Ghosts VIII
Civil War Ghosts*
This will be the longest chapter of installments; I try to keep it short, as I realize the attention spans of people around here, a given, considering all of the media viewed. I follow The Civil War, driving, usually traveling alone, but have taken companions along from time to time. Ten years ago my friend talked me in to going to Gettysburg with him. I didn't even want to go, but it was a motorcycle trip, and I thought it might be fun. Afterwards, I went at least once a month, because I fell in love with the place. It seemed to call me back, and I'd follow out of compulsion. I live a lot closer now.
Gettysburg seemed magic to me, as there was a swirling mist, caught up with glittering gold all about the ground. I find it interesting that the Native Americans had cursed the land after it was stolen from them and that thirty thousand white men had torn each other to bits there. A lot of The Civil War battlefields have Native names, Antietam, Chattanooga, Chickahominy, and Chickamauga, which literally translates into river of blood. Ironically, Shiloh means city of peace in Hebrew.
This photograph was taken in Gettysburg National Cemetery, where I pay my respects, regularly. The place was a cemetery prior to the war. The soldiers fought and died there, using tombstones for cover. I was waiting for my friend and was snapping photographs around the monument where supposedly Lincoln gave The Gettysburg Address, although in reality, he was actually a couple of yards back in the oldest part of the cemetery. There are a series of beautiful statues lying about the bottom of the monument; you can't possibly get them all in one shot, so I had taken three pictures of the monument, one of each statue. This is the only shot that came back like this. It is on the negative. This was not there; I did not see it. There was no mist that day, and I was not smoking, as I had none, and was waiting for my friend to return with them while I was taking pictures. The last time I was in the cemetery I kept turning around, because I knew someone was right behind me, coming right up on me, but there was nobody there.
The Cashtown Inn on the way to Gettysburg is haunted. The inn keeper had explained to me how to unlock the door before I went into town. I remember her saying, "Or else you'll wake up the whole house". When I got back that night, I couldn't get in. The door had a series of locks. Just when I had given up, and knew I'd be waking up the whole house, the door opened, magically, Munster-style. I know it was locked, as I couldn't get in, and my hand was not even on the door at that moment. Later, just before morning, I was awakened with a jolt. Something had actually passed through me, picked me up a couple of inches, and dropped me back down upon the bed. There was a journal in the room to log your stay; I did not document it, because again, I felt foolish and ashamed. The Inn publishes little paperback editions, which are compilations of the journal logs left by guests. I picked one up before I had left. A woman had that very same experience in that same room, only her husband was in the bed with her to witness it. Supposedly the ghost was the first rebel that they saw come in to town. A year prior to the battle, a man had his horse stolen by a rebel and vowed to shoot the first one he ever saw come back to town. He made good on his promise, shot the Reb off his horse, and drug him into the Inn where he had died.
A friend of mine had wanted to drive up to Culp's Hill after dark, which is not allowed. There was such an angry swirling mist about the place, and I was so terrified, that I made him turn around. I felt as if my heart was in an icy grip.
The Farnsworth House in Gettysburg is haunted, and is just across the street from the cemetery. Confederate sharpshooters hung out in the attic during the war. I love the owner and have stayed there a lot. Once when I entered my room there was a cloud above my bed. You cannot smoke in historic establishments, and it was not smoke. I was in the tub there and heard whistling. I got scared, but figured it to be the grandfather clock on the staircase. The next hour that the clock began to chime I shut myself back in the bathroom to see if that was what I had heard; it wasn't. The house has a great tavern, I always pull out and head up to my room early before the drunks get too rowdy. You hear them barreling out of their rooms at all hours of the night, which is funny, because the house is old, the pipes bang, the windows are drafty, and trucks passing by rattle the chandeliers and rock the chairs.
I have also stayed at The James Getty's Hotel on several occasions, although I cannot recommend it. It served as a hospital during the war. Nearly every time that I have stayed there, I have gotten so sick as to cut short my stay and head home. I have had headaches, nausea, and fevers there. The groundskeeper in the thirties had run out of the house never to return, as he said he saw a glowing green apparition in the basement.
Perhaps the most haunted place in Gettysburg is The Baladerry Inn off of Little Roundtop. It was a farmhouse during the war and became a field hospital. Amputated limbs were piled up to the window ledges around the house. My best friend and I stayed there to celebrate our birthdays. I would never stay there again. There were several rebel corpses that were found on the grounds and returned just within the last twenty years. We were using the OUIJA board, calling a spirit to the board. I knew of a man who had been shot in the head and buried in the yard. I knew his name, age, and where he was from, but my friend did not. I had the most terrible sensation running up my arms, like an electric shock, and the board was corresponding correctly to my questions. I got scared and said, "Screw this", and wouldn't use the board again. Looking out the window of the bathroom I could see something strange and glittering hanging around the lamp post. For the rest of the night we could hear rocks pelting our window, but when we'd look out there would be nothing and nobody there. My friend was crying and wanted to leave. I told her to stop her crying and go to sleep. To be perfectly honest, I was too afraid to open my eyes, let alone get out from under the covers, as I could hear and feel what seemed to be at least six people bumping about the room until I finally fell asleep. We had to laugh at the owner in the morning though, because she had these big bug eyes, as if she had been living there way too long.
My mother and I were on a self guided driving tour in Virginia, near where Stonewall Jackson had been shot from his horse, what has become known as The Wilderness. It was nearly dusk. I saw two Yankees to the left of me, building a fire and was just about to say to her, Look, re-enactors, when they vanished from sight. They looked very solid and real.
Next time will be a short one, I promise, The Linden Row Inn, Richmond, Virginia, till then, happy haunting.
