The House That Wasn’t Meant to Be Remembered
The road leading to Crenshaw House cuts through quiet fields, the kind that stretches on forever without a break.
Nothing about the landscape suggests what waits at the top of the hill. Then it appears—peeling paint, wide porches, windows that stare out like empty eyes.
The house looks abandoned, but it’s never really been empty. Even now, in 2025, people still talk about what happened here. Some call it Hickory Hill. Others just say The Old Slave House.
John Hart Crenshaw built it in 1834. He had money—real money. The kind that came from land deals, industry, and a business few wanted to speak about in public.
Illinois was a free state, but the salt works in Gallatin County ran on slave labor, thanks to a legal loophole.
Crenshaw leased the operation from the state and made sure the workforce stayed full.
At one point, his taxes alone made up a seventh of Illinois’ revenue. But the mansion wasn’t just a home for his family.
Stories spread of free Black men, women, and children disappearing—people who should have been safe in Illinois, dragged back into slavery through Crenshaw’s network.
Some were taken across the Ohio River into Kentucky. Others vanished deeper south.
People still drive past Crenshaw House. It’s closed, but the past clings to it.
Some say you can hear things in the attic if you stand outside long enough. It might be the wind—or it might be something that never left.
If you’re ever in Equality, Illinois, or searching for things to do in Harrisburg, IL, this house won’t be on any official tour.
But people still find their way to it.
(The house is currently owned by the State of Illinois and is closed to the public.)
The Reverse Underground Railroad—A Profitable Trade
In the 1830s and 1840s, money moved through the Crenshaw House like a current. Salt production paid well, but it wasn’t the only business running out of the mansion.
The third floor was more than an attic—it was a holding space. Twelve rooms, each barely big enough to stretch out in, lined the top level.
The doors locked from the outside. Chains rusted into the wood. It wasn’t a mystery what had happened here.
The mansion sat near the Ohio River, a natural border between free states and slave states.
People who had escaped slavery risked everything to get across that water. Some had made it. Some had never been enslaved, to begin with. But Illinois didn’t always mean safety.
The “Reverse Underground Railroad” sent people backward—out of Illinois, out of freedom, into the hands of men who saw them as property. Crenshaw was one of them.
The kidnappings played out in quiet ways. A free Black family living near the river would disappear overnight.
A traveler headed west would never make it. By morning, they were gone—shipped south, sold, and erased.
In 1828, Crenshaw sold Frank Granger and fifteen others in Tennessee. A decade later, Maria Adams and her children were dragged to Texas.
The stories repeated. A jury heard one of them in 1842. It didn’t matter. Crenshaw walked free.
His wealth kept growing, and his name carried weight. He owned thousands of acres and leased 30,000 more from the state.
The operation wasn’t a secret, but it also wasn’t something people wanted to talk about.
Even now, the attic sits empty, but the past lingers there—trapped in the walls, in the floors, in the air.
The Night Lincoln Slept Here—Politics, Power, and a Dark Ballroom
September 1840 brought a crowd to Gallatin County. The election was coming, and speeches echoed from town to town. Abraham Lincoln was there, a state representative then, moving through the debates.
The Crenshaws hosted a ball that week, a grand event on the mansion’s second floor.
The space was built for moments like this: walls that could slide open, turning rooms into a single dance hall.
Candles flickered against polished wood. The air was thick with music and conversation.
Lincoln was a guest. He spent the night in the southeast bedroom, which had one bed and two chairs.
He was a tall man, too tall for the frame. Maybe he lay curled on his side. Maybe he stretched out over the chairs. Maybe he slept on the floor.
What did he know? That question never found an answer. The party was on the second floor, but the third floor was something else.
People whispered about it even then. A house that size, and yet the highest level, had no grand purpose.
No ballroom, no storage. Just small, windowless rooms no one spoke about.
Years later, Lincoln’s own fight against slavery would become history. But that night, he was just a politician, just a guest at a party, just another man under the mansion’s roof.
The next morning, he left. The house stayed. And whatever had been locked upstairs remained where it was.
House That Wouldn’t Stay Quiet—Tourism, Ghost Stories, and Business
By 1913, Crenshaw House had changed hands. John Hart Crenshaw was long gone—dead since 1871, buried in Hickory Hill Cemetery—but his house remained.
The land had been sold, resold, and finally bought by the Sisk family. They saw more than a decaying mansion. They saw an opportunity.
Tourism was a business, and people paid for a good story. The house had one built in. The whispers had never stopped—about the attic, about the kidnappings, about the sounds people swore they heard.
The Sisk family turned those stories into attractions. For a fee, visitors could step inside, climb the stairs, and stand in the rooms where history had left its mark.
The place took on a new name: The Old Slave House. Newspapers ran articles, and curious travelers spread the word.
By the 1920s, the site had become a roadside stop, drawing in anyone passing through southern Illinois.
Decades passed, and the legend only grew. Paranormal investigators came with their equipment. Some claimed to hear voices, and others felt a presence in the attic.
The business thrived. Generations of the Sisk family kept it running, charging admission, leading tours, retelling the same stories in new ways.
Ghost hunters arrived with cameras. Folklore blended with fact. The truth, the real history, sat somewhere underneath it all, waiting.
In 1996, George Sisk Jr. shut the doors. The house was empty again, but it wasn’t forgotten.
People still drove past, still talked about what might be inside. Some wanted it reopened. Others said it should be left alone.
The state had its own plans—but plans cost money.
A Historic Site Without a Future—Ownership, Funding, and the Fight for Preservation
December 2000—Illinois bought the Crenshaw House. The state paid $500,000 for the house and ten surrounding acres. Ownership had changed again, but nothing really changed.
The restoration wasn’t simple. The mansion needed work—structural repairs, road improvements, a new parking lot.
Public access required restrooms, visitor facilities, compliance with modern safety codes.
Estimates ran high. The Illinois Historic Preservation Agency put the cost at $7 million. That kind of money didn’t appear overnight.
In 2004, the National Park Service acknowledged the house’s past. It was added to the Underground Railroad Network to Freedom program—not for helping people escape, but for sending them back.
The federal designation confirmed what people had always known. The Crenshaw House was more than an old building. It was proof of a history that didn’t fit into neat museum exhibits.
But recognition didn’t fix anything. The state debated its next move. Some wanted a full restoration, a museum dedicated to the Reverse Underground Railroad.
Others argued it should be left untouched, a silent reminder of the past.
The house sat empty. Weeds crept up the foundation, and the paint peeled. Roof repairs were delayed and delayed again. Preservationists pushed for action, but funding never came.
By 2025, Crenshaw House remained in limbo—too valuable to tear down, too expensive to restore.
The stories hadn’t faded, but the building itself was slipping away. A place with a past, waiting for a future that hadn’t arrived.