ghost. Maybe she’s real, still walking that bluff, waiting for someone who never kept his word. Either way, Stony Hollow remembers her.

If you ever find yourself there, engine off, windows down, don’t say her name. And whatever you do, don’t repeat it three times. Just listen. The gravel shifts. The air holds its breath. Something in the dark is already waiting.