Ghostly Gettysburg

So I had this plan to share some of my ghostly experiences with y’all but have been so busy that it’s scary. (Way more scary than any of my ghost stories). Too much to do and not enough time in the day to do it all. That’s been the case with me lately.

But today is Friday the 13th, the perfect day for sharing something scary, so I am making and taking the time out to tell another tale…

This is a tale from Gettysburg, Pa., sight of the most infamous battle in the American Civil War. More men died tragically and dramatically on this land within that 3 day period in 1863 than on any other American soil. The town of Gettysburg is known to be one of the—if not the—most haunted places in the United States.

My first trip there was a trip taken with my family in the summer of 1996. I fell in love with the town. To be there was almost like stepping back in time. To walk down the streets past buildings riddled with musket shots and through the hotel where President Lincoln stayed while giving this well-known speech, The Gettysburg Address, was an experience in itself, but to walk on that battlefield--that hallowed ground--was unrivaled.

I have to say that there was no paranormal happenings to report on this particular trip. There were times when I felt like I could hardly breathe and there was this one incident where my brother and I took a walk up to Little Round Top and I felt like running back down the hill to the car. This I credit to simply knowing what happened here and how at least every other step I took must have been across a dead man’s path.

My friend Red and I are ghost hunters. No, we’re not famous like T.A.P.S., but we have been seeking the spooks long before they have. One night during our weekly girls’ night out, we decided that we should go to Gettysburg for ghost hunting. We were sure to have an experience there…especially if we went on July 1, 2, & 3, the anniversary of the battle!

A few months later, on July 1, 2001, my little car pulled into Gettysburg National Battlefield with myself and two of my best friends, Red and S on board. It took 12 hours to get there and we were thrilled by the time we set up our campsite. (Of course, we camped! What could be spookier than sleeping in a tent by a haunted battlefield??) We took off immediately to discover all the haunted areas that we had studied up on. However, we had nothing too out of ordinary happen until the next night.

There is a place on the battlefield known as the Devil’s Den. It is an area at the edge of a triangular shaped field and strewn with huge boulders perfect for hiding, especially if you were a sharpshooter. Devil’s Den lies at the bottom of a high ground known as Little Round Top. Both the Union and Confederate Troops recognized the advantage of claiming the high grounds of Little Round Top and fought bitterly for it until eventually the Union Army occupied the large hill. The fight for Devil’s Den was just as nasty and sucked away numerous lives. After intense fighting and much blood shed, the Confederate men from Texas, Arkansas, Alabama and Georgia were able to hold the Devil’s Den as the men of New York regiments retreated.

The large boulders of the Den were perfect cover for Confederate sharpshooters picking off men, especially officers, along Little Round Top.

It is known that a sharpshooter from Texas met his death in an enclosed “pen” of stones known now as the Sharpshooter’s Pen. The famous Civil War photographer Matthew Brady and his assistants roamed the battlefields after the fighting ceased and photographed nearly every one of the photos we see in our history books of the War Between the States. For a more dramatic effect, one of Brady’s assistants propped the Texas sharpshooter against the stone wall of the Sharpshooter’s Pen. It is rumored that the Texan’s restless spirit is not so happy about that.

Supposedly, people have reported camera failures while trying to photograph this area. There have been reports of visitor’s asking park rangers about the authentic-looking re-enactor that talked with them at Devil’s Den, only to find there were no re-enactors there at all. It has been said that a disembodied voice (speaking with a drawl) can be heard at times (along with other voices and moaning.) People have claimed that someone or something unseen touched them while standing in close proximity to the pen.

On July, 2—the anniversary of the fight at Devil’s Den—Red, S., and I thoroughly checked out the area at both day and nighttime. None of us had any camera problems…at least not there at Devil’s Den. (Red had already had a camera problem when hers flew out of her hand and broke on the sidewalk as we walked the campus of Gettysburg College. And I had problems earlier at another known haunted spot, Spangler's Spring, (where a woman in white can be seen at times) when my video camera died suddenly and would not record until I was home again.) We actually had nothing extraordinary happen while we were at Devil's Den the first time, except that we met a re-enactor (a real, live one) who shared with us some great stories and history. It was creepy there just knowing that what happened here was so grisly that the stream, Plum Run, next to these boulders ran so red with blood on that day that it was later renamed Bloody Run. But it was also so crowded with people that afternoon that it was hard to get any true feeling about the place.

