Hannah Shenkle
The Resurrection of a Marionette: hand-crafted by Katdazzle
The Original Porcelain 8” marionette
Future Hand-carved large 15” marionette
Born porcelain. Reborn in wood. Hannah’s spirit grew too large for her first body.
The True Story of Hannah Shenkle:
Her body’s in the graveyard. Her story isn’t.
I hear you walking up my old hill. I always know when someone comes. The boards inside my house still creak under your weight, even though time swallowed the feet that once made them groan.
Don’t be afraid.
Or do — I rather enjoy it when you are.
I am Hannah Shenkle, once of flesh and scandal, now of mist, memory, and the cold October night that never ends.
You know my story, don’t you? Oh, they’ve told it for 170 years: the wealthy spinster… the eccentric Battle-Axe who ran naked through her father’s church…the woman who slept with a hatchet because she trusted no one. They say I invited my own fate. They always say that about women who refuse to behave.
Let me tell you what the living always get wrong.
I remember the feeling of falling. I remember the warmth leaving. I remember the silence that followed. But death wasn’t the end. It was only the door.
THE NIGHT I DIED
It was quiet. It’s always quiet right before a scream. The fire crackled, the stew bubbled, and somewhere outside, a ladder scraped against stone.
I heard it. I always heard everything. But when I went to the stairs, someone was already waiting.
A gloved hand.
A blade.
A fury I never recognized. And then—Nothing. A broken window. Blood on the walls. My own hatchet torn from my fingers. They thought I wouldn’t fight. They were wrong. I left scratches on his arms, his chest, his face. If you dig deep enough into the old records, you’ll find a line or two they rarely speak of “marks upon the murderer, as though from the nails of a woman defending her life.”
I never wandered far from home. Why would I? My blood still stains the stairs. My portrait still hangs crooked on the wall. My grave still sits in the burial ground my father donated — the same land where I once defied him and ran naked with the Battle-Axes, a daughter of Free Love, free even from shame.Oh yes, I remember the gasps. The scandal. The whispers.
Even now, sometimes, when the wind shifts, I hear pews rattling as I passed through them — alive, bold, unashamed. People say I linger because I’m seeking justice. People say I linger because my soul was restless. People say I linger because my murder was never solved. They’re wrong. I linger because I choose to.
GHOST SIGHTINGS
Men see me first. They always have. Montgomery Campbell nearly dropped his reins when he saw me on the fence —white as winter, wide as moonlight, headless but watching. He asked me questions. I answered none.
Mediums have come, trembling and brave. They whisper that something in my house still breathes even though I do not.
The 1970s woman who visited my springhouse…she wasn’t wrong about the rituals held there, though she had no idea how deep the roots go. And the one who came in 2009, the woman with the broken leg …I called to her because she listened. Most don’t. I still wait for her to return.
I still have things to say.
THE TRUTH
You want to know who killed me. Everyone does. You want a name. A face. A confession whispered from beyond the veil. But that would ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?
I will tell you this much: My killer wasn’t a stranger. The motive wasn’t money. And the truth is older, darker, messier than the tidy moralities the valley likes to recite.
If you want answers, you’ll have to step into my story, walk the valley roads, listen to the whispers along the brook, and stand where I stood on the last night of my life.
I’ll be there. I always am. Come closer. Closer. Ask me again… if you dare.
Meet Sandy – The Voice Actress Behind Hannah Shenkle
Meet Sandy, the talented voice behind Hannah Shenkle, the hauntingly beautiful headless ghost. Sandy is a talented artist who occasionally lends her voice to headless ghosts.
