In 1970, the unrest on college campuses drove the evening news stories: protest marches, burnings of ROTC buildings, and all the trappings of the anti-war movement were beamed nightly into living rooms across the country in living color. Here in my home state of Ohio, the culmination of a series of events at Kent State University forever destroyed what was left of the innocence of the baby-boom generation.
On May 4, 1970, the National Guard fired into a group of student protesters, killing four of them and wounding nine more. Two of the dead had participated in the protests, but the other two were simply walking to their next class. One of the dead was an honor student at Kent State who had participated in the protest. She was also only nineteen years old.
It was a warm and sunny spring day as I drove to see Mem (short for her given name of Memory), to hear a story she wanted to tell me. Mem greeted me at the door with a big smile and we caught up on each other’s news as I set up my voice recorder. I’d known Mem for quite some time, as she was my cousin Joyce’s sister-in-law. But I’d never heard her ghost stories.
Mem brought iced tea right away, and it was refreshing on such a hot day. We made small talk while we sipped our beverages in her cozy and spotless living room. Finally, I told her I was ready to record her story, and she joked it might make her nervous, once the pressure was on. I reassured her that everyone else felt the same way, but it had always turned out good—so far at least. I turned on the recorder, and she began.
Mem was a student at Kent State in 1970, and the girl who was shot and killed by the National Guard lived about three doors down from her at their dormitory. The dorm was named Engleman Hall, and it was an M-shaped building that had mostly single rooms and just a few doubles. Both the girl and Mem each had a single room.
The back of Engleman Hall looked out on the commons where the riots started. Then above that was a hill; Blanket Hill is what the students called it, because in warm weather they would all spread blankets out on the hill and sit in the sun.
I told Mem I’d never seen Kent’s main campus, but had heard a lot of stories from those who went to college there.
Memory told me that this particular story had never been told before, at least she’d never heard it, or read it anywhere. Only those who lived there at the time would even know about it, unless, of course, it still goes on today. Mem didn’t even know if that building was still used as a dorm.
Mem wasn’t a close friend of the girl, but they knew each other well enough to say hi when they passed in the hallway. Of course, it was a terrible shock to them all when she was shot and killed. They were all so young.
The girl was only nineteen, and they all thought it was terrible to die at that age, so full of life and promise. For many of the students, it was their first experience with death.
Kent held a mothers’ weekend each year in the spring, for students to invite their mothers up. Memory’s mom and her friend’s mom came up that year, the first year after the shootings. Memory’s mother was there in the room with her, along with Mem’s friend, and her mother too. The festivities Kent had held that day were over, and it was about 9:00 in the evening. The small group was sitting around the room talking, when all of a sudden, Mem’s mother said, “Listen—someone’s crying!”
I got a little cold chill as Mem said this.
They all quieted down in the dorm room, and the others could hear it too, just the clear, distinct sound of sobbing coming from somewhere. But Mem and her friend knew this sound very well, as they’d both heard it before. All of the students who lived there had heard it, and they’d all talked about it—and many times, they’d gone in search of it, trying to pinpoint where the crying was coming from.
The first time Mem and her friends heard it, some of them went out with the thought that somebody was very upset and maybe they could help in some way. Maybe just try to find whoever it was and do something about it. But it wasn’t coming from a room. It was coming from everywhere; it was in the hall and seemed to be all around them. The dormmates walked up and down the halls trying to find who was crying—and then the crying would stop. Then sometimes it would start up again just as they went back into their rooms.
So Mem’s mother and her friend’s mom were both sitting there with them on that mothers’ weekend, witnessing the crying that all the students had grown accustomed to.
“Don’t you hear that person crying?” Mem’s mother asked her. “Shouldn’t you go see if you can help, or do something?”
Mem and her friend just looked at each other.
“Mom, we think it’s her crying, the girl who was shot,” Mem told her mom. “We’ve all heard it before and have walked up and down trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from, but we never can. We’ve all sort of decided it’s her, crying over her death.”
Her mother was shocked at hearing this. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “That’s someone here on this floor! C’mon, let’s go out and see who it is.”
Mem and her friend just looked at each other again and shrugged. So both their mothers led the way, and the girls followed, searching up and down the hall as the crying came from everywhere and nowhere on that weekend very near the first anniversary of the girl’s tragic death. Finally, Mem’s mom gave up and they all went back to her room. Her mother admitted that she believed Mem was right, that it really was the girl who’d died. Her mom was actually very open to these kinds of things, once all other avenues were explored.
I felt such sadness at this story.
The college girls had all been hearing the girl crying off and on for that first year after her death. But Mem doesn’t remember it happening after that first year. For the rest of her life, Mem’s mother mentioned the crying to her every so often. It had made an impression on her. All Mem knows is that it made quite an impression on her, as she’d never experienced anything like that before, at least not to that degree.
Mem and I sat lost in thought at this tragic young girl, mourning her previous carefree college life.
