by Mark Nesbitt
A number of shipwrecks have occurred off Point Lookout. The steamship Express was out of Baltimore when she ran into a gale. One Mr. Haney attempted to row to the Point Lookout Lighthouse for help, but his tiny boat capsized and he was drowned, his body washing up on the rocks the next morning. Someone living in the lighthouse reported having seen a man at the door in “old-fashioned clothing,” who when the door was opened “floated” across the yard toward the Chesapeake Bay.
Gerry Sword heard snoring coming from, of all places, the kitchen (which may or may not have been a kitchen to the entity who snores.) One night he saw figures moving through the house.
In March 1977, a park ranger who had just been hired was out near the lighthouse checking weather instruments located there. A short distance away he saw an elderly woman walking around, looking at the ground as if she had lost something in the grass. He approached her and asked if there was anything he could do to help. He remembered some details: “She seemed very distant and our conversation was very brief. I only remember three points she made: she did not need my assistance, she lived up the beach a-ways, and she asked if I knew where the gravestones were that used to be where we were standing.”
He continued, “About five minutes later, while I was walking back to my truck, which I had left parked near the river, I noticed that the woman had disappeared. It was then that I realized the adjacent parking lot was empty. Furthermore, from my vantage point since our conversation, I would have had to have seen any cars entering or leaving the area. None had.”
Later he spoke to Gerry Sword about the strange woman and her virtual disappearance. Sword told him that at one time the Taylor family had their family graveyard in that area. The exact location is now not known, but its former existence is indisputable. One of the individuals buried in the graveyard was named Elizabeth Taylor. Apparently, someone had once found her missing burial plot and stole her headstone, dooming her grave to oblivion. Later, the gravestone was found in a local hotel by a vigilant park ranger.
The same ranger reported seeing someone running from the location of the campground, across the road to the woods off park property. He has seen the figure several times, always in the daylight and always in his rearview mirror. Other rangers have seen the figure as well at different times of the day and different times of the year. The area from where the figure emerges is near the Confederate cemetery for victims of the smallpox epidemic that struck the camp. The figure would have been running away from the smallpox hospital adjacent to the cemetery.
Historians claim that Confederate prisoners, in an effort to escape, would tell their captors they had the symptoms of smallpox. The guards would hurry them to the hospital, whereupon the “sick” soldiers would miraculously be well enough to run away towards the woods. Apparently some indeed had infected themselves by going to the hospital, and died in the woods. Could this be the entity rangers see dashing across the road?
Andersonville, Georgia
Andersonville prison was built in early 1864 to alleviate the crowded conditions in the prisons near Richmond, Virginia. It was open only fourteen months, yet its legacy of privation is as raw today as it was in May 1865 when it closed. In all, more than 45,000 Union soldiers were interned within the 26.5 acres. Men were jammed cheek to jowl even after it had been expanded from its original 16.5 acres just six months after it opened. Of those who were confined within its 15-foot-high stockade, some 13,000 died from exposure to the elements, disease, lack of sanitation, or starvation.
Beginning in February 1864, prisoners arrived by train at the rate of 400 a day. In June, 26,000 were encamped in a space meant for 10,000. By August 1864, the stockade held its highest number—32,000 in nearly unbearable conditions. One trickling stream, Stockade Branch, ran sluggishly through the camp and was used for washing, a latrine, and—unbelievably—drinking. The bakery and cookhouse were located upstream, outside the stockade, and added to the pollution.
Newly arrived prisoners, after being marched the short distance from the railroad depot in the town of Andersonville, entered the stockade through two doors. The outer door was closed and the inner door was opened to reveal what many thought was a vision of hell. There were no permanent shelters, only what the soldiers called “shebangs,” bits of cloth, wood, or branches set up as lean-tos, the only shelter from the savage Georgia sun. The new men were called “fresh fish” and often became the victims of the more seasoned inmates, relieved of any valuables they may have brought with them. They were shown the “dead line,” a single-railed fence 19 feet inside the stockade wall, the crossing of which meant death from an armed sentry overhead in a “pigeon roost.”
