Gettysburg Ghost Photos

  

            With ghost hunting becoming popular, and some evidence being questionable at best, I submit to you my questionable photos whilst ghost hunting in Gettysburg for you to judge.  Not saying any of this is evidence of anything, but when I was looking over my pictures, these were the ones that made me stop and pause a bit longer than the rest, like hmm, is it anything?  If it made me pause, maybe you will pause as well, or maybe you will simply call my crazy.

            Without further ado, let’s start with one of the creepiest first.  This was taken in the basement of the orphanage, and I have no idea what I was actually focusing on when I took this picture, but the result captures exactly what I had felt when I went into the hole.  Very specifically, I felt as if a child had been curled up in a corner by the opening, not sure if there was any life left in the body, as it felt as if the child has passed away whilst locked away.

It reminded me of the Tool video.  Not saying it is or it’s not, but it’s creepy.  I paused.

This next one is questionable at best.  It was also taken in the basement of the orphanage, and it came out blurry as could be.  The darkness in the blurs kind of looked like hands to me.

Another creepy one. Not saying it’s ghosts.  It’s the Sachs Covered Bridge at night:

Also taken from the bridge this little white reminded me of a doll with black eye makeup.  It’s just kind of strange looking.  Not sure where I was aiming, but the result is simply odd I’d say.

 

From the cemetery, the photos have reflections, but all of them have an odd white mist around the third bar.  It was enough to cause me to say, “hmm…  Isn’t that just a little off there?

This next one requires a bit of explaining, as I had been continually called back to Cemetery Hill throughout my entire visit to Gettysburg.  This first started around sunset, while I was waiting for the bus for the ghost tour with the family, and while my relatives kibitzed, I ran over there at dusk, feeling pulled to go check it out.  As I stood on top of the hill, looking at the treeline to my left, I could have sworn I saw a soldier in a tan uniform peek out at me.

Before I could question it, my phone rang, startling me.  Mom said the bus was loading.  I had to hustle to join the others, not wanting to be left behind for the action, though I knew I had to come back to properly check it out a bit more when I had more time sometime later on.

Apparently, the ghosts knew I would be back, too.  This next photo represents that.  However, it represents a bit more mischief than what I just tried to explain, as this connects to the following night, when I went to go on a lantern-lit ghost tour with my father.

See, the Mustang has start to stop, so you don’t put the keys into the ignition.  I knew when I got into the car, I had put the keys into the cupholder in the center of the car.  However, when we parked and went to turn the car off, the keys had mysteriously disappeared by themselves.

For 20 minutes, in a steadily building panic, my father and I searched the small convertible, wondering where the keys could have gone to in such a small car.  Turning the car off, I pressed the start button, just to make sure the keys had to be close by, and the car started just fine.  Knowing the keys were close, how many places could they have gone to on their own?

The obvious answer is that they fell.  Look on the ground.  Feel underneath the seats.

Not good enough.  Move the seats forward.  Tip all the way forward and feel.

Now, move the seats all the way back.  Reach under both.  Do it again to be sure.

Tear everything off the seats.  Look inside all pockets.  Open the glove box.

Let’s move the seats back and forth again.  Feel back as far as you can.  Don’t get stuck.

No luck.  Trunk?  Middle section is clear, so throw all odds and ends into it.

Clear the premises.  Anything stuck between the seats?  Dig deeper!

Heart rate increases.  Panic sets in.  Try to stay calm and not scream.

Down past your elbow between the seats, picture an amputation.  Pull your arm out quickly.  You’re sure you’re going to sever your arm if you dig down much deeper, so panic about that.

Think about all the soldiers who got amputations during the war.  Makeshift surgeons didn’t know any better.  Don’t have time to deal with it, so cut it off to ward off infection.

Sure, you might bleed out.  They might not be able to stop the blood fast enough.  That’s one risk, and just don’t ask about the others, such as when the gangrene sets in a little too fast.

Get the maggots.  They’ll keep that down.  They dine off the dead flesh.

