When the Ghost Screams

by Leslie Rule

  To hear EVPs captured by the Constantinos, visit www.spirits-speak.com.

  Little Boy Lost

  It was a lovely October day in 2004 when Jason Sweeton visited Truckee, California. In the area on business, the clinical researcher for the Food and Drug Administration found himself with some spare time and decided to hike the trails at the Donner Memorial State Park. “It was the middle of the week and very quiet,” he said, explaining that he passed a few folks on the path before finding himself alone in the forest.

  Sunshine speckled the ground, scattered like gold coins in the shadows of the pine trees. The peace was so complete that he was acutely aware of the sharp crunch of gravel beneath his every step.

  Jason knew that this was the site of an appalling tragedy a century and a half before. It was the spot where the ill-fated Donner Party had found itself snowed in and literally starving to death.

  In a case that horrified the world, some of the malnourished pioneers had succumbed to cannibalism to survive. An exhibit and a monument to those who had suffered here was prominently displayed.

  Jason had heard rumors the place was haunted, but he did not take them seriously. “I’ve never been interested in ghosts,” he told me. “I’m typically a skeptical individual.” He simply wanted to photograph the scenery to share with his wife, Jacqueline, who was home with their baby in their Round Rock, Texas, home. He took a number of shots with his digital camera and, after a relaxing hike, headed back to his hotel, where he scrolled through the photos.

  Something caught his eye.

  “It was the undeniable face of a child,” he said.

  The little face appeared in the bottom corner of a photo that Jason had taken of the tree-lined path. Ever-so-slightly blurred, as if the child had dashed in close for a peek at him, the colors on the image are real and distinct.

  A visitor to the Donner Memorial Park was shocked by the image in the lower right-hand corner. (Jason Sweeton)

  From the deep blue eyes to the varied tones of the flesh to the light brown hair highlighted in the sunlight, the image is as clear as any snapshot of a human being. While only the top of the head, one eye, and the rise of a tiny nose are in view, it is evident that the hair is short, like a boy’s, and that his face is puffy with bags beneath the eyes.

  Jason picked up the phone and called his wife.

  Jacqueline remembers their conversation. “He was really freaked out,” she said, as she recalled how he had tried to make sense of the anomaly. She told him that surely he would have noticed if there had been children running around.

  Of course he would have.

  The silence had practically screamed at him. He had definitely been alone there.

  The practical-minded Jason, who has a degree in biology, stressed, “My job mandates that I observe with a critical mind.” Yet, he cannot explain how the child appeared in the picture.

  Since his paranormal surprise, Jason has read up on the Donner Party, but until I spoke with him, he had not heard about one particularly shocking death of a toddler.

  Jeremiah George Foster was born on August 24, 1844, in St. Louis, Missouri. He was not quite two years old when he and his parents, William and Sarah, left Missouri in May 1846 with a group of folks headed by wagon train for a new life in California. Jeremiah’s maternal grandmother, Levina Murphy, thirty-six, also accompanied them.

  They joined a larger team and eventually camped beside the Little Sandy River in an area that is today part of Wyoming. As they sat around the campfire, the men debated about the best route to take. Some argued that a shortcut would get them to California quicker.

  Instead of continuing with the large group on the known route, a new party was formed, with George Donner pronounced the leader. The Donner Party branched off from the others as they continued west.

  Jeremiah and his family were among those in the unfortunate assembly that did not foresee the suffering they would endure as they crossed the rugged terrain of mountains and seemingly endless deserts.

  By the time they rejoined the California trail, their “shortcut” had cost them three precious weeks. In the Sierra Nevada, they were blanketed by a blinding snow, which stung their faces, froze their fingers, and blocked their path. Eighty-one people found themselves trapped in the mountains.

  The group split up, with one cluster camping by a lakeside, and the other, six miles away by Alder Creek. The oxen were killed for food, but it was not enough to ward off starvation. People began to die. Faced with either death or survival, some turned to cannibalism.

  While a few had forged ahead to look for help, others stayed behind. Jeremiah and his grandmother huddled in the Murphy Cabin beside the lake as they anxiously waited for Sarah and William’s return.

  The child’s ribs were sharply outlined beneath his pale flesh, and he stared pleadingly at the adults. When Levina watched her grandson crying with hunger, it broke her heart. But there was nothing she could do to help him or the other little ones.

  Among those at the Murphy Cabin was a man who has become a controversial figure. Survivors painted him as an abusive man, cruel to his wife and concerned only with himself.

  Some of his descendants, however, are angry with this description and insist that their ancestor has been unfairly portrayed. They reject accusations that Lewis Keseberg developed a taste for human flesh.

  Yet, many believe the alleged account of little Jeremiah’s last night alive in March 1847. It was another bleak evening with no hope in sight when Lewis Keseberg insisted that the toddler sleep in his bed.

  When Levina awoke in the morning, she was horrified to see her grandchild’s limp body hanging on a hook on the wall. He had died during the night, Lewis Keseberg told her. Now, his flesh would sustain the others.

  In shock, Levina accused him of murdering her grandson.

  Perhaps Lewis Keseberg was innocent. He cannot, after all, defend himself, because he is no longer here.

  And neither is little Jeremiah.

  Or is he?

  The small boy who appears in Jason Sweeton’s photograph looks to be between two and four years old. Jeremiah was two and a half when he died. Other children perished, including three-year-old James Eddy, who succumbed after Jeremiah.

  The little ghost could be any of the small ones, but if one believes that Jeremiah was murdered, then the spirit is probably his.