I hope that this poor sad girl went to the light and gave up her attachment to the site of her appalling death, even though she did mourn the loss of her life for at least that first year. This is one of the most heartbreaking stories of a haunting I’ve ever heard.
Our tea was half gone, and though I was still stuck in the gloom of the previous story, I shook it off, remembering what I came for. I asked Mem if she had any more for me.
Lucky for me, Mem did.
The house Mem grew up in was part of her grandparents’ home. After her grandparents died, her parents inherited the house and built an addition, a split-level. So the basement section was original to the house when it was Mem’s grandma and grandpa’s. As a kid, she used to play down there, fondly recalling the cubbyholes, tools, workbench, and other fun stuff. There was even a fake wall that when you pressed on the right spot, it would open into a room with shelves.
One day, Mem was alone in the house, down in the basement doing something. She heard footsteps come in upstairs and start walking around, in both the bedroom and kitchen area. Mem’s brother was ten years younger than her and still in elementary school, so she figured it was him upstairs and that she’d better go check on him. She went up and looked around everywhere, even outside, but her brother wasn’t there. She wasn’t really scared; she just sort of figured it was her grandpa.
Mem’s brother grew up to be a total skeptic, but even he’d heard the walking one day. This was when he was older—Mem had moved away by then. Her brother was in his bedroom, just five or six steps up in the split-level part of the house. He heard someone walking up from the same area Mem had heard it before. Mem’s brother thought it was the dog, then realized the dog was on the bed with him! Mem said her brother never even mentioned this to her until years later.
There was also a light over the kitchen table—it was the original light in the house, back when Mem’s grandma
and grandpa lived there. Her grandpa had been really proud of the house; he’d picked it out, and it was his baby. He was very proud of certain things like that, and he took good care of everything.
Long after her grandpa had died, the light was getting old, and definitely had seen better days. It was one of those lights that you could pull down closer to the table, or push back up. It finally got to where you would move the light up, and it would slowly slide back down. It just wouldn’t stay up any longer.
One night, Mem’s mom got exasperated at her husband and said, “If my dad were here, that light would be fixed!” And somehow, by the next day, it was! But Mem’s dad swore he never fixed it. And really, there wasn’t any time he could’ve fixed it between Mem’s mother putting the challenge out there and the time her dad was away at work, and then when the light was fixed. So the rest of the family always believed Grandpa came back and fixed the light!
“I bet he did!” I laughed. “That was a challenge if I ever heard one!”
Mem then told me a story about Dover Dam, near where I live. It was a huge Army Corps of Engineers project from the 1920s and was built across a large river that runs between our towns.
Each summer when Mem was home from college, a bunch of her friends would get together at night and go somewhere, to the lake or wherever they could think of to go. One night they drove out to Dover Dam. They parked their cars down on the lower ground level, via a small access road that led to a picnic area beside the river. While out sitting at the table, they suddenly got a weird feeling. A couple of them looked up and saw a shadow of a man standing at the railing near a workroom in the dam. But this was late at night, and the workroom was closed. The shadow was visible under the lights, but you couldn’t see any features or details of his face, just a thick, black shadow outlined in the lights. They turned to tell their friends, looked back, and he was gone. There were no cars anywhere around, and the dam is in the middle of nowhere, so it’s not like someone would be walking by. It was really creepy and they all got spooked by it and left. Later, when they found out about the workmen who had been killed while building the dam, they were pretty freaked out.
I explained that they may have witnessed a shadow person, considered a type of paranormal entity that some believe is malevolent. Others believe that some spirits present themselves this way. There are differing opinions in the paranormal investigations field, and the truth is, no one really knows for sure.
“It was pretty creepy that night, a real cringe-worthy feeling!” Mem added.
There are so many unexplained things; that’s the only thing we can know for sure sometimes. Talking about these kinds of experiences often brings up other old memories for people, and Mem was no exception. She thought of something she hadn’t remembered in years. Mem had a professor at seminary who was very close to her; she babysat his kids and was treated as part of their family. Mem graduated in June, and in September she was in bed sleeping one night when there was a huge thump against the wall and a loud crashing sound along with a vibration that woke her up. It was way too loud a sound for a bird. Mem was on the second floor, so she couldn’t figure out what it was that had caused this. After searching around and finding nothing out of place, she finally went back to sleep. The next morning, Mem got a call from another professor telling her that her professor friend had died at the same time the noise hit the house and woke her. It seemed far more than just a coincidence.
I explained to Mem that this actually seems to happen a lot. Sometimes those who pass away seem to want to let us know they’ve died, especially when their deaths were unexpected or sudden. I’ve also found a lot of stories where a sick relative has hung on and on—until their loved ones gave them permission to go. And sometimes it seems they won’t go if you’re there with them; they don’t want to leave with you there. This happened with my own grandma. She was only a couple months away from turning one hundred. She always told everyone she wanted to make it to that centennial birthday. My dad had been visiting her in the hospital, and she was doing fine. She’d been admitted because of some minor problems. My dad talked to his mother for quite a while, and then he told her he’d be back later. He’d no sooner left Grandma’s room and started down the hallway, when a nurse came out of her room and called to Dad. He turned back, and she told him Gram had died, just after the nurse walked in.
