In the wilds of northern Clinton County, Pennsylvania—where the hardwood forests stretch deep and the mist lingers long over the valleys—there lies a place once called Youngwomanstown. Today, it’s known as North Bend, the oldest settlement in Chapman Township. It clings to the banks of Young Woman’s Creek, a tributary that winds through the hills before surrendering to the West Branch of the Susquehanna. The name, like the place, is haunted by legend.
Young Womans Creek
They say the name Young Woman’s Creek honors a Native maiden who drowned herself in its waters. Some versions say she fled heartbreak. Others tell of violence. One tale, passed down through generations, claims she was captured alongside her lover by a group of desperate men—escaped slaves turned raiders. They killed the young brave and pursued the woman into the swamp. Heartbroken and alone, she disappeared into the quicksand.
That might have been the end of her story, but it wasn’t.
Not long after, strange lights began appearing in the swamp. A glowing fireball, drifting low across the water. Locals swore they saw a woman’s face in the light. They called her the Swamp Angel. She wasn’t malevolent. Quite the opposite. They said if you truly needed help, you could go to the swamp, light a flame of foxfire, and ask.
The Angel might answer.
It was into this world of half-whispered stories and lingering spirits that one of the region’s most unusual figures rose to quiet fame: Isaac Gaines—better known as Loop Hill Ike. He lived not far from the swamps on a small farm, dodging the draft during the Civil War and earning a reputation as a man who understood strange things. People came to him with problems others wouldn’t touch. Hauntings. Curses. Witches.
And one day, Liz came.
She had delivered a baby for a woman named Maud—a child so deformed it scarcely seemed human. “Like a half-grown monkey,” the old folks said. Maud died during the birth, and almost immediately, Liz became plagued by her ghost. It appeared at night, moaning and weeping, rattling the windows. Worse yet, everyone whispered that a local woman—a known witch—had cursed Maud and the unborn child.
Terrified and desperate, Liz turned to Ike.
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t scold. He listened. Then he said they’d need the help of the Swamp Angel.
For three nights, Ike and Liz went to the edge of the swamp near Young Woman’s Creek. There, by the water’s edge, Ike lit foxfire—a ghostly bioluminescent fungus that glows faint green in the dark. It was, he said, how you “summoned the Swamp Angel.”
And on the third night, she came.
No one can quite describe what she looked like. Some said she floated. Others said she burned like mist on fire. But she spoke. Not in words exactly, but Ike understood. The Swamp Angel told him Liz would have to sleep in Maud’s bed for three nights to end the haunting. As for the witch, she could only be killed through a very specific kind of frontier magic.
Ike got to work.
He carved a crude figure of the witch from corn husks and scrap cloth—something like a powwow hex doll or Appalachian poppet. He stuffed it with a plant he called Demon’s Delight. No one knows what that is now. Some say it was a cursed weed that only grew near graves. Others say Ike made it up. Whatever the case, he loaded a musket ball made of silver into his old flintlock, took aim, and shot the doll clean through the heart.
Then he tossed it into the fire.
That same day, Ike walked over to visit a neighboring farmer who lived near the witch’s cabin. As they stood outside talking, a deer bolted from the woods. The farmer raised his rifle and fired. Missed. The bullet sailed clean over the deer and through the witch’s window.
She died instantly.
As she fell, she knocked over her cookstove. Flames took the house. By nightfall, there was nothing left but ash and smoke rising above the trees.
Ike said nothing. Let the farmer believe it was all just a terrible accident. Let the others believe it was fate.
And Liz? She slept in Maud’s bed for three nights, just as the Swamp Angel instructed. The ghost came each night, softer, sadder, dimmer. On the third night, she faded entirely and was never seen again.
Today, Loop Hill Ike lies buried in the old Furst-McGonigal Cemetery. A simple carved stone marks his grave.
But stories still linger in those northern woods. Some say the Swamp Angel still glides above the wetlands near North Bend, watching. Waiting. Perhaps, if your need is great and your heart is right, she’ll come again, drawn by the faint green glow of foxfire in the night.
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Resources
- The story of the swamp angel
- Ghosts in the PA Wilds: The North Bend Swamp Angel
- Susquehanna Greenway Ghouls & Legends
- Isaac “Loop Hill Ike” Gaines Sr.
This is amazing! I’ve written both the Swamp Angel and Loop Hill Ike into my novels, so I’m always quite happy to see someone else talking about them. I especially love the Swamp Angel illustration and the foxfire photo.