  Jason Sweeton was walking toward the boulder that once served as a Murphy Cabin wall when he raised his camera and caught the ethereal image. His artistic eye was framing the snaking trail, flanked by sun-dappled trees. It is a calendar-quality photograph with an unexpected bonus.

  Why did the little boy appear in Jason’s photo? Could it be that the toddler is still waiting for his daddy and recognized the paternal energy in Jason?

  It is sad to imagine hungry little ghosts still waiting for help. Jeremiah’s devoted grandmother died weeks after he did. If he is still there, she, too, may be there, looking after him. It is a comforting thought.

  ————

  DONNER MEMORIAL STATE PARK AND EMIGRANT TRAIL MUSEUM

  12593 Donner Pass at Highway 80

  Truckee, CA 96161

  (530) 582-7892

  Donner Party Ghosts

  Jeremiah George Foster is not the only Donner Party victim to materialize in places where the pioneers camped. Inside the Emigrant Trail Museum, artifacts from the wagon trail days are on display.

  A couple dressed in period clothing has been seen beside a wagon there. Visitors usually assume that they are actors, hired to add authenticity to the exhibit—until they suddenly vanish.

  Apparitions are also seen outside of the museum.

  “A ghost we believe to be Tamsin Donner has been seen by many people,” said author and historian Janice Oberding, elaborating on the devoted mother’s tragic ending.

  Tamsin Donner was torn. While her children stayed at the Alder Creek camp, her ailing husband, sixty-two-year-old George, was six miles away at Murphy Cab
in.

  The determined woman trudged through the snow between the two areas, desperately trying to care for both her husband and children.

  Tamsin, 45, died after George, and there was just one witness to her death.

  Lewis Keseberg, the questionable character who some have accused of murder, claimed that Tamsin showed up at the Murphy Cabin in an unfortunate state.

  She had fallen into the creek, he said. Soaking wet and disoriented, Tamsin babbled incoherently about how she needed to get back to her children.

  When she died suddenly, Louis did not let her body go to waste. “It was the finest flesh I’d ever tasted,” he allegedly commented.

  “Tamsin’s skeleton was never found,” said Janice Oberding, who suspects that she is buried beside the Donner Party memorial rock, which once served as a wall of the Murphy Cabin.

  If detectives were so inclined, they could unearth the remains of Tamsin so that modern forensics could determine the cause of death. A blow to the head or a strangling death may still be detectable.

  If she was murdered, it may explain why she has been earthbound for so long. Her glowing figure still walks the path toward the Murphy Cabin.

  The apparition of the woman in pioneer clothing materializes near the pioneer monument and floats toward the Emigrant Trail Museum. “That is the path she took on her way to see her sick husband,” explained Janice, as she pointed to the location of the long-ago trail.

  Is Tamsin Donner reliving her last journey?

  What really happened on that trail? Did she stumble into a stream, as Lewis maintained, and suffer from fatal hypothermia?

  Or did she stumble upon something even more dangerous than icy cold water?

  The answer is buried somewhere on the grounds of the Donner Memorial State Park.

  Yet another Donner Party memorial is also believed to be home to ghosts of the tragic pioneers. “Not many people know about it,” said Janice Oberding, who took me to see the plaque.

  At the foot of Rattlesnake Mountain, the bronze plaque is situated between houses in a modern housing development in the Donner Springs neighborhood, a subdivision in Reno, Nevada.

  It was here that the Donner Party camped during its last happy time. Though the members of the party were warned that the weather would soon change and that they should move quickly, they lingered. The children frolicked in the sunshine as the adults dreamed of the new life in California.

  This spot at the foot of Rattlesnake Mountain in Reno, Nevada, served as the campsite for the Donner Party before its members ventured onto dark trails. (Leslie Rule)

  An enormous boulder once served as the wall of a cabin where members of the Donner Party took refuge. Today, a memorial plaque attached to the rock remembers both the victims and the survivors. Some believe human remains are buried at this spot. (Leslie Rule)

  Do the restless ghosts of the Donner Party wander back to the spot where they last enjoyed the warmth of sunshine and the satisfaction of full bellies? (Leslie Rule)

  “They stayed too long,” said Janice.

  By the time the group got moving, the mild season was running out of days. The mean winter weather crept in, its icy fists pummeling the pioneers with snow until their path was blocked. Some of the ghosts went back to the last place where life was good, theorizes Janice who once ran a tour of haunted places in Reno.

  One night, about ten p.m. she led a bus full of tourists to the old campsite on Peckham Lane. As the folks wandered around exploring, the skeptical driver stayed in the bus.

  He was friendly, and Janice liked him, but she couldn’t help notice how he rolled his eyes as she told ghost stories to the eager group.

  While Janice waited for her tourists to finish examining the place, the driver motioned to her from the doorway of the bus. “Don’t tell the others,” he whispered, “but I just saw a ghost!” His hand trembling, he raised his arm and pointed to the spot where he had seen a little girl in a white nightgown materialize.

  She studied his face, wondering if he was teasing her, but he was genuinely shaken. “He didn’t believe in ghosts before that,” she said.

  Janice smiled to herself. The bus driver was new to the state and had no idea that it was not the first time a nightgown-clad girl had been seen in the area.

  A couple of years before, authorities were baffled when drivers reported seeing a child in a white nightgown near McCarran Boulevard. “It was in the dead of winter and on a cold night,” remembered Janice, who had read the accounts in the newspaper.

  The girl appeared to be three or