Ghostly Tales of Wisconsin

by Ryan Jacobson

  “Some of them might be true,” protested Tracy. “A lot of people believe this really was a hideout for famous mob bosses like Al Capone and John Dillinger. The spring water bottling plant next door could have been the cover for an illegal moonshine operation.”

  Candi shrugged. “I thought you were talking about the ghost stories. You know, like the one where the hotel burned down on the exact same date during three separate years, killing everyone inside.”

  Tracy chuckled. “And how about the man who went crazy and murdered every last person unlucky enough to be staying here?”

  “No,” interjected her friend, “the best one has to be the coven of evil witches that opened a portal to hell, allowing dozens of demons to escape.”

  “Good thing a white witch came along and trapped all of the baddies. They’re confined to these grounds.”

  “We’d better keep an eye out for them,” added Candi, between bursts of laughter. “Come on. Let’s look around some more.”

  Ten minutes later, the girls had stopped laughing. Their visit to Hotel Hell “just for the fun of it” had turned into something else entirely.

  “I’m telling you, I saw it,” Tracy demanded. “There was a ghost standing at that window up there. It was looking right at us!”

  “Calm down, Tracy. I never said I didn’t believe you.”

  “No, but you think I’m crazy. Just like those stories we were talking about.”

  Candi sighed. “I don’t—”

  Eeeeeee!

  A loud, terrifying scream filled the darkness. Forgetting their disagreement, the girls stepped closer together.

  “What was that?” whispered Candi. “Is there someone else here?”

  As if in answer to her question, the sound of footsteps enveloped the two friends.

  “Eeeeeee!” Another scream. However, this one had come from Tracy. “The wall, look at the wall!”

  Candi followed her friend’s gaze to the section of wall beside which they stood. It was covered with fresh blood.

  The terrified girls darted straight for their car.

  Suddenly, Tracy shrieked, “Get away from me. Don’t touch me!”

  Candi was too afraid to look behind her. She could only imagine what horrible monsters were accosting her companion. She wheeled around the car and dove into the driver’s side door. To her relief, Tracy slid into the empty seat beside her.

  Too out of breath to talk, they locked their doors. Candi started the car, and they fled the premises together.

  Nearly five miles away from Hotel Hell, Tracy at last found her voice. “I was running,” she blurted between gasps. “And I felt cold hands on my back. They tried to push me down, Candi.”

  Staring at Tracy in awestruck silence, Candi simply nodded. All of those far-fetched tales they had laughed about didn’t seem so crazy anymore.

  The Karsten Ghosts

  Lance Severeid couldn’t wait to call his friend Thomas. He clutched the telephone, dialed the number and waited while it rang.

  “What’s up?” said the cool voice coming from the other end of the line.

  “Thomas, you won’t believe what just happened to Tami and me.”

  “Really, why’s that?” His voice remained even, sounding almost disinterested.

  Lance pressed on, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. “We just stayed at the Kewaunee Inn. It’s haunted!”

  “Haunted?” Thomas’s tone changed slightly, and Lance detected that he had his friend’s undivided attention.

  “I’m getting ahead of myself. First, let me tell you about the hotel.”

  Tragic History

  “The inn opened in 1858, but our story truly begins when William Karsten bought it in 1911. He upsized it to a fifty-five-room hotel and managed it, quite successfully, until his son, William Jr., took over.”

  Thomas sighed. “I hope this is going somewhere.”

  Ignoring him, Lance continued. “The elder Karsten died of a heart attack on January 4, 1940, while in his favorite suite. Coincidentally, at about the same time, his beloved grandchild Billy got sick and died at the tender age of five.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Thomas. A new father himself, he had become much more sentimental, especially where children were concerned.

  “Yeah, it is,” agreed Lance. “Anyway, twenty-six years later, a couple of new owners decided to renovate the hotel, and that’s what woke up the ghosts—all three of them.”

  William Karsten, Sr.

  “Three ghosts?” said Thomas, skeptically. “How do you know that?”

  “Just wait. That part’s coming up,” answered Lance, wishing Thomas could see the toothy grin on his face. “As you can probably guess, the first of the spirits is William Karsten, Sr. His apparition has been spotted drinking beer in the bar, and he’s been heard moving furniture around in the room where he died.”

  “That’s a little weird,” Thomas agreed.

  “But it’s not all. On the second floor, some people have smelled strange odors, and some have come across unusual cold spots near William’s old suite.”

  Billy Karsten

  “Anyway, that brings us to the second ghost: young Billy Karsten,” Lance continued.

  “I guess he and his grandpa are inseparable,” Thomas noted, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

  “A lot of people have reported hearing Billy running down the hall toward William’s room. But when they checked to see who was there, the hallway was empty. Plus, some kids claimed to have played with a boy on the second floor who was described to look a lot like Billy.”

  Agatha

  “Very creepy, but it sounds harmless enough,” noted Thomas. “What about the third ghost?”

  The pace of Lance’s voice quickened. At last, he was getting to the part of the tale that he really wanted to tell. “That’s who Tami and I encountered. Her name is Agatha.”

