Darrin told me he was a huge fan of Sherri’s and went to a lot of her haunted events. He also said he owned a 101-year-old family business, Troyer’s Trail Bologna, and noted that some strange things were happening at the factory. Darrin asked me if I might be interested in coming out to see what I could pick up.
Troyer’s Trail Bologna is a regionally famous brand of smoked meat that is sold in a ring, much like some kinds of kielbasa. The delicious meat has recently gone nationwide after having been a regional staple in Ohio since I was a child. At most of our area’s Christmas and holiday events, you are sure to find a tray of sliced Trail Bologna and Swiss cheese. It is still the go-to local snack food.
I told Darrin I’d be happy to come to his factory. We made small talk about my old love for Trail Bologna and his new love of ghost hunting. We set up a time, and a week later, my husband and I drove to the small town of Trail to visit Darrin’s company. My investigator friend Brian and his wife Lena of Massillon Ghost Hunters Society, met us there.
When we walked in, the first thing I noticed was the wonderful aroma of Trail Bologna. The meat is smoked, and the smell pervaded the building. In fact, our clothing smelled of this long after we left! Darrin then introduced us to his mom, who was also interested in seeing what I picked up psychically. We talked for a few minutes in that first small workroom, and I was already sensing and hearing things. There was the steady sensation of a presence just behind me, over by a shiny steel table that looked like a workstation. And the name “Ray” was being whispered in my head clairaudiently.
I pointed at the empty area beside the steel table. “Someone is over there; he likes to play pranks.” I walked toward the spot. “And there is someone named Ray too, but it’s someone different.” Darrin looked startled and told me his uncle had stood in that very spot at the steel table workstation for many years. Then he added that his uncle had passed away not too long ago. Darrin told me the new guy who worked in that spot now had been upset because someone kept flicking his ear and moving his things around—almost like they were playing pranks on him. Then Darrin added that his uncle was quite a prankster!
Darrin’s mother confirmed his uncle’s practical-jokester ways and then added another piece to the psychic puzzle when she told me, “I had a young nephew named Ray.” Darrin’s mom asked if I’d seen the small creek that ran past out front. She explained that there was a bridge that spanned it farther down. One year, the creek was swollen from spring rains and young Ray stood on the bridge, mesmerized by the rushing water. The family speculated that the boy became dizzy while staring at the fast-moving flow, lost his balance, fell in, and drowned. Ray’s body was lost somewhere downstream. Darrin’s dad then told them there was a strange tradition, sort of an old wives’ tale, but it always worked to find a drowned body; you just put some bread into the water, and it would stop right above wherever the body had traveled to. So Darrin’s dad put a piece of bread in the creek and tracked it, watching as it traveled downstream. It made the sharp right turn down at the end of the road and came to rest above an area almost a mile and a quarter away. The men pulled away some brush, and there they found young Ray’s body wedged under it at that very spot.
I told Darrin I’d never heard of this before. Later on, I researched this and found a 1767 London Gentleman’s Magazine telling of using bread infused with quicksilver to find a drowned body. An 1819 newspaper in Pennsylvania also documented a similar procedure, as did no less a personage than Mark Twain, who wrote about this method in his novel The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
Darrin led the way, and our little group began a walking tour through the factory. I gave my impressions as Darrin pointed out various areas. Darrin’s mother stayed behind, seated comfortably in the front section as the rest of us walked deeper into the bowels of the building. We saw huge carcasses of beef hanging in coolers, traveled through smaller rooms equipped with tables and machines, and finally we came to a spot where I sensed a lot of movement—a sort of tossing motion, almost like a game of some kind. I stood at the spot where I felt this had been going on and showed Darrin what I sensed, swinging my arm as though throwing something. He laughed and then pointed to a place on the floor where my imaginary trajectory would have landed whatever was being thrown.
