went on for nearly thirty seconds.
They searched the house but couldn’t find anything that would account for the noises. Zimmerman thought that it might have been a sonic boom and called Bunker Hill Air Force Base to see if any planes were flying in the area. He was told that because of public concerns the Air Force had curtailed flights of the B51s a month earlier.
Four months later when the daughter of the previous owner, Madeline Gwynne Kinney, asked if she could include the house in a historic home tour, she added information to Zimmerman’s tale. Mrs. Kinney told the group about the “friendly ghost” that had been a part of her family when they lived there. Afterwards the new owner asked Mrs. Kinney to describe for him some of the manifestations she had experienced.
Her family, she said, had been awakened several times during the years by a loud crashing sound followed by a metallic clanking. Though she offered no explanation, Mr. Zimmerman knew what had been behind his experience, a friendly ghost of long-standing in the residence.
Zimmerman told of the incidents his family experienced with the doorbell being rung then finding no one or even footprints on the porch.
Mrs. Kinney remarked that the same thing had happened to her family on numerous occasions.
Zimmerman’s daughter, Ginna, was in the rose garden picking flowers when she felt that someone was watching her. She turned around—there in the attic window she saw a woman staring down at her, with long black hair and puffed sleeves on a white blouse. When her father heard her scream that someone was in the attic, he rushed up the stairs, but found no one.
At least one incident with the ghost proved profitable. Mrs. Zimmerman, reading alone one night, heard the sound of coins falling to the floor and found on the floor six coins: a quarter, a nickel and four pennies all minted before 1900.
The family also experienced footsteps in the foyer, climbing the stairs and ending where there once was the door to the servant’s quarters.
The house was sold and eventually torn down to make way for the I and Tenth Streets La Porte Medical Clinic. But the site seems to have continued to harbor specters. Employees at the clinic reported lights turning on and off, doors opening and shutting, elevators operating on their own and moving shadows.
Whatever presence remained and materialized, or resonated its psychic energy, seemed to haunt the site, not the house. The Potawatomi would often set up temporary camps at the lake that had once been on the property. When the Indians were forced from the area they were marched past this lake. A young Indian maiden was supposed to have become ill, died and been buried on the grounds where the house was built. Perhaps in that incident lies the answer to the hauntings for those who believe in the supernatural.
MARSHALL COUNTY
Marshall County, named for John Marshall, Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court from 1801 to 1835, was organized in 1836.
The area had been the home of the Menominee tribe of Potawatomi Indians. (Potawatomi is a translation of the Ojibwe potawatomink meaning “People of the place of fire” or “People of the Sacred Fire,” both of which refer to the role of the Potawatomi as the keepers of the sacred council fires.) Under the conditions of the 1832 Treaty of Tippecanoe River, the government purchased the land and drove the Indians westward on what became known as the Trail of Death.
Plymouth, platted in 1834 and named for Plymouth, Massachusetts, was designated as the county seat. Marshall County was one of the last counties to be inhabited in Indiana. Eventually the swampy county began to attract settlers. Farms replaced bogs, and vacationers eventually took up residence along Marshall County’s beautiful lakes.
Among them are Lake of the Woods, Twin Lakes, and Lake Maxinkuckee, the second largest natural lake in Indiana. The Yellow River flows through the middle of the county toward the southwest, and crossing its southeast corner is the Tippecanoe River, which derives its name from the Potawatomi word Ketapikonnong, or “place of the buffalo fish.”
When the light is just right, on nights when the moon is full, travelers on Marshall County’s Road 117 or 110 might glimpse the image or fleeting form of an Indian. It may be the ghost of a Potawatomi chief.
In life he was Paukooshuck, son of Potawatomi Chief Aubbeenaubbee. His story, like many good stories, is perhaps more legend than history.
When the first white settlers entered the area of Marshall County, a number of Potawatomi reservations existed as established by the treaty of 1832. The two largest were those of Chief Aubbeenaubbee and Chief Menominee.
Aubbeenaubbee’s reserve, situated west of Michigan Road, extended southward into what today is northwestern Fulton County. His hunting ground extended into Marshall County.
For some time the settlers and the Indians shared in harmony the bounties of nature. Still unspoiled by the excesses of the white man, the area teemed with deer, turkeys, ducks, geese, pheasants and many fur-bearing animals.
Paukooshuck may have been born in Fulton County and most likely spent much of his boyhood following the ancient hunting trails between Fulton County’s Zinks Lake and Anderson Lake, twenty miles from his father’s reservation.
Leaving his father’s village, he built a log cabin at Long Point, a beautiful and game-rich area on the west side of Lake Maxinkuckee, “Lake of the Boulders” in Potawatomi. He spent his days trapping beaver in the marshes around nearby Hawk or Lost Lake.
Paukooshuck’s father, Aubbeenaubbee, was described as being above medium height, stoutly and compactly built. A prominent negotiator in the treaty-making decisions, his bravery was beyond reproach. He was a manly, dignified Indian, fair and just—but sometimes prone to drink.
During one of his dark and evil periods, perhaps brought on by too much whiskey, he became involved in a fight. Though he was outnumbered two to one, he fought with the ferocity born of his native instincts and learned skills that had made him a strong and admired chief. Wielding his fifteen-inch-long knife with cunning and deadly efficiency, he killed the two Indians who may have been related to him. A council was called to deliberate on his punishment, but before it was decided he compounded his offenses by committing the heinous crime of killing his wife, believing she had done some wrong to him.
The council, following an ancient custom, appointed Paukooshuck to be the avenger—to exact justice. Justice was to kill his father. When this had been done, Paukooshuck would then become chief. The deed need not be done immediately, but within a period of several months designated by the council. If he did not execute the sentence within this period, his father would go free.
When Aubbeenaubbee heard of the council’s decision, he stood before his son and commanded him to execute the sentence of the council, declaring that he was ready and willing to die. Paukooshuck’s respect and love would not allow him to kill his father at that time; later, the
