“I don’t know of anyone today who can compare to her. She was one of a kind.”

Written by JODY SLOAT | Historical Photographs courtesy of TROUP COUNTY ARCHIVES

Mayhayley Lancaster, the self-proclaimed Oracle of the Ages, remains the most famous woman from Heard County, and one of the most famous from West Georgia, even 68 years after her death.

While she is most known for her psychic abilities and involvement in the trial of John Wallace, she wore other hats. Lancaster was a trailblazer. She was an independently wealthy woman who was as likely to dress in ball gowns as burlap sacks. She practiced law and ran for the state legislature twice after women were given the right to vote. She treated African American and Caucasian clients the same, despite complaints from wealthy, white patrons. 

“I don’t know of anyone today who can compare to her,” says Newnan resident Joe Strickland, a distant cousin of Wallace. “She was one of a kind.” 

Lancaster and I have a few things in common: We’re Heard Countians, we’re Methodists, we’re teachers, we’re writers, we’re childless. But it isn’t these similarities that spark my interest. It’s a difference: She was unapologetically herself.

I did not discover Lancaster’s allure until recently. I was cleaning out a bookcase (a significant undertaking) and found a copy of “Oracle of the Ages: Reflections on the Curious Life of Fortune Teller Mayhayley Lancaster.” I had written a story for LaGrange Daily News when Dot Moore’s book was published in 2001, but I had never read it cover-to-cover. 

To me, Lancaster was an urban legend. I had watched snippets of “Murder in Coweta County” in school. I had heard rumors that weird things would happen if you went to Lancaster’s grave at night, especially if you didn’t bring four quarters and a dime, the price she charged for a reading. But the psychic never captured my interest until recently.

I devoured Moore’s book and intensely watched “Murder in Coweta County” and Rick Fowler’s documentary “Mayhayley Lancaster: Legend of an Oracle.” I read as many as I could of 2,000 entries from a Google search. I interviewed others who shared my interests. I visited Lancaster’s grave with the correct amount of change. 

I discovered that my own family had stories. My sister-in-law’s mother, Margaret Laster, visited Lancaster in her youth. Lancaster predicted that Miss Margaret would marry twice and have three children. She got the latter part right.

My niece, Sara Kent, and her friend visited Lancaster’s grave at night three times. The friend hit a deer after the first visit, almost hit a cow after the second, and a dog ran out of the woods at them as they got into the car after the third visit. They never left $1.10 on her tombstone.

While stories of Lancaster’s powers are intriguing, I’m drawn to her individuality. She read law books and fashion magazines. She advocated for the rights of women and the poor, and she farmed cotton and corn. She was the richest independent woman in West Georgia, but she lived in a delipidated home on a dirt road. She was a Christian who took notes during service, and she made money from her predictions and bug (lottery) numbers.

But what impresses me the most is that she didn’t care what others thought of her.

James Davis is the leader of the Carrollton-based band, Mayhayley’s Grave. He grew up listening to stories about the psychic from his next-door neighbor, E.R. Threadgill, the Carrollton police chief who released William Turner, the victim of “Murder in Coweta County,” to Meriwether County Sheriff Hardy Collier. Davis sums up Lancaster: “She was beautifully inappropriate. She made people have to think and question their everyday lives.”

This includes me. I am a recovering people pleaser. Nothing made me happier in elementary school than winning the congeniality award. I sought praise from family members, friends, teachers, professors and bosses. I even earned my doctorate primarily to impress my parents, even though I knew they were proud of me no matter what. 

Lancaster, instead, followed her own path. Strickland remembers sitting with young friends on the courthouse steps during the Wallace trial and seeing Lancaster approach: “She would come down the sidewalk and go into the courthouse. All of the men would say, ‘Here comes the witch,’ and we jumped up and ran. Those men would laugh and laugh and say, ‘Come on back boys. She isn’t going to bother you.’”

Of all the stories about Lancaster, the one that touches me the most comes from the Wallace trial transcripts. Prominent Atlanta attorney A.L. Henson represented Wallace. During his cross-examination of Lancaster, a witness for the prosecution, Henson tried to paint her as an elderly fool. She wasn’t having it.

After repeatedly attacking her clairvoyant abilities, the cocksure attorney asked Lancaster, “And that is what you base your information on – that extra wisdom that God gave you but didn’t give these officers?”

“No,” Lancaster calmly stated. “I feel my importance.”

As I continue to research the life of this extraordinary woman, I feel compelled to follow her example. NCM

More on Mayhayley

Famed Atlanta Constitution reporter Celestine Sibley covered the trial of John Wallace and, by extension, Mayhayley Lancaster. After the trial, Sibley visited Lancaster and asked her about her gift: “It’s not a learned gift,” said Lancaster, “it’s a borned gift. I’ve got some learning – I taught school. I passed the bar in Carroll County and could practice law. But the seeing the future is my art.”

Nellie Dunaway Duke, Carrollton resident and former president/CEO of the Georgia Women’s Institute, began researching Lancaster’s politics in the 1990s. She received a call from a woman in Florida who said: “Mayhayley approves of your work.” Duke hung up the phone, gathered her research into a duffel bag, and placed the bag in the back of her closet.

Troup County native Leslie Winter said her great-grandfather, Hub Lipham, lived near Lancaster and recalled that she would often drop in on neighbors for dinner. He remembered seeing her pop out her glass eye, clean it on her dress, and pop it back in the socket.