“This used to be an open pit here; the guys would finish with the bones they’d stripped of meat and then throw them down to the truck below. And yes, they made a game out of it most of the time.” We continued on until we came to a long room with large, shiny metal boxes encasing conveyor belts and cutting machines. Glazed yellow tile covered the walls.
Darrin asked me what I sensed there. I walked slowly into the room while the others stayed back at the door. At the far end of the room, beside the tallest metal box, which was just about shoulder height, I felt a sense of anger—and of something being thrown again. There was a knife lying on top of the tall metal case. Darrin walked over as soon as I pointed out where I felt all this emotion.
“This is right where the latest incident took place, and it scared us all pretty badly,” Darrin said.
Darrin explained that the two men who worked in this area were at their stations, one on each end of the room. The guy on my side of the room was at the conveyor belt, and Darrin pointed to the flat surface of the tall, shiny metal case where the knife lay, then down to where the man stood beside it. The other man was across the room talking to Darrin’s brother and uncle. Darrin had just walked in that day and was headed toward his brother and uncle at the far end of the room. Suddenly he heard something hit the wall behind him and clatter to the floor. Darrin had turned around to see the worker behind him backing up, white-faced. The worker started yelling, “The knife! Something threw the knife against the wall. I watched it take off from a dead stop!”
Darrin told me there was no slanted surface nor anything that could’ve allowed the knife to slide or move suddenly. Darrin had glanced over at the guys on the other end of the room and noted the look on his uncle’s face, which told him right away something strange had happened. Darrin then explained that his uncle is a total skeptic. He doesn’t believe in any type of paranormal shenanigans. When Darrin finally walked over to his uncle that day, he leaned in and whispered to Darrin, “I saw the knife take off and hit the wall too.” Darrin’s uncle was as shaken as the workers.
A sharp knife hurtling across a room would seem to be a seriously aggressive act to most people. It would definitely be cause for concern. Darrin and I talked a little while about that room, but the entire incident somehow still felt like a prank to me. More like maybe the little boy, Ray, was trying to get their attention.
Darrin explained that this knife incident is what really got him interested in ghost hunting. He’d already been going to Sherri’s haunted-venue events, and this prompted him to get more involved. Darrin went right out and bought a digital voice recorder and soon after started the Amish Paranormal Society. He went right back to that room in the factory the night he bought the recorder, and that’s when he got his first EVP. Darrin pulled out his voice recorder as we walked out of the room. He turned it on and I listened to the playback. Darrin could be heard saying, “You can throw that knife again if you want—just not at us.” Then a voice clearly whispers, “Where is it?”
Darrin had caught a class A EVP for sure. And it sounded like a young boy’s voice. Maybe it was Ray, the boy who’d drowned, just trying to let them know he was still there, that he’d thrown the knife, but more likely to get attention than for evil intent.
Next, Darrin led the way down a flight of stairs, pointing out a set of upper smoking alcoves, where he described an encounter he had one night.
He had been cleaning, washing down these alcoves, which got dirty after smoking the meat. They were made of glazed tile. Darrin explained that when they were clean, they reflected images very well, especially when anyone walked through the room. There was only one other guy there with Darrin tha
t night, and he was somewhere else in the building. As Darrin washed down the tile, he could clearly see a person coming up behind him in the tile’s reflection. The man asked, “How much longer until you’re done?” Darrin answered that it shouldn’t be too long, that he was on the last one. Just then, Darrin’s coworker yelled from the other room: “Who are you talking to?” When his coworker walked in, Darrin realized he’d been having a conversation with “something,” but it sure wasn’t his coworker! Darrin asked his coworker if he’d just been talking, and he told Darrin he’d been out front but had heard Darrin carrying on a conversation with someone! That freaked Darrin out pretty badly too. Not only a full-bodied apparition casting a shadow on the tiles, but an intelligent haunting, one that conversed with Darrin—it was the holy grail of ghost hunting. But then again, the family business had been run by Darrin’s family members and ancestors for over a hundred years.