The springhouse protecting Providence Spring at Andersonville.
Not only were the prisoners guarded night and day inside the prison, there were eight earthen forts containing artillery surrounding the camp to discourage Federal attempts at freeing the prisoners.
Soon the Stockade Branch was inadequate to supply water for all those interned. In August 1864, a heavy thunderstorm—some swore it was a lightning strike during that storm—uncovered another spring, which the prisoners named “Providence Spring,” just outside the dead line. In an act of kindness, Capt. Henry Wirz, the commander in charge of Andersonville, allowed the men to divert the water via a flume into the camp.
In time, a new horror plagued the prisoners. A group of savage bullies known as the “Raiders” began to rob men of clothing, food, and other valuables, some essential to life itself in the prison. A police force known as the “Regulators” was formed, rounded up the Raiders, and put them on trial. Captain Wirz recognized this as legitimate and when the trial was over had six of the Raiders hanged. They lie buried in the Andersonville National Cemetery, but segregated from the rest of the men who died there.
The camp was finally liberated in May 1865, but not until 12,914 of the men held there had died. Careful attention was made upon each burial to record a number on a wooden marker and a corresponding name in a register book. Still, some 460 are unknown, men who gave not only their freedom, lives, and futures for their country, but their very identities. With their signature on an oath of allegiance to the Confederacy, they could have been released. They chose death instead, some wondering at the end, after the prisoner exchange system was halted, whether they had been forgotten by the country for which they suffered so much.
At their liberation, photographs were taken of some of the emaciated prisoners. When the public saw them, they demanded justice. And while the cessation of the prisoner exchange system was part of the cause for the overcrowding in all the prisons, North and South, someone must pay. When Union soldiers arrived to liberate the camp in May, the entire staff had fled—all but Captain Wirz, who was promptly arrested.
Nearly 13,000 men died at Andersonville. Many are interred at Andersonville National Cemetery.
Wirz was taken to Washington, tried, and hanged. Some of his accusers perjured themselves by accusing him of beating and shooting prisoners during August 1864. The fact that Wirz was on leave because of sickness that month didn’t seem to matter. As he stood on the gallows awaiting his death, Union guards around the yard chanted over and over, “Wirz, remember Andersonville.” He died a scapegoat.
Andersonville Ghosts
If human suffering and the expenditure of emotional energy are two of the reasons why spirits are bound to a specific area, it is not surprising that prisoner-of-war camps have ghost stories associated with them. That must be particularly true of Andersonville, Georgia, where some 45,000 men suffered humiliation, starvation, brutality, disease, and lack of water for the fourteen months the prison was open. For the nearly 13,000 men who died during that same time, the near certainty of death became a stark, terrifying reality as life slowly ebbed away. And for at least one spirit, it is the utter unfairness of his situation that perhaps causes him to still walk the road outside the camp, many decades after his execution.
One of the continuing sightings on some of
the roads that lead to Andersonville National Historical Site is of a Confederate officer. He is, in contrast to any prisoner’s ghost one might see there, impeccable in his dress. It certainly is strange for motorists driving along Route 49 to see what they must think is a reenactor walking alone along one of the less-travelled roads in that part of Georgia. Besides the historic site, which is usually closed by 5:00 P.M., the citizens of the small town of Andersonville would have heard about a prankster in their midst who likes to dress up and risk his life by prowling the roads at night. If it is a prankster playing a ghost, it is one who has passed his avocation down through several generations, for this is one of the oldest legends associated with Andersonville.
The apparition of the officer has been, to the satisfaction of most who have seen or heard of him, identified. He is the former commander in charge of Andersonville, Capt. Henry Wirz, who was taken to Washington after the war, tried, and put to death by hanging for his role in running the camp.
