Emeritus profesor of sociology Jerry Lewis says, "They are simply recurring rumors that have an urban theme to them, such as alligators in the sewer."

Some are true, like the one from my hometown of North Canton. A woman and her husband lived in a house set far back from the road, tucked beneath tall shrubs, oaks and maples. It is rumored that she killed herself by repeatedly bashng her head with a hammer. Although that much is true, the fact that the woman had Alzheimer's disease rarely accompanies the story.

Many urban myths are untrue. Myths like green M&Ms being aphrodisiacs and Mikey from Life cereal exploding from eating Pop Rocks with soda are so popular that they spread rapidly through many cultures.

One house in Kent has been graced with its own share of urban mythology. The house, as James Michener described in his book, Kent State: What Happened and Why, "... stood on a high hill smack in the middle of Kent and was so surrounded by trees that it looked as if it existed in the middle of a Grimm Brothers' forest in medieval Germany."

In the summer, the thick trees on the hill beneath the house obscure it from view. But come fall, the house looms high on that hill looking out over Kent with its paned eyes. The long and winding stairway that Norman Bates strode up to care for his mother in Psycho is replaced by a winding driveway at the house in Kent. The 12-unit Bates Motel that sat below the house is replaced in Kent by a church, an office building and parking lot.

The house in Kent does sit high on a hill looking ominous just like the Bates homestead. It has enough of a presence that if someone had just watched Psycho and decided to climb up the hill to look at the house late at night, that person might be inclined to hear the shrill shrieks of violins that accompany the shower scene for the ill-fated tenant of cabin No. 1. If there is a light on in the upstairs window, he or she just might see Mother's silhouette rocking in the window behind the curtains.

Adding to the mystique of the house is the fact that for some time leading up to the events of May 4, 1970, the house became the crash pad and headquarters for the Kent branch of Students for a Democratic Society. Some have tried to scapegoat the radical students as a causal agent in the events leading to the May 4 tragedies.

Lewis, the Kent sociologist, says the so-called "haunted house" gained even further notoriety after the printing of Michener's book in 1971. Michener spins a tale about an author named Robert Bloch who lived in Kent and used the house on the hill for the inspiration for his book, Psycho. According to Michener, when it came time to film the movie, Hollywood dispatched a camera crew to Kent to photograph the weird old horror house from various angles so that a replica could be built on the lot.

I've been up there to see it," says Kent resident Jonathan Fox, 30. "To tell you the truth, it doesn't look much like it, but it has the same presence. I know the author (of Psycho) used to live in Kent."

Kent resident Dan Malarcik, 27, also knows of this urban legend. "I heard Hitchcock came here and took a picture of it," he says. "I also heard there was a swimming pool in the top of Beall Hall, so who knows?"

On May 14, 1971, Alex Gildzen, then the curator of special collections in the Kent State library, sat down at his typewriter. He had finished reading Michener's book and didn't quite buy the bit about the house on the hill. In a quest for the truth, he sent letters to Hitchcock and Bloch.

To Hitchcock he wrote:

"Although students have called the house in question the 'Psycho' house ever since your famous film was released, I had never before heard the story Michener claims and very much doubt its authenticity. I would be most grateful if you could verify this tale."

And to Bloch:

"Your biography shows that most of your life has been spent in Milwaukee and on the West Coast. If Michener isn't mistaken, when did you live in Kent? Also, did you indeed have a certain house in Kent in mind when you wrote 'Psycho'? Also, did you discuss the house in Kent with Mr. Hitchcock before the filming of your novel?"

A meticulous search through telephone directories dating 1930 to 1960 (under the premise that no one needed an unlisted number back then) showed that neither Bloch nor Hitchcock ever lived in Kent. Joseph Stefano, who wrote the script for Psycho, has also never lived in Kent.

On May 17, 1971, Bloch replied to Gildzen from his home in Los Angeles:

"Dear Mr. Gildzen,

Life is full of surprises. You were surprised when you read Michener's statements about me in "Kent State: What Happened and Why," and now I am surprised when I read your letter.

To set the record straight for you ­

1. I have never lived in Kent.

2. I have never set foot in Kent.

3. I know of no house or houses in Kent, either through description, photograph, or illustration, nor did I have any house ­ let alone one in Kent ­ in mind when I wrote Psycho.

4. The house constructed on the back-lot of Universal Studios was up, used and abandoned before I ever exchanged my first word with Mr. Hitchcock. For the record, that initial conversation didn't occur until the first private screening of the film at the studio.

5. No house anywhere had anything to do with my decision to write Psycho."

Soon after, the myths surrounding the house on the hill were officially put to rest. Carl Moore and Ray Heisey, communication studies professors at Kent during the 1970s, co-authored a paper pointing out numerous inaccuracies in Michener's book. The two interviewed people who were quoted in Michener's book and found that the discrepancies just kept piling up. After Michener read Moore and Heisey's paper, he said he had known the story was a local legend, but allowed it to be printed anyway.

Lewis, the Kent State sociology professor, thinks the radicals who lived in the house made up the story while being interviewed by Michener for his book.

"I had never heard (the house) described as having a relationship to Psycho before the book came out," Lewis says. "In other words, it was not an urban legend prior to Michener being BS'ed by the activists."

So then, the myth should have died off around 1972. Not so. Every year, more freshmen teetering on their first college beer buzz are dragged to see the infamous house on the hill. Others, just plain curious, go exploring for themselves. The story sounds pretty cool, and people want to believe it, so they do. It is, after all, an alluring myth adding a certain mystique to our quaint college town.