We investigated many different sites later very that night that were known to be haunted. Before returning to camp, we decided to take the drive down the winding road to Devil’s Den again. We had hoped that it wouldn’t be so crowded at this time. There were only a few people besides us there, probably due to the fact the National Park Service closes access to the Battlefield Park’s roads at 10:00 p.m. The closing time for the road was fast approaching so we had not much time to spare. We had to get right down to investigating our “spot”. (Even though I was much braver then, I still did not wish to be closed in America’s most haunted battlefield overnight!)

Immediately after parking the car, we found our way with flashlights to the Sharpshooter’s Pen. Red, who was born in Ohio, began talking to the spirit. And S. and I muffled giggles as she spoke into seemingly thin air. Ridiculous, I thought. But it surely was fun. Then all of the sudden, Red jumped and her facial expression changed into one that was not so happy. She began looking down at her feet and brushing her ankles as if ants had begun to crawl up her leg.

“Something is touching me!” she exclaimed.

S. and I continued to giggle. (Georgia ain’t the only place with bugs, ya know!) I continued to tease Red, “Maybe he just don’t like you because you’re a Yankee!”

Red did not laugh. She wasn’t amused at our wisecracks and she shot back to me, “Then YOU step over here and talk to him, Southern Belle!”

Hearing the tone of her voice and seeing that her facial expression was still one of a person utterly freaked out, I stopped laughing. It was clear that she thought something strange was happening to her. I was still skeptical.

“Okay, I will then,” I replied as I stepped over into the spot where Red had been standing. She claimed that she felt fine and the “touching” had ceased when she stepped out of the pen.

For moments I stood there feeling like an idiot. I felt nothing happening to me. So I began to speak.

“Hi. My name is Outdoorsy Girl and I live in Georgia. Are you from Texas? The year is 2001, long past the year of 1863. But I know many people who live in Texas and I can pass a message on to someone who may help me locate your living relatives. Is there anything you would like to make known?”

I stood there for a moment. Just as I was about to laugh about the absurdity of it all, I felt something. It felt as if I were being touched by a cold, unseen finger. I felt like someone was gently stroking my right hand. My facial expression must have visibly changed.

“See, I told you!” yelled Red.

“You feel something, too?” asked S.

“Yes,” I muttered. “It feels like someone is stroking my hand!”

“Well, at least he’s not grabbing your ankles!” Red retorted, apparently not yet forgiving me for my teasing. Red’s camera flashed in my face as she snapped the shutter to forever freeze this moment on film.

As soon as Red made that comment, I felt the “finger” move up my arm to just above my elbow where it felt as if an unseen hand was going to grasp my upper arm in desperation. I jumped out of the pen.

Immediately the “touching” stopped, but left behind was a tingling sensation that didn’t stop for hours.

When Red had her film developed (ah, before our digital days, what did we do??), there was the worst picture in the world of me, with a silly, confused expression upon my face standing in the Sharpshooter’s Pen of the Devil’s Den of Gettysburg. And right in front of me is a large, white, transparent orb, forever recorded on film.

I returned to Gettysburg in May of 2003, again with my family. When we drove over to the Devil’s Den and I once again, walked along those enormous stones, I thought about the incident I had experienced two years earlier. In broad daylight I stood there alongside my brother wondering what had really happened that night. It certainly seemed less intimidating standing there with the sun shining brightly overhead, but just to be safe, I didn’t linger there very long alone. (You know, just in case the Texan remembered me and wanted to make sure I passed his message along.)

I wandered off alone, climbing over and under the stones. I climbed up on the highest perch I could find and I sat down and remembered what happened here so long ago and envisioned the terror of these brave men who gave up their lives to stand up for what they believed in. It was Memorial Day Weekend, after all. I watched my father, mother, and brother as they strolled along the rocks and each took their separate way. It seemed we all were remembering and honoring the brave that changed history to make today such a wonderful time to live.

The mood continued as we all piled back in the car and remained silent. But after only a few moments, we began to discuss our favorite subject—food—and where we would eat. Everyone except my mother, that is.

I looked over at her. She was pale and quiet. I asked her what was wrong, to which she began to reply and then cut herself off and mumbled, “Nothing”.

Later that night when she and I were taking a walk alone she told me that something had happened to her at Devil’s Den. Then my mother--a true skeptic and very quiet person-- admitted to me, “I heard a pitiful voice moaning and repeating, ‘Help me, help me, help me.’”

I believe her.