  “Agatha? Who’s she?”

  “Her story is kind of depressing,” admitted Lance. “In 1921, she was raped by a drunken neighbor, and she got pregnant. Her mom and dad raised the child, while Agatha went to work at Karsten’s hotel, living alone in room 310. Sadly, adding to her life of heartbreak, she fell in love with William, Sr., who didn’t love her back.” Lance paused for a moment. When Thomas said nothing, he asked, “Are you still with me?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Good. After twelve years, Agatha moved back home to take care of her sick dad. She stayed there for the rest of her life, never returning to the inn—at least, not until after her death.”

  Thomas asked, “When do you and Tami come into this epic saga?”

  Lance smiled. “Guess what room we stayed in.”

  “Agatha’s,” said Thomas, not needing to guess.

  “Right, room 310. And I hope you believe this because it’s totally true. You can even ask Tami. But we woke up in the middle of the night, and the room was freezing cold.”

  “That’s not so hard to believe.”

  Lance ignored his friend’s mocking tone. “Then, from out of nowhere, this misty figure of a woman appeared, floating through the air.”

  Thomas snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “Believe me or don’t, I don’t care, but it’s the truth.”

  Thomas paused for a moment but at last said, “Go on.”

  “Well, Tami and I got out of there as fast as we could. We ran all the way downstairs to the front desk, although we weren’t sure what to tell them. We thought they’d think we were crazy. But you know what? They knew exactly what was going on. In fact, they were the ones who clued me into all of this stuff I’m telling you. It’s even on their website!”

  “Hmm, I might have to check that out.”

  “Yeah, and they also told us that Agatha’s
ghost has been seen a bunch of times, sweeping the halls, cleaning mirrors, things like that. Plus, she has a reputation as a trickster. She pushes people in the back and leaves messes of food in the kitchen.”

  Thomas chuckled. “This sounds like the kind of place I should spend a night in.”

  Lance laughed before offering a little encouragement to his friend. “You totally should.”

  Return of the Hanged Man

  It was the state’s oldest inn—and perhaps its most haunted. Built in Mineral Point in the southwest corner of Wisconsin, the Walker House had an infamous past, but that wasn’t going to stop Ted Landon, a local artist, from purchasing and restoring the decrepit building.

  The Walker House had gained its dark reputation on November 1, 1842, the day on which William Caffee was hanged in front of four thousand spectators. Condemned to death for shooting another man during a fight, Caffee grew into something of a legend due to the contemptuous manner in which he spent his final moments: escorted to the Walker House atop his coffin, using empty beer bottles to beat the tune of the funeral march.

  More than 120 years later, in 1964, Landon was heartbroken to see the sad state in which the historic building had fallen. Having closed its doors seven years earlier, the Walker House was a ruined mess.

  “I’m going to buy it, and I’m going to bring it back to its glory days,” Landon declared.

  However, he was not prepared for the supernatural occurrences—such as phantom footsteps and the sounds of heavy breathing—that would slow and sometimes stall his efforts.

  By 1978, Landon was forced to throw in the towel, selling the Walker House to Dr. David Ruf, who placed the inn’s care into the capable hands of his property manager, Walker Calvert.

  The paranormal incidents not only continued under the inn’s new ownership, they became more frequent and more alarming—culminating in October of 1981.

  Calvert was in the second-floor porch, cleaning after a long day of work, when a burst of light appeared before him, seemingly from nowhere.

  “What is that?” Calvert said to himself, awestruck by the peculiar phenomenon.

  The glob of light hovered for a moment. Then slowly it began to take shape: two legs, an arm, followed by another.

  A moment later, Calvert was horrified to find himself staring at the specter of a man—one who had no head!

  It must be the spirit of William Caffee, thought the property manager. The ghosts of hanging victims sometimes appear without their heads.

  The apparition remained long enough for Calvert to notice its wrinkled gray miner’s jacket. But eventually the specter faded away, slowly, just as it had appeared.

  A few days later, a waitress on staff encountered a ghost too. She was alone in the bar on the inn’s second floor, and as she glanced up from her task of clearing off the tables, she gasped.

  The ghostly figure of a young man in his twenties stood, staring at her!

  Terrified, the woman inhaled to let out a scream—but she didn’t get the chance. Before she could exhale, the strange apparition disappeared, leaving her alone in the bar again.

  “It was probably Caffee’s ghost, just like the property manager saw,” a friend of hers later suggested. “Ghosts sometimes appear as they looked earlier in their lives.”

  The decades since these sightings have left the Walker House with its doors closed, once more. The building can be found just outside Mineral Point, but it is no longer open to the public.

  Dell House Disturbances

  Gretchen Owens knew where she was: Wisconsin Dells, a place synonymous with summer fun. And she realized that this wonderland of restaurants and roller coasters was among the state’s most popular vacation destinations. But she wasn’t there to “do all of the touristy stuff.” She wanted to see a ghost.