Mind reels, thinking of all the poor soldiers that died and suffered in the area, adding to the panic of not being able to find the keys.  They had to have fallen.  Move the seats again.

After about a half dozen times of fishing beneath both seats, I went upside-down, sticking my head as far under as I could for a visual inspections.  Driver’s side is clear.  Nothing to report.

That passenger side though, the tricky buggers, that’s what holds the key.  You never know who might be riding next to you when you think you’re rolling in the convertible alone.  Sure as heck, after reaching and fishing, at least a half dozen seat moves, there’s the keys underneath.

I tilt my head up, looking at dad.  He scoffs.  “I know I checked underneath there!”

“I guess the ghosts thought this would be more fun than standing in line.”  I glance at the time.  We barely have enough time to check in and make it before the tour starts, after suggested their suggested time, but with enough of a buffer to be able to not miss anything as feared in panic.

So, the next day, I go back to Cemetery Hill on the battlefield, and I’m looking for something.  I’m thinking it’s under the passenger seat, and when I look, I pull out this card, which was not mine.  That definitely made me pause, like hello to you, too, and thanks for welcoming me back.

Of course, this happened just as I was going to find more than I bargained for, seeing if that ring finger through the bullet hole in the door that killed Jenny Wade comes true.  They say if an unmarried woman sticks her ring finger through that bullet hole that she will be engaged or married within the year, so we shall see if that comes to fruition.  Stay tuned for updates.

When I know that someone is trying to get my attention, I am more than willing to check out the situation.  Thus, when I thought I saw a soldier in butternut peeking behind a tree at me, I saw the hello again card and beelined over to where I thought I had seen him atop of the hill.  I mean, why not be willing to explore the other side for possible prospects when over age 40?

I heard him calling for me to look at this rock wall built along the tree line, and I followed it down to the point where I could catch on to the fact that water was flowing downhill.  The rocks gave a barrier for the water to travel the path of least resistance down the hillside.  Though it might not have looked like a proper creek from afar, the water flowed enough to be considered a water source, so I could understand why soldiers would be near there, parched.

It's like he wanted me to understand why he was positioned there in the first place.  Looking up on the hill, I could see the horses like he may have been able to, but the trees and brush covered the lines of cannons that I knew were positioned up there, creating a dangerous illusion that it might be safe enough to try to sneak up, only to get taken down when trying.  I got the impression that he had fallen near there, and though I did not notice until I got home, the picture I took of the fallen tree, kind of reminds me of a fallen soldier in the field.

It's like the trunk is the body.  The limbs are arms and legs.  They’re blown or sawed off.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but a cardinal and a blue jay kept calling my attention to the fallen tree, demanding that I take a picture of it.  I didn’t think much of the picture when I took it, but when I saw it, the scene just startled me for a moment.  Like that’s a fallen soldier, as the tree grew and was nourished by the blood of the soldiers, so when the tree they gave life to dies, it’s like a part of them dies again along with it, a yogi moment I’d say.

Around this time, I had been getting a memo to look along the rock wall that was like a break wall for the creek that would rush more after a rainfall.  Not sure what I would find, as I knew this place had been combed through a million times by people hoping to find some Civil War memorabilia, I was open to searching for stray bullets, shrapnel or whatever types of old grimy things I could find, but instead, I found something beautiful.  Not covered in blood, it was made from blood, as I would be schooled, as I did not realize what was being offered.

Looking down, along the rocks, as instructed, I found a nut that was perfectly cut in half somehow, and the center of this hollowed out nut was a perfect heart.  I knew it was what I was supposed to find, but I wasn’t sure why I had found this, as opposed to some old soldier’s uniform or whatever it was I thought I was going to find.  The spirits scolded me, laughing.

Gifts do not have to high dollar items.  It’s tokens that mean something.  It’s the meaning behind it that makes a gift special, not the dollar amount that it may or may not be worth.

When a dead spirit can offer you up something sweeter than the guy you are dating, there’s your sign.  The gift is sentimental, something only I might appreciate, as it was something I found while rummaging through a Civil War Battlefield.  The spirits pointed out that it was fruit born from the blood of dead soldiers, men who might have thought they wanted to return home and have kids, but were never able to, as they died, and could only produce chestnuts.

They offered up a heart for sharing some love.  Put the pen on the page.  Let’s write.

Guess it’s more like type away.  Get it down.  It’s at least a story, and here’s the picture of when I found this blood fed nutshell.

As if that little gesture was not enough, I saw just a tiny pop of red poking out of the lush greenery.  It’s not like there were a whole lot of other flowers around, but it just so happened that out of the whole field, there were blood red trumpet vines that seemed to bloom only there.  It’s like the ghosts were trying to show they still were able to produce life, just in other forms.

Again, maybe you can think that I read too much into things, and that’s why I took a few photos for you to be able to judge for yourself.  Just a few feet away from the fallen tree and blooming trumpet vine was another tree that just made me stop and stare at it for a while.  I didn’t know if I was seeing what I thought that I might have been seeing, so I just decided to take a picture of it to see if you think you see what I thought that I saw that day, too.

This particular tree somehow drew my attention as I was looking at the blood red trumpet vine flower, as there was a dark color on the trunk of the tree that just looked a little off.  It did not look like the typical color of any tree bark that I could recall, as it simply appeared to be stained with blood that never washed off it, as if it grew into it and became one with it.  Was it like this was another soldier that had been standing in front of or against that tree when he was simply blown away by a cannon from the hill, or punctured, like the tree’s damaged, too?

Making my way back up to the top of the hill later, after meandering through the cemetery, I go back towards this tree that had been calling out to me, positioned on top of the hill like it had witnessed most of the carnage.  Something about it just made me feel tired and told me to sit down.  Giving into the urge, I sat and meditated about how it would have been to be shot up by the tree, and how I would have simply fallen, too tired to stand anymore all of a sudden.

Noticing some nasty looking huge yellow jackets that did not seem too friendly, I felt the fear of attack, and I knew I could not simply stay there.  Getting up, I looked down and thought, “did I just sit on a bullet hole?”  The rock looked punctured, indented, as if by a bullet.

When I saw a mother with her son approaching, I asked them if they thought these rocks had been here during battle.  The mother answered that these rocks served a purpose going down the hillside, and they were likely there during the war.  When she asked why I asked, I pointed out the hole that I had found in the rocks, and they agreed it looked oddly suspicious, like a bullet.

Not only was the rock oddly punctured, as if by an old bullet, but the rock itself had bit of rusty coloration, like old blood.  Not like it was soaked, but like the splatter discolored the rock over time.  Maybe I’m reading too much into it, so you look for yourself and be the judge.

Could that blackened color of the indent be from old gun powder?  Is the rusty color old blood?  The rock cannot tell us for sure, so it’s really a guessing game at this point if you care to play.

This next picture I love from my old days of working at Cedar Point.  I always think of the one they have in the Cedar Point museum when I see one of these, and I am always drawn towards them, even if I regret not putting money into this one.  I did take a picture of it though, and up by Zoltan’s feather in his hat, it just looked a little oddly suspicious, like what’s going on up there, or am I just catching some sort of fog that happened to be in air at that moment?

On the lantern-lit tour where we went back to the Dobbin House at night, this picture just looked a little strange in the windows.  Don’t get overly excited.  It’s just a little strange.

The finally questionable location was the Servant’s Old Tyme Photos, and though it was the small jutted area off the back that drew my attention with dread heaviness as soon as I walked near it, this photo was of a different area.  It just came out looking weird.  Not sure there’s anything amazing in it, but it reminded me of a creepy nurse doll looking at you in shadows.

  Oh, wait! Bonus round! Back at the Dobbin House is a shadow that looks like Lincoln.

You be the judge.  See for yourself.  Is it all just some hogwash?

Go visit Gettysburg. Go see Jenny. Leave her a Penny.

 

For more by Marisa, visit www.outlandishwriter.com or www.lulu.com/spotlight/thorisaz