Come, my pretties, and I will prepare you to hear a spooky tale from long ago. It happened on a night just like tonight....

A distinguished gentleman, one John Claremont-Chouteau, was a well-known resident in this very house in Tower Grove South. As a young man, he had served in the War, where he was gravely injured. Field doctors saved his life, but alas, they could not save his right arm. Upon his return to St. Louis, he was lucky to be fitted with a simple, wooden replacement. He did not let his condition slow him down, and before long, he gained fame as the grower of an exotic native fruit called the paw paw. Customers flocked to his stand at Soulard Market, and paw paws soon made him a wealthy man. With his newfound riches, Claremont-Chouteau did two things -- donated money for the preservation of his beloved Tower Grove Park, where he had spent so many hours walking to rehabilitate himself from his war injuries, and bought himself a new prosthetic: a shiny, golden arm.

But back to that dark, chilly night in October…

John Claremont-Chouteau was returning home in his motorcar from a Halloween masquerade ball. Rounding the curve at the center of Tower Grove Park, he lost control of the steering wheel and plunged into the Ruins pond. The inky darkness made searching quite impossible, and when dawn came, rescue crews were finally able to recover the motorcar and his body -- but the golden arm was missing! Despite repeated attempts, the shining appendage was never found. For years, neighborhood teenagers would dare each other to dive into the murky water in search of it. Legend has it that those walking near the pond at dusk can still hear the voice of a man, moaning, “Who has my golden arm? Whooooooo has my golden arm?”

And so the question is -- IS IT YOU?

Once a long time ago, in the year 1907, a young family moved from England to St. Louis, MO in The United States. The Maxwell family had traveled with their 7 year old son, George, and their only servant, a butler named Gus. They loved their butler Gus, and he loved them – he was very much more a part of the family than their employee. The family and Gus settled into a beautiful home on 3825 Connecticut Street. Where Gus occupied the third-floor servant’s quarters.

The Maxwell Family and Gus celebrated every holiday to it’s fullest extent. But Gus loved Halloween the most. He would carefully place pumpkins on the steps year and prepare special foods for the family to enjoy every evening on October the 31 st .

As time wore on, as it does, George grew, and when he was old enough to marry and have children of his own his parents decide to give their home to their only son and they, themselves, retired back to England. But Gus, who had fallen in love with home and the traditions opted to stay with George.

As George’s family grew Gus’s medium length black hair turned into a steely fluffy grey. But Halloween continued to be the annual favorite holiday in the Maxwell home. And – when the tradition of trick-or-treating began in the 1930’s – no one was more excited than Gus. He would stand right outside the front door for hours ready to distribute treats and spread Halloween joy to every costumed little visitor who appeared on the front porch.

Again – as time wore on, as it does, and George’s children grew and moved out. The Maxwell family decided it was time to sell the beloved home. But on the evening before they could out – Gus, who was now a very old man passed away one night on October 31 st peacefully in his sleep, after fulfilling his favorite duty of distributing treats on October the 31 st .

Over time, many families have since occupied the home at 3825 Connecticut Street. And come October, each family has claimed that they have often captured a glimpse…of a butler, with grey fluffy hair, standing just outside the door. Seemingly waiting to distribute treats on his favorite holiday.

I have a feeling if you look…you just may be able to see him as well. Happy Halloween!

Mark and Susan Gregory moved in to 3819 on a sunny day in 1988. Friendly neighbors stopped by to greet and welcome them to the street. When they walked next door to meet the elderly woman one house down, she asked if they’d met the black cat? No they hadn’t. She said “A black cat named Henry lives in this house and we believe he has been here since 1914. Homeowners move in and out, but Henry aways stays.”

The couple thought the woman was mistaking their house with a nursery rhyme in her old age, but about a week later, sure enough, Henry turned up. Susan was outside gardening and had left the back door open. When she came in, there was the cat, making himself at home on her countertop.

The Gregorys moved away and the houses changed owners in 2014. Henry still lives with the new family today and is as happy and healthy as ever. They say cats have nine lives, but I’ve never heard of a cat living all nine lives (and 106 years) in one house…

One day not long after moving in, the new owners of 3812 heard a knock at their front door. When they opened it, there was no one in sight but there was a cardboard box at their feet, addressed to “Solomon Harding”. No one by that name lived here - and after searching, nowhere nearby, either. The package did not have a return address so they left it on their stoop marked with “No one by this name lives here.”

The next day, the mailman said he’s been delivering mail to Solomon at this address for as long as he can remember. Everyone who has lived in this house has tried to stop his mail at the Post Office, but despite multiple attempts to be removed from their registry, Solomon Harding (who no one can seem to learn anything about) simply continues to receive mail at this address. The mailman suggested the homeowners leave it on the porch and it would disappear soon enough. He was right - the next morning, the package was gone. Solomon receives a lot of mail at this address. The owners counted 172 pieces of postage in 2019. The owners got curious one day, wondering what kind of secret society they were aiding in, but the letters were blank inside. What a waste of postage, they thought!

The current owners have come to believe that Solomon’s ghost lives in this house with them and receives letters and packages with messages that only he can read. They’ve come to terms with it and leave his letters and packages at the top of the stairs that lead to their attic (or basement). The letters are always gone when they wake up in the morning…

Welcome to 3830 Connecticut Street. Built in 1907, this is one of the oldest homes on this haunted Street and it has always been owned and occupied by educators. Headmaster and Headmistress Kolgrim were the first couple to move in in 1907. This couple operated the one room schoolhouse where Mann Elementary now stands. Their two squirrelly kids also attended the school making education a family affair. The Kolgrims were well liked and well respected in the neighborhood. All of the families sent their kids to the small brick schoolhouse on Juniata St. That was until one October night when a nosey neighbor discovered a secret about the Kolgrims. The Kolgrims were actually witches; descendants from Salem themselves.

When word got out about their potions and spells the neighborhood went into an uproar. They couldn’t have their kids being educated by witches! The neighborhood plotted and planned and on Halloween night it was decided that they would burn these witches at the stake. The Kolgrims got wind of this plan and in a last minute attempt to save themselves and their kids they casted a risky spell. The spell which which was intended to keep them immortal forever, did not go as planned. Instead of becoming immortal, the Kolgrims became undead. Buried in the backyard at 3830 Connecticut Street, the Kolgrims make their appearance every Halloween night to haunt the neighbors on this street and it is said that only educators and their families are safe.

Welcome to MY house! The house of your ghost host. Now isn’t she a beaut? I like to think so… My husband, Herman and I moved in when she was brand new, May of 1910. We were friends with the builders and architects and ALL of our new neighbors. I hate to drop names, but we dearly loved architect Ernst Priesler and his wife Martha, she made a wonderful apple strudel. We’d host the best parties at our house - and like in the old country, the lagers flowed freely.

All was going so well, houses were popping up all around us and the Tower Grove area was buzzing with excitement. Then in 1920, prohibition hit. It was devastating. We got desperate for good times and some people got creative. Someone discovered that an old mine shaft tunnel existed beneath the neighborhood. During prohibition, this became the perfect place to gather for some bathtub schnapps, a bit of laughter, and that wonderful apple strudel. One day Herman and I were walking to a party with a freshly baked basked of Pfeffernusse (German Spice Cookies), when the tunnel collapsed on us, trapping our souls here for eternity.

We never learned what caused the tunnel to collapse, but the accident closed the tunnel forever. The city deemed it unsafe and boarded it up. And that put an end to all of the parties. But to this day, if someone drops something in the basement in just the right spot, you can hear that the ground beneath is hollow…

Me and Herman loved to entertain in our mortal lives, and we remain friends with all the ghosts on the block. All the neighborhood ghosts gather at our house when there’s a full moon and the weather is nice, to get that dust out of our lungs and share a glass of bathtub schnapps (there’s still plenty of it in the tunnel if you can get in…) But all this time here I’ve learned that people come and go but my favorites stay forever...

3836/3838 has been a rental property for many years. It has had countless tenants, although one of them was more memorable than the rest… Jimmy Wiggleby lived in one of these units until 1981 when he was sent to prison.

One morning, Jimmy's name was on the front page of all the city's newspapers: Local man arrested for grand larceny... no one knew what he stole, but the papers said during the investigation the whatever it was was never found. Jimmy was sentenced to 40 years in jail, even without much evidence. He was an old man when he got sent to the klink, and we heard news he died last year in prison just before he was due to be released.

For the past 39 years, the grass hasn’t grown behind the this 4 family… Actually, nothing has grown in that yard - tenants have tried planting flowers and vegetables, they all just die. This year the landlord dug up the entire back yard- he says he's just trying to make improvements back there, but each step of the project has gone awry. We suspect he's really looking for Jimmy's treasure... A treasure which apparently doesn't want to be found. The ghosts on the block are still hoping old Jimmy will pay us a visit with some answers about that back yard and whatever might be buried there...