Lore
Erie County is stitched together with stories - all waiting in the quiet corners of memory. Beneath the surface of its lakeside towns and wooded backroads lie tales that refuse to fade: legends of ghostly apparitions, cursed crossroads, and secrets buried deeper than the snowdrifts. These are not just campfire yarns or forgotten folklore — they are echoes of a place that remembers. Step into the shadows with us, where history blurs into myth, and the past still murmurs through the trees.
Gudgeonville Bridge
Built in 1868 over Elk Creek in Girard Township, the Gudgeonville Covered Bridge was Erie County’s oldest surviving covered bridge—until it met a fiery end in 2008 at the hands of arsonists. Designed by William Sherman using a multiple kingpost truss, the bridge stood for 140 years, weathering floods, fires, and the occasional ghost story. Its name remains a mystery, though many believe it stems from the tale of a mule named Gudgeon, whose stubbornness—and tragic end—left an indelible mark on local lore. The bridge’s foundation may have even incorporated remnants of the old Erie Extension Canal, adding another layer of historical intrigue to its creaky wooden bones.
But Gudgeonville wasn’t just a relic—it was a magnet for mischief and mystery. Over the years, it became a hotspot for vandalism, small fires, and whispered tales of eerie happenings. Locals spoke of ghostly figures drifting through the fog, strange sounds echoing from the creek below, and an unsettling energy that lingered long after sunset. Some even claimed the bridge was cursed, pointing to its repeated damage and eventual destruction as proof. After the 2008 arson, Girard Township salvaged pieces of the charred wood, offering them to residents who wanted to preserve a piece of the past. Today, the bridge lives on in memory, folklore, and flower gardens—its legacy as much about the stories it inspired as the structure itself.
As for the mule Gudgeon, legend has it he refused to cross the bridge, no matter how hard his owner coaxed or cursed. Some say he was spooked by something unseen; others claim he was simply stubborn. But the strangest version of the tale insists that Gudgeon overheard a passing calliope playing “My Old Kentucky Home”—and, overcome with homesickness, dropped dead on the spot. Whether true or tall tale, the story stuck, and the bridge took on the mule’s name, forever linking its identity to one of Erie County’s quirkiest pieces of folklore.
1951 Erie Centennial
The Vampire Crypt
The Vampire Crypt at Erie Cemetery is one of the region’s most enduring and eerie legends—a brooding mausoleum wrapped in mystery, folklore, and whispers of the undead. Known for its dark marble façade and the conspicuous absence of a family name, the crypt is marked only by a strange “V,” which has fueled speculation for decades. Though officially owned by Gertrude Brown, no one by that name is buried inside. The first interment was G.W. Goodrich in 1884, but it’s the unnamed Romanian man said to have died of tuberculosis—then known as “consumption”—who anchors the vampire lore.
According to legend, this man arrived in Erie in the late 1800s and succumbed to the disease shortly after. His symptoms—coughing blood, wasting away—mirrored the classic vampire narrative, and soon after his burial, strange events began to unfold. Bodies were reportedly found in the suburbs with puncture wounds at the neck and signs of blood loss. A cemetery groundskeeper allegedly witnessed a shadowy figure emerging from the crypt at night and, in a desperate attempt to stop the killings, set the mausoleum ablaze. But the fire didn’t end the story—it only deepened the mystery. The vampire’s mortal body may have been destroyed, but his ghost, some say, still roams the grounds.
The crypt has become a rite of passage for Erie thrill-seekers and skeptics alike. In the 1930s, a high school student famously bet his friends he wasn’t afraid of the vampire and entered the crypt alone—only to flee moments later, pale and shaken. Today, the Vampire Crypt is a highlight of Erie Cemetery’s Ghosts and Legends Tours, where guides share both the folklore and the facts, inviting visitors to decide for themselves what’s myth and what might be lingering truth. Whether you believe in vampires or not, the crypt’s chilling aura and ambiguous history make it one of Erie’s most captivating haunted landmarks.
The Thing at Beach 6
No bears. No raccoons. Just a dark shape in the brush—and a car that didn’t leave unmarked.
It was just past sundown when Betty Jean Klem and Anita Halfley found themselves stranded at the edge of Beach 6’s parking lot, their car sunk deep into the sand. With them were Halfley’s two young daughters—Sandra, age two, and baby Sara, just six months old. The lake breeze had settled into stillness, and the woods beyond the beach grew darker by the minute.
That’s when Betty saw it.
A shape—tall, upright, and hulking—emerged near the car. She described it later as gorilla-like, nearly six feet in height, but unlike any animal she’d ever seen. It was dark, indistinct, and moved with a sluggish, unnatural gait. When she slammed her hand on the horn, the creature retreated into the brush without haste, swallowed by the shadows.
The sound of the horn brought nearby officers racing back. They found Betty in a state of panic, trembling and incoherent. Later, they discovered fresh scratches on the car—long, deliberate marks that hadn’t been there before. Both women swore to it.
One officer dismissed the idea of a raccoon or bear. “There are no bears out here,” he said. “I don’t know what it was.”
Speculation swirled. Some whispered it was no beast at all, but the ghost of Joe Root—the eccentric hermit who once roamed the peninsula, speaking to gulls and living off the land. Others pointed to a strange coincidence: the creature’s description matched one printed in Newsweek nearly a year earlier, in an article about unexplained sightings.
Was it a monster? A spirit? A visitor from somewhere else?
Whatever it was, it left behind more than scratches. It left a story that still lingers in the sand and silence of Beach 6.