Another time, during their busy season, which is in November and December, Darrin had already worked a thirteen-hour day. He’d gone home, but needed to run back to the factory for something. He was there alone, and as he finished and walked to the door to leave, he heard someone whistling a tune! Darrin stopped and told them, “I’ve had a long day, but it you want to communicate with me, I’d be more than happy to stay a little while longer.” Then he added, “I like to whistle too.” Then Darrin whistled a little bit. Darrin waited, but nothing else happened so he turned to leave. Just then, something whistled again! Darrin waited a few minutes more and said, “Okay, I have to go now, but I’ll be back in the morning.” And as he turned to go, there was one quick, short whistle.
I asked Darrin if there had been any workers who liked to whistle, and he told me his prankster uncle had.
I told Darrin how cool I thought it was that his family business still had his family there in the afterlife! But I regretted expressing that sentiment soon after.
We descended the stairs into a small narrow room: the smoker, where the wood was burned and tended by whichever man was in charge. As soon as I walked into the room, a heavy, almost overwhelming sense of despair seemed to squash the life out of me. It was so severe, I suddenly had a lot of trouble getting my breath. I told Darrin what I was feeling, but he didn’t respond. Walking toward the far end of the room, I came to the place where it was strongest.
“So much heaviness—sadness and despair, right here.”
I pointed at a small table and chair against the wall. “Someone in desperate pain—the negative energy is still here—the black thoughts, running over and over in someone’s head; anguish, sorrow—helplessness to fight it, or overcome it.” I tried to take in a deep breath through the feeling. It was a sensation like someone sitting squarely on my chest. I could barely breathe. Suddenly, the name “Earl” was whispered in my mind. “Who is Earl? I’m being told Earl?” Was Earl enough? Was Earl okay? Did he do enough to help you? I did not understand, and hoped Darrin would have some idea what it meant.
Darrin finally confessed that this made sense to him because his father had committed suicide. The room that they called the smoker is where his father worked most of the time. My own father had ended his life, and I could relate to the kind of pain this left behind in a family. Darrin’s father must’ve sat here day after day, contemplating suicide, and this is what I had been sensing. It was just so sad there, so oppressive and thick with negative energy. I knew I needed to do something to try somehow to lighten things.
Darrin spoke again. “Earl is the man who stepped up and became like a father to me after my dad died. Earl saw me through everything, and he still thinks of me as his son.”
I asked Darrin if he minded if I tried to talk to his dad. I was suddenly feeling a deep sense of guilt in the atmosphere, of a father’s anguish that he’d left his young son, Darrin, and his family behind. And that, most of all, he regretted it.
Darrin gave me permission to try.
I sat down on a little stool beside the table. “Your family doesn’t blame you; they love you and they understand.” I paused, and hoped someone was listening. “Earl stepped up and was there for Darrin after you died,” I told the quiet room. “Earl filled in for you; there’s no reason to carry this pain and guilt any longer. Darrin turned out fine. He’s a man now. He’s running your business and doing very well. And he’s happy. He doesn’t blame you. He forgives you. It’s time to go to God, to the light, to leave here and be happy now. You’ve suffered long enough.”
Darrin and my friend Brian were standing a few feet away from me, and at that moment, they felt a cold breeze rush between them. They looked at one another, startled, and Darrin asked if Brian had felt that. Brian nodded. I stood up, and we all walked to the door.
It immediately felt better in the previously thick, depressing room. I couldn’t believe how the atmosphere had changed, although I’d witnessed this before. The heaviness was completely gone, and even those without any psychic abilities could sense it.
We stood by the door talking quietly about the factory and what we’d seen and experienced so far. At one point, I mentioned one of the rooms being dead quiet, then I joked, “no pun intended.” We headed back upstairs, comforted at what seemed to be a successful release of negative energy. The thought of possibly having reassured the spirit of Darrin’s father and setting him free cast a warm glow upon us all. We wound up our brief investigation and said our goodbyes, and Darrin gave me a ring of my favorite Trail Bologna on my way out.
The next day, Darrin called and played an EVP. It was recorded while I’d been talking with the group, right after I’d spoken out loud to Darrin’s dad. When I said, “It was dead quiet—no pun intended,” there was an EVP of a little giggle, an invisible someone laughing at my joke! Once again, it sounded like a younger child.
I think Darrin’s father’s energy was released from that sad room, but I think that Ray, the young boy who drowned, stays on. Because he likes it there! It’s his family, it’s all he’s ever known, and I don’t think it will be easy convincing him to go to the light. To Ray, I believe the bologna factory is his own little slice of heaven. And Darrin is okay with that too.
I spoke with Darrin recently, and he told me that the week before, there had been several incidents that took place at the factory.
His twelve-year-old nephew, Jerrod, had been coming in occasionally with Darrin’s brother. Jerrod and Darrin were the only ones in a particular section of the building that day. Darrin saw his nephew walk through the doorway to the other room, but then turn around suddenly and come back to where Darrin was. Darrin looked up and saw his nephew’s face was ashy white. Darrin asked him what was wrong, but he just answered that nothing was. Darrin told his nephew he knew something was wrong just from the look on his face! Darrin walked over to him and noticed the hair on his arms was standing straight up. “You saw something didn’t you?” Darrin asked him. Finally, he got it out of him. His nephew said he’d walked into the big room—the room where I’d sensed the bones being thrown—and saw a man with an apron walk from one side of the room, all the way across, and then disappear into the wall. It scared the poor kid half to death.
There is an old medicine cabinet on one wall in that room as well, and just a few days before the full-bodied apparition appeared, Darrin and his nephew saw the cabinet open up, then close itself again. Darrin wasn’t going to say anything when it first happened so as not to scare his nephew. After all, he was only twelve. But then Darrin noticed his nephew staring at the medicine cabinet, so he asked him if he’d seen that happen. He had. They got the heck out of there that night. It was just a little too active for their taste!
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Part Two
Returns From Beyond
As long as humans have existed, there have been ghost stories. Many of these stories concern loved ones returning after their death to say farewell, to give a message, or in some cases, to warn of some impending danger. Many other spi
rits and hauntings seem to have no rhyme or reason; the motive has been lost over the passage of time. As investigators and fellow human beings, we owe those who come back after death our efforts to understand their messages. Even if they came back just to say goodbye, we can be thankful they were able to manage what must be a very difficult feat. If it wasn’t so difficult to return, there would be far more ghost stories.
7
Never Say Goodbye
My son James had returned many times right after his death, but the visits had slowed down some. It seemed that he showed up sometimes when I talked out loud to him. I actually did that a lot—it was almost unconscious. And then I’d catch myself doing it and worry that I was disturbing his peace, somehow calling him back with my ongoing pain. But I didn’t mean to do that in any negative way, it was more a matter of including him in my life. And it just made me feel better. It got me through another day. The loss of a child is very hard.
After the rough investigation where I found out about the poor woman’s body stuffed down a well, I arrived home to my little dog Bo Bo greeting me at the back door enthusiastically. I realized I was so tired, I needed to lie down for a quick nap before I did anything else, mostly to try to lose the headache I’d developed after using psychic abilities intensely.
“Ah, James, I’m glad to be home,” I said out loud as I stretched out on the bed. I fell into a deep sleep. I’d barely been asleep ten minutes when suddenly the sound of the chain lock on my bedroom door smacking hard against the wood jerked me up, wide awake. Such a familiar and distinctive sound; I’d heard it a thousand times. I thought at first that maybe it was my husband, but no one was there. I stared at the swinging chain and called, “James?” Nothing, no response.
So much for my nap. I got up and went in search of my husband, only to find him in the basement studio. I told him what had happened, and we sat there for a while in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Finally, I went back upstairs to get that cup of tea I’d been craving all evening.
The Dead are Watching Page 5