One woman who lives across the street from the old prison camp posted her experiences on the Ghosts of America website. Along with her husband, she has seen uniformed men moving across their property. Voices and calls of distress emanate from the surrounding woods. Frighteningly, the activity is not confined to outside the home. Inside, doorknobs shake on their own and shadows can be seen moving about. Not surprisingly, the woman occasionally gets a feeling that makes her exceedingly uncomfortable.
Another woman who visited Andersonville some three decades ago also posted on the Ghosts of America site. While she and her family were listening to a ranger talk in the old visitor center, she glanced over to a corner and saw a young man standing there. She was “shocked” by his disheveled appearance and wondered why someone would visit a historic site dressed in such ragged clothing. Then she realized that he “did not exist below the knees.” The floating wraith then realized that she had seen him and responded by giving her a weak smile before simply vanishing before her eyes.
The stories she heard during the family visit to Andersonville gave her nightmares for days after their visit. It took twenty-five years for her to return. Expecting to see the young man again, she was disappointed, but still felt the overwhelming sadness of the place once conveyed by the soldier.
Visitors to the site, in addition to seeing shadowy forms move about the area and hearing disquieting cries from the nearby woods, have had their olfactory senses assaulted. The stench of the camp, in reality, must have been overpoweringly nauseating: human waste floating down Stockade Branch; bodies and clothing soaked with perspiration, unwashed for months on end; the dead piling up in the heat waiting to be taken to the cemetery. Perhaps that is why one veteran at Andersonville, according to Daniel Cohen in Hauntings and Horrors, was reminded of his days in the service and the ungodly smell of a military field hospital. The only problem was this was a veteran of the Vietnam War, and the smell was coming from a camp that had been closed over a hundred years before his visit.
While human suffering is a known cause for a haunting, intense human compassion can also trap souls in an area. This may explain the several sightings of a man, dressed in a black frock and carrying an umbrella, moving through the camp site and then vanishing. According to Alan Brown in Haunted Georgia,he has tentatively been identified by park officials from the descriptions of eyewitnesses as Father Whelan, a priest who visited the ill and dying within the camp. Prisoners remembered he often carried an umbrella to shade himself from the blistering Georgia sun.
Carol and I visited Andersonville on the afternoon of June 7 and again in the morning of June 8, 2011. The heat was stifling; it came in waves up the gentle slope from the lower area where Stockade Branch and Providence Spring ran. I couldn’t imagine living with that heat day and night for months on end.
The first visit I attempted to gather EVP twice. The first attempt I asked “What did you think of this place called Andersonville?” The answer, at 3 seconds into recording #1629, sounds to me like a male voice and whispers ominously, “Life breeds in hell.”
The next day I asked several more questions, mostly for the Raiders at their gravesites, which yielded little. Perhaps it was because I was disgusted with their activities to take advantage of their fellow prisoners who were weaker. My questions were along the line of “Were you proud of what you did?” and the like. It’s a technique for getting EVP called “enticement.” Perhaps I sounded too threatening or disgusted. They were mostly silent or gave unintelligible answers.
We returned to the camp site and Providence Spring. Referring to the spring, I asked, “Men of Andersonville, did it quench your thirst?” At 4 seconds into recording #1208, I hear a voice say three separate words: “Oh . . . yes . . . indeed.”
One other attempt at capturing the voices of the spirits of the men of Andersonville yielded results. Carol, using a pendulum, got the name George from New York. So I asked, “George from New York, were you captured at Gettysburg?” Perhaps George was not from New York, or had moved away to Wisconsin. Perhaps there are no reasonable answers for the information we get during EVP sessions. At 4 seconds I hear, “Hell no.” At 6 seconds into recording #1214, I hear, “Died, Milwaukee.”
Savannah
Savannah, Georgia, is not just one of the great cities in America; it is also one of the most haunted. And both its greatness and ghostliness come from the fact that it is also one of the oldest and most historic.