  She had dragged her husband, Jeremy, and a couple of their friends to the spot beside the Wisconsin River where the Dell House used to stand. Built in 1837 by a man named Allen, the old inn was a hot spot for rivermen—rugged patrons looking for food, whiskey, gambling and women. Unfortunately, many of the Dell House’s patrons probably met their maker at the bottom of the river during that violent and lawless era.

  “This is the place,” Gretchen announced, dropping her camping gear to the ground.

  “Here?” said her husband. “Where’s the Dell House?”

  “It burned to the ground in 1910.”

  Her husband scanned the area. “Even so, shouldn’t there be something left behind? A foundation? Or a stone fireplace, maybe?”

  “Nope,” responded Gretchen, shaking her head. “There isn’t a trace of the Dell House anymore. It was entirely swallowed by the forest. Now let’s get to work. We’ll want to have the tents up and a fire started before dark.”

  The black night enveloped Gretchen, but daylight was drawing nearer. So far, no ghosts. Gretchen was beginning to believe that this trip would turn up fruitless.

  Oh, well, she thought, lying awake inside the tent she shared with Jeremy. At least we’re camping.

  It was 3 a.m., and Gretchen decided to get a couple hours of sleep. She was done waiting for uncooperative specters that refused to show themselves.

  An eruption of riotous laughter suddenly filled the air. It sounded like a dozen drunken men standing outside, and it chilled Gretchen far more than a Wisconsin night beside a river did.

  Jeremy bolted upright in bed. “What’s that?”

  Gretchen desperately wanted to answer, but she couldn’t. She thought she’d be brave. She thought she was mentally prepared for this. She wasn’t. She listened in horror to the bizarre noises, and she was afraid.

  To make matters worse, the joyful hysterics morphed into angry curses. Before long, the sounds of breaking glass echoed through the night, and pounding footsteps trampled around the vicinity.

  As Jeremy hurriedly began dressing, Gretchen at last willed herself to speak. “Where are you going?” she said, her voice barely audible.

  “Out there, to see what’s going on.”

  “But the ghosts...”

  Jeremy looked at Gretchen harshly, in a way that made her feel like a foolish child. “Those aren’t ghosts. It’s just a bunch of drunks wandering the forest.”

  “Way out here?” she cried.

  He chose to ignore her. “I’ll be right back,” he said, sliding out the tent’s entrance.

  Gretchen didn’t wait long for Jeremy’s return. Less than two minutes after he left, he dove back inside, practically landing on top of her. He was shaking—almost unnoticeably—and his face wore a stunned expression of disbelief.

  Gretchen wrapped her arms around him. “What’s wrong, Jeremy? Are you okay?”

  It took him a long moment to answer, but when he did speak, his voice was empty, hollow. “You were right,” he gasped. “There were people out there. They were walking around, lost. And then they were gone.”

  “What do you mean? They left?”

  “No, I saw them. I watched as they disappeared, faded away. They were ghosts!”

  The Phantom Walker

  The beautiful young chambermaid couldn’t help it; she was in love. Her heart almost burst with joy every time her traveling salesman returned to the Van Patten family’s Evansville House (in the south central town of Evansville), where she worked. The young woman knew that her beloved was already married, but she allowed the affair to continue for several months.

  Emotions ran high, and the man soon became obsessed with his mistress. His passion turned to jealousy. He grew paranoid and became certain that his lover would leave him. And so, late one night, in the heat of the moment, the frenzied salesman strangled the chambermaid. If he could not have her, neither would anyone else.

  Realizing the consequences of his actions, the man escaped from the inn and planned to catch a passi
ng train. Once out of town, he would disappear—never having to pay for the savage crime he had committed.

  However, the murdered girl was granted her retribution. Perhaps it was karma or perhaps the girl’s spirit released her wrath that very night, but somehow, the salesman fell onto the tracks. Caught under the wheels of a passing car, he died a horrible death. His spirit, however, returned to the scene of his crime...

  Mr. Van Patten sat awake in bed, listening to the heavy footfalls that paced back and forth in the hallway.

  “Are you going to see who it is?” asked his wife.

  He looked at her in frustrated annoyance. “We both already know. It’s the same thing that’s been waking us up at three in the morning every night this winter!”

  “At least if you check, the noise will stop for a while,” encouraged his wife.

  “But no one will be out there!” he snapped.

  Suddenly, the rhythm and the echo of the footsteps changed. They grew slower and more distant. Mr. Van Patten closed his eyes and crooked his head.

  “It sounds like it’s walking downstairs,” said his wife.

  The footsteps continued, step after step after step. Once they reached the first floor, those heavy-sounding boots marched toward the front door and stopped there.

  Mr. Van Patten listened as the entrance was unlatched and opened, and then as the ghost continued onto the outside porch.

  “Are you sure that’s the ghost?” said his wife.

  The owner leapt out of bed and dashed downstairs, but when he reached the front door, there wasn’t a trace of evidence that anyone else had been there. Even the freshly fallen snow outside lay undisturbed by footprints.

  Despite evidence to the contrary, Mr. Van Patten became certain that the Phantom Walker had finally left for good. And, in fact, he was right. The wandering spirit was never heard from again.

  Bantley Graveyard