“That happened with my grandma too!” Mem told me. Her grandmother lived in an apartment just a few blocks away from them when she was young. Her grandmother was ill and nearing the end. Hospice had been contacted and they brought in a hospital bed. Mem’s mother visited her grandma and told her it was okay to go. She told her, “I’ll be okay. My husband and family will watch over me.” Mem’s mother had ridden her bike to her grandma’s house, as it was just a few blocks. After her mother gave Mem’s grandma permission to leave, she told her she had to go home and get dinner ready for her husband and family, and she left. She just got home and got the call from hospice that her mother had just passed away.
I finished my tea, thanking Mem for making time to tell me her experiences. As I drove away, I thought about my next interview appointment. So many ghost stories, so little time—and I had an appointment to hear another one the next day.
[contents]
11
Colonial Ghosts
My friend Bart has a long history with Schoenbrunn, the colonial settlement where the terrible massacre of innocents took place two centuries ago. I’d met Bart years ago at a restaurant where I was performing. I’d also seen him perform many times in various plays he’d starred in. A talented actor and singer, Bart was well known in my area, and we also had mutual friends. My cousin Joyce had worked with him when she was very young. Joyce had met Bart when she was an usher for an outdoor drama that showcases the story of the massacre. Bart has performed various parts in the drama over the years.
The drama is held just across the valley from the reconstructed colonial village of Schoenbrunn. The play takes place during the summer months at an outdoor amphitheater surrounded by forest and hills. One day while Joyce and I talked about her latest ghost doll, she told me that Bart had some stories to tell me.
I drove to meet Bart where he was doing some tech work in preparation for a play. When I walked into the theater, I met him coming up the aisle. We hugged and Bart caught me up on what he’d been up to.
“I’ve been pretty busy lately. I’m now playing the lead in a couple plays and also doing some directing.” I told him I couldn’t wait to see him in the lead role he’d been playing at the outdoor drama. Bart thanked me and told me he was enjoying the work, then got down to business.
I explained that I wanted to hear anything about his brushes with the other side, and Bart began to give me a little background about theater first. He explained that
a lot of preparation goes into putting on a theatrical performance, particularly an outdoor drama. Early on, auditions for various cast members take place, then later on the actors who win parts arrive from all over the country and live here for the summer months of the production. Many of the new cast members each year are from other states, so they know next to nothing about the history of our area of Ohio. They know nothing about the massacre, the subject of the outdoor drama. So a tradition has sprung up among Bart and the local actors. They take the entire cast down to the mass grave of the villagers (all Christian Indians) of Schoenbrunn. Bart always does this on opening night after the first performance.
The actors take flowers to the graves of the massacred villagers, and they promise to tell their story so they’ll never be forgotten. The actors want to get their blessing while telling their story during the play. They sing the final song of the production, a Moravian hymn, and then they walk solemnly through the grounds. They also take a list of the victims’ names and read them out loud, just to let them know the living still think of them.
Bart said they finish by talking about t
he history and answering any questions about the massacre from the out-of-state cast members.
I told Bart that it was a really nice gesture, and it went a long way toward making up for the lack of respect the massacre victims originally experienced, paranormally speaking. That sort of acknowledgment is believed to calm negative energy at a site of a terrible tragedy. Bart instinctively knew this already, and he agreed with me.
The caretakers of the grounds and the museum are great supporters of the production and know all of
the local cast members very well. Bart said they usually take the cast members down there at least once before the production starts to introduce them and teach them a little of the history. The caretakers always give the new cast members a tour.
On this particular opening night, once the show was over, Bart and his fellow actors all went down to do their yearly ceremony. The show ends late, so it was close to midnight when they arrived. The buildings that have been reconstructed—the church and the cooper’s cabin where the massacre took place—are kept padlocked at night. The cast members placed their flowers, read the names of the massacre victims, and then sang their hymn. When they finished, they walked over toward the buildings. One of the cast members came running back to tell Bart that the padlock on the church had been left open. So Bart walked over to check the cooper’s cabin, and sure enough, it was unlocked too. Bart knew they were always kept locked at night. The buildings had a simple hinge-type hasp, and it was open, but the padlock was on the hinge, closed and locked.
It was also pretty dark that night—there were no lights. Suddenly, Bart and his fellow actors all began to feel a heavy presence; they could absolutely sense the victims with them, there in the dark. It was electric. Bart had never felt this before, not in all the previous trips he’d made down there on opening nights. Everyone there felt it and were in awe. The new members had never been in the buildings at night, and it was an entirely different feeling than in daylight.
The Dead are Watching Page 9