Savannah was founded by Gen. James Oglethorpe and a group of settlers from England in 1733. After the American Revolution, Savannah boomed. Rice and cotton flourished in the rich soil and the large plantations were worked with slave labor. The Africans brought to the area the rich Gullah culture, unique to the Low Country region. The increased wealth and trade allowed the citizens of Savannah to build impressive homes, churches, and other public buildings. But like so many old cities, Savannah was vulnerable to fire. Two of the most devastating occurred in 1796 and 1820, but it was the yellow fever outbreak of 1820 that was particularly brutal to Savannah, filling the city’s cemeteries with about 10 percent of her population.
The coming of the Civil War brought radical changes to the city. Though Fort Pulaski, outside of the city, fell to Union forces in 1862, Savannah itself wasn’t captured until Sherman marched to the sea in December 1864. It was one of the few towns along his route he spared from the torch. It is said he was so impressed with its beauty, he couldn’t bring himself to order it burned. Instead, he gave it as a Christmas “present” to Abraham Lincoln.
Because of the Union blockade and the ravages of the war on the South in general, post-war Savannah suffered economically. Revival came slowly, with the lumber and cotton industries. But, like every American city, Savannah had its ups and downs. The Great Depression took its toll, but in the 1950s a movement to preserve and restore Savannah’s historic buildings began. The Historic Savannah Foundation was formed and preserved buildings such as The Olde Pink House, site of Georgia’s first bank; the Pirate’s House, setting of the beginning of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island; and the birthplace of Juliette Gordon Low, founder of the Girl Scouts.
And something more than brick and mortar was preserved in those houses. According to witnesses, the spirits of early inhabitants, especially those associated with the Civil War, also remain ensconced within the walls.
Savannah Ghosts
Ray Couch, founder of the paranormal investigation group Southern Ghosts, has done extensive research on the Civil War ghosts of Savannah for his ghost tours. The Riverfront is one of the ghostly hot spots he has identified.
Riverfront Shops
The Riverfront was once the busiest place in Savannah, the Savannah River being a major artery for business and trade. Many of the old warehouses have been repurposed into bed-and-breakfasts, stores and restaurants.
Down Bay Street where it crosses over Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard is the route of the retreat of the Southern army from Savannah as Sherman approached in December 1864.
Shortly before the surrender of the city, the Confederates gathered every boat they could find in Savannah and made a pontoon bridge spanning the Savannah River for their retreat into South Carolina.
Nearly every restaurant, shop, and bed-and-breakfast seems to have a ghost story associated with it. A few years ago, Couch was invited to view a security video that was taken in one of the gift shops. On the video a small ball of light, an orb, can be seen moving around the shop and finally stopping in front of the cash registers, where it begins to rotate. The light then moves back towards the camera and underneath it. It was almost as if the light anomaly moved with a purpose, an intelligence. The next day when the owner arrived, she found all of the T-shirts and some broken souvenir glasses on the floor. No source was found to explain the mess.
Another shop owner reported being called by his security alarm company advising him that someone had triggered the alarm inside the store. When he investigated, he found no one inside. Later he reported that this seems to happen several times a month, yet no one is ever found to have broken into the shop.
Moon River Brewing Company
Moon River Brewing Company is one of the more famous haunted places in Savannah, having been investigated for some major television programs. Ray Couch and Southern Ghosts have investigated the brewery a number of times and have gotten substantial evidence of ghostly activity.
During the Civil War, the building was used as a hospital for both sides. Waitresses and waiters have been touched by unseen hands, even pushed out of the way just as a passing breeze was felt. Bottles have been thrown and silverware has been seen pushed off the tables onto the floor. One woman from the 1820s has made at least two appearances. First she was seen by a manager at the top of the stairwell. Doing his job, he asked if he could help her. She stared for a moment and then vanished. Another time, a woman in the same dated garb was seen walking across the crowded barroom. As she approached, the bartender thought she was a visiting reenactor about to order a drink. When she reached the bar, however, she simply dematerialized. The entire bar suddenly went silent, having witnessed the seemingly impossible phenomenon. Then they realized where they were.