Want To See A Ghost?

“Want to see a ghost?”

Those five little words are powerful. They usually widen eyes and draw out a variety of emotions. So, when I asked my three kids that question, I thought I was prepared to address the range of their reactions.

Surprisingly, they had one collective response for me, as if they knew I was going to ask them that. As if they had pow wowed just a few minutes before I did, to come up with the one response that Mom would never see coming. They all rolled their eyes.

My oldest daughter said, “Mom, we see ghosts all the time. We live in a haunted house.” My son spoke up next, “Please don’t tell us another story. We get it, we see dead people here.” My youngest, the athlete, protested. “Mom, I don’t have time for this. I have to get to soccer practice.”

I rolled my eyes back at them. “You guys are killing me. You are supposed to be kids. You’re supposed to be fun.” They folded their arms and put offended hands on hips. Their mouths opened, no doubt to unleash more snark, but I held a flat palm up in front of them. “Let me ask this another way. Who wants to take a road trip to Gettysburg this weekend?” And just like that, via whoops and hollers, Yes, we want to take a road trip! and several happy dances later, I was a hero again.

Don’t let my kids fool you. It wasn’t just that they wanted to take a road trip. It wasn’t just that we’d stay in a nice hotel and eat out for every meal. It wasn’t that we’d wander around, taking in the sights like we didn’t have any responsibilities. My kids weren’t bored by ghosts. They were bored by our ghosts, and they were big fans of Gettysburg.

Thirteen years earlier, I had moved into my house, alone with three small children. Or so I thought. Right away, things were weird. So much so, that as teenagers, their friends came to our house to hear the stories and sleep over in the hopes of seeing or hearing something. I got so tired of narrating and performing at parties and get togethers, that I wrote a book that was inspired by our experiences: HAUNTED HOUSE…HAUNTED LIFE. It is my fictional take on our ghost guests’ perspectives.

Flash forward to 2013, when I was still a newlywed, only married for a year to someone who had heard all about our previous trips to Gettysburg, who had a penchant for the paranormal, and who was eager to get on the road so we could do some ghost hunting.

We went in March, when things were slowly starting to rev up for this popular destination. Places would be open, events would be scheduled, but it wouldn’t be the peak of the season, when it was crowded and tourist driven. We could still get to the know the locals and we could ask lots of questions, as much of what we did would be in smaller groups.

Once we got there, one of the very first things we signed up for was ghost hunting on the battlefield. We went for a short tour, then we were given tools and instructions. Armed with a flashlight, a digital camera, a thermometer, a pair of diving rods, and a few seasons of Ghosthunters under our belts, my husband, my kids, and I set out to see if anyone wanted to talk to us.

It was about 9pm, the temperature was in the forties, and the battlefield was pitch black and silent, except for several small groups that were out there doing the same thing we were. We headed for an empty area, away from everyone else and got started.

My husband was holding the divining rods and my son had the thermometer. Both of my daughters stayed together, taking pictures with their phones and beckoning the spirits. We moved a few times, before we finally found a spot where the rods began crossing and uncrossing.

Via a bunch questions and thanks to the divining rods, we determined that we were talking with a Union soldier. If not for the fact that we were in Gettysburg, we would have been the Crazy Family, each of us pointed in different directions, but all of us conversing with the ground in front of us, except for when we’d lift our heads to watch the rods for a response.

All of a sudden, I started taking pictures of one of my legs. I yelled to my son, “Bring the thermometer over here, quickly.” Everyone came and hovered behind me, away from where I was pointing the camera. “Get the temperature near my right calf.”

My son bent to do as he was told and my husband asked, “What’s going on?’

“My leg just got so cold, it is almost numb,” I replied, and I kept taking pictures.

“Mom.” My son stood up. He showed me the digital thermometer screen. “It’s negative five degrees,” he said.

I grabbed for it. “Let me see. I want a picture of the thermometer before it warms up.”

In all of the excitement, we had stopped talking to this soldier, who had once been living and breathing, and who had possibly had a family too. A wave of sadness washed over me, and I got the distinct feeling that this man was suffering. I asked, “Are you holding onto my leg?” The rods crossed, indicating yes. Then they uncrossed.

“I can feel you. Are you trying to stand?” Again, the rods crossed. Emotion welled me up and I forgot about ghost hunting. Every bit of my soul was reaching for him. Every cell in my body believed he needed help.

I only had TV shows and books to go by, but I imagined that if my intentions were good, all the right advice would come spilling out of my mouth. Very gently I said, “Look at me and my family. We are wearing clothes that must look strange to you. We are using instruments that you aren’t familiar with.” I pointed at my girls with their cell phones. “I have to tell you that you aren’t alive anymore. I don’t know if you can see a bright light, but if you can, go to it and you’ll be okay.”

None of us were sure of what to do, so we all stayed silent and waited. It took a minute or so, but my leg warmed up quickly. Then my husband asked, “Are you still here?” The rods were still. They stayed uncrossed.

In our house, the experiences would come and go quickly. Voices, a creepy clown laugh, the shadowy image of someone who doesn’t belong there made for unexplainable and interesting stories to tell. Previously closed cabinets suddenly opening and even bags moving by themselves down the hallway gave us very little connection to whomever was behind the antics. But on historical and somber land, after a ten-minute conversation with someone who could have been one of us had we been born at a different time, this particular experience made us realize that sometimes souls can be stuck and looking for help. They aren’t here for our entertainment.

We wrapped it up, returned the equipment to the Farnsworth Inn, and headed to our hotel. We were drained, so we went to sleep.

The rest of the weekend was fun. We soaked up stories from the past and visited more places, including the Jenny Wade House.

Eventually we returned home. To school. To our jobs. To our regular routine. A few days later, my husband and I found ourselves with an activity-free night. Everyone was home relaxing, there were no extra curriculars eating up our time and energy.

I settled into bed with a book and my husband was next to me, looking through the Gettysburg pictures we had uploaded to the computer from the digital camera. “Oh my God,” he said.

I turned toward him and asked, “What?” He pointed at the bottom right of the computer screen. He had zoomed in on one of the pictures I had taken of him and the diving rods after my leg froze up. I leaned over to get a better look.

“I noticed a fuzzy glowing light in the corner of the picture, so I zoomed in. Tell me what you see,” he said to me.

I gasped and recoiled. Then I leaned back in. My stomach dropped again. I wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me. I wondered if my husband was playing a prank on me. I was afraid to say anything for fear he might yell, “Psyche!” and I would feel stupid.

“Tell me,” he said when I stayed quiet for too long. His voice shook, so I trusted that this could be for real.

“That looks like a bloody hand reaching up. I also see the cuff of a soldier’s uniform,” I said. My husband grabbed my shoulder and nodded. I’m not sure how he was able to keep his excitement to himself, but he did when I put a finger to my lips as if I wanted him to be quiet.

I sat up and steadied myself with a deep breath. Then I called out, “Hey kids! Remember that trip we took to Gettysburg?”

Quiet. Then, like a synchronized group of sarcastic teens, they chirped, “Yes. Mom.”

I kept the smile out of my words when I called out again, “Want to see a ghost?”