As houses go, the white clapboard structure on Cherokee Street was neither large nor grand. It was, however, infamous. The house had a violent history. In the 1920s a man was alleged to have been murdered in the attic. Up until the time it was torn down, over 60 years ago, the ceiling over the living room periodically dripped blood.

It all began quite innocently. One summer an itinerant salesman had come to town. His Model-T truck was chock full of goods that he sold to local merchants. There were pots and pans and skillets, small kitchen utensils, bolts of cloth, candy, tools, and notions. Today the salesman would be called a "manufacturer's representative" because he handled the good of many different manufacturers. He traveled throughout East Tennessee, Southwest Virginia, and Western North Carolina selling his wares.

In the 1920s Jonesborough was a bustling farm community. Once a week, Washington County residents would come to town to purchase supplies or just stand around on street corners and gossip. The salesman found it easy to sell his goods in town, so by the time he had finished his rounds of local merchants, his wallet was fattened considerably.

But the salesman's success did not escape the notice of the criminal element in Jonesborough, and a certain pair plotted ways they could relieve him of his money. They knew the salesman carried his wad of money with him because he didn't trust banks. They also knew the salesman carried a .45 pistol on him at all times to protect himself.

Late one night, when the salesman was returning from summer at one of the local restaurants, the pair waylaid the man on the darkened street. They relieved him of his weapon, bound and gagged him, and dragged him into the attic of the white-framed house which was, at the time, vacant. There they robbed him of his money and murdered the man in cold blood.

A week later a peculiar odor began drifting from the house. The horrible, sickening smell continued unchecked for several days, because it was assumed that some animal had died underneath the structure. No one wanted to crawl underneath and drag it out. But the odor persisted. A number of citizens lodged complaints, and the Washington County Sheriff was called in to investigate.

It took several more days for the sheriff to arrive at the house. His department was busy investigation the abandonment of the salesman's truck. The vehicle had been found parked on a side street, but the salesman was nowhere to be found. The sheriff suspected foul play.

When the sheriff and his deputy arrived, they found nothing under the house, or around it, that accounted for the stench. Perhaps the smell came from inside. Since the house was empty, they forced the front door open and stepped inside.

The house had not been lived in for years, and a thick layer of dust covered almost everything. Rat droppings littered the floor. The place smelled musty and rank.

Suddenly the deputy gasped and pointed to the ceiling. The sheriff looked up. A blood stain covered about half of it, and blood was dripping down into a puddle on the floor.

The sheriff and his deputy squeezed their way through a tiny passageway into the attic and discovered the body of the salesman. Because it was July and the weather was hot. the corpse was badly decomposed. The stench was overwhelming, and both men, coughing and gasping, fled to the fresh air outside the house.

With much effort, the body was finally removed. The next of kin was notified, and the corpse was shipped home on the next train.

To be perfectly fair about the whole incident, the sheriff tried his level best to discover who had murdered the poor salesman, but the culprits had long gone. They were never captured.

A year passed and the owner of the house rented it to a newly-wed couple from out of town. The man, a railroad employee, and his bride knew nothing about the sordid goings-on in the house, but trouble started the first night they moved in.

The couple had just gone to sleep when they were aroused by the sound of a man screaming in terror. The husband leaped from the bed and thrust he head outside the window. Nothing, but the screaming continued.

"It sounds like it's coming from our house," the woman said.

The man turned to her. "Impossible. There's no one here but you and me."

"I don't think so," his wife replied. "Listen."

The screams appeared to be coming from the attic, directly over their heads. The man grabbed a .38 revolver that he kept beside the bed for protection.

"I'm going up in the attic and see what it is," he announced.

"Be careful," his wife said nervously. Then she pulled the blanket over her head.

Just like the sheriff and his deputy had done one year before, the husband squeezed through he little doorway that led to the attic. it was dark up there. And musty. he could hardly see his gun in front of him.

"Is there anyone here?" he half whispered, half shouted into the gloom. Nothing. No reply. The man pulled the pistol hammer back in anticipation. "I said, Is there anyone here? You'd better show yourself. I have a gun."

Still there was no answer. The man searched the attic thoroughly. No one there. After searching every nook and cranny for ten minutes or so, he turned and climbed back down through the hole and returned to his bedroom. he found his wife still in bed with the covers over her head. Finally she lowered them. Her face was frozen in fear.

"I see you're back again," she said. "I'm sorry. I was so scared. I didn't dare pull the covers down the first time you came back into the room."

"What do you mean 'the first time'?" the man asked in surprise.

"Don't try to scare me," the wife said, her voice quaking. "You came into the room and sat on the bed. Then you went back out again. I'm sorry that I kept the covers over my head the whole time, honey. I was just too scared to put them down."

"I didn't come back into the room," the man said. "I've been in the attic the whole time."

The woman's eyes widened in horror. "If you've been up in the attic... Heaven help me! WHAT WAS SITTING WITH ME ON THE BED?!!!"

For the rest of the night the husband sat with his wife, his arms around the nearly hysterical woman. They finally fell asleep just before sunrise and slept until ten o'clock. An hour later, they were eating breakfast. Luckily it was a Saturday and the husband could enjoy a day off.

The man was just finishing his coffee when his still nervous wife announced that she was going into the living room to continue unpacking. Her terrified screams brought him running.

He looked up to where she was pointing. A huge pool of blood stained the ceiling and was dripping onto the sofa. Later that afternoon, the couple moved out of the house for good.

The house stood empty for quite some time after that. No one wanted to move in, and the house was becoming a target for vandal and trespassers.

One Halloween night a group of children decided to spend the night in the house. A short time later, they ran hysterically from the premises, screaming at the top of their lungs. And they kept on running until they were in the safety of their own homes.

What had they seen?

One of the children, now a prominent Washington County businessman, said the ghost of the murdered salesman had drifted into the room with the children and had panicked everyone. After that he swore he would never go back in the house again. In fact, as long as the house stood, he gave it a wide berth.

Finally, in the early 1930s, the landlord decided to tear the house down.

Some old-timers in Jonesborough still remember the infamous house that dripped blood. Some have even been inside the house, visiting it as children. But I could find none that ever returned, even after a single visit.