Posted on September 25, 2009 at 11:29 PM
Point Pleasant
There are more than a couple of reasons why I have been putting off writing down this particular experience. First, I'm not sure whether to call it a ghost story or not, that is, I have no proof, not even for myself, which I consider important; because, believe it or not, I may be a scientist by nature, a naturalist, or what have you... So, we will have to refer to my intuition. Not that I knock it, I probably have more faith in it than anything else these days, but You cannot prove intuition, not really, not scientifically anyways. Secondly, this tale is hardly a welcome poster to come to Point Pleasant. I'll never go back. Ron just said today, "Let's go back to Point Pleasant", while he was looking at my cool Moth Man magnet hanging on the fridge. He must be joking. I don't advertise myself as a medium or anything, I do, however, realize that I have some gifts or sensitive peculiarities at this point, maybe I've always known about. But, at any rate, you cannot take this story as The Gospel Truth. I don't. I can't bring myself to, anymore than I could venture back to Point Pleasant. The irony of it is somewhat astounding.
I also can't say that I'm sorry that I went. It was an experience, after all. When we first arrived, I just wanted a cup of coffee. Good luck with that. The place is eerie...a real ghost town. It just gives the appearance that it is actually inhabited. Upon closer observation, you will see that nearly all the shops and restaurants are closed. Ask somebody... Ask them anything... You will get a glazed look and a grunt... Except for the guy in The Moth Man shop, he does speak English. We stayed at the historic Lowe Hotel, a grand old establishment with a balcony dining room, gilded moldings, an old organ, and an extraordinary green tiled fireplace in the lobby. We had an entire wing, overlooking the river, with, what should have been a lovely view, complete with sitting room, guest room, and adjoining hallway. I'm peculiar, but the place was very dirty. Ron was getting angry with me, but he had to admit how filthy it was when I discovered dirty towels in the bathroom. I tried being nice, as he loves West Virginia, and said, "It's probably the nicest hotel in the state." Once again, he had to agree. But, this story is not about insults; it's actually, just the facts, or how I saw it, for what it's worth.
We both liked the Moth Man film, and my best friend had read the book and loved it too. My other best friend wants to actually visit Point Pleasant in the worst way. After I had that wyrd experience with the voice in the drain, I was fascinated enough with The Moth Man to make him my Death card in my Tarot. I did not see the Moth Man, but I will say that I wouldn't doubt it, not after a trip to Point Pleasant. Just being there made me a believer. The place has the worst feeling about it that I've never encountered like that before. I have been to Gettysburg countless times, many other battlefields, but none of them had this feel like Point Pleasant.
I will call it a vibe, a disorienting feeling of pure badness. That sounds awfully childlike, but that is the best way that I can describe what I felt: sheer negative power and influence. After checking into the hotel, we walked around the town, which took about a minute. There is an old Confederate General's house. We know things did not go so well with him. I learned some things, like I knew that there were some Indian wars about the area, in the woods, I believed; but I didn't know The Revolutionary War began there and The Civil War was fought there too. Now, I can say that I'm not surprised. As we were walking towards the point, the place where two rivers meet, where the bridge collapsed, where the natives buried their dead and believed that spirits abide, I was getting cranky. An old log cabin resides at the point. While there, Ron, went right into the cabin, but for some strange reason at first, I couldn't do it. I sat down outside. I saw, in my mind's eye, someone who I knew was not there. An Indian, a native, his hair was pulled back with some braids and two feathers, a red and a white. He wore buckskin, a vest and pants, and had a type of wrap, red, and some other colors, around his shoulders. He was talking to me. His lips were not moving, but I could hear him in my head. He told me his name, which I did not understand. He began to tell me such things as I'm not sure that it's even legal to put into writing, another reason I've put off the telling. Basically, he wanted me to set fire to everything. That is putting it mildly. He was very angry. There was a fierce wind that blew right through me all during this brief encounter. There is a monument there, alongside the cabin, an obelisk. He told me not to read it, to forget, forget it all and knock it down. My eyes began to well with tears, then a searing sensation tore through my intestines. Ron came out of the house and coaxed me in, he was getting very angry and angrier by the minute; he thought, with me, but I knew it was the negative influence of the place affecting different folks differently. Inside the house there hung a beautiful seed mosaic, huge, very detailed, something like two-hundred years old. It was lovely, but I had to get back to the hotel, I was very sick.
Back at the hotel I threw up five times then passed out, only to awaken to what felt like a hangover, only I hadn't had a drink. I did, however, have a dream, totally unrelated to The Indian, I believe: a woman, in a gray, circa early twentieth century type of gown with corset. I think she is somehow related to the hotel, maybe even that particular room. She had brown up swept hair and was very pretty. I painted her, Mrs. Gray, I call her. Then, I got up, alone, and haunted the hotel, myself, that night, in search of a cup of coffee that I never did find. I bet that's all that most ghosts want or are looking for anyways...a freaking cup of coffee...Point Pleasanters have not heard about Starbucks. Whether that is good or bad, is, once again, besides the point. I went outside for a smoke. The place was dead to the world, more quiet than the countryside, so quiet, that, itself, was scary. I couldn't even hear any bugs or night birds. Then, the strangest sight startled me for a moment, a huge gray manx cat, who is a rare enough find, himself, strutted down the street, alone, totally mindless of me, as if I did not exist, and he owned the place. I think he does. Then I heard a cough, a carny, setting up for Fourth of July, scurried from his tent, that sent me back to our sitting room with the creepy view over the dark rivers. I painted Pleasantry, trying to cheer myself.
The following morning, (I did, survive, as the hotel does provide coffee, Thank God, in the morning), we went to The Moth Man Museum, which is worth the trip, as long as you don't try to spend the night. We also walked down along the rivers. Artists are working on an expansive mural there, and I could not help but notice how like the Indian I saw were the figures there. I think The Moth Man has probably flown away by now, along with everything else from Point Pleasant, but I wouldn't be surprised if you hear about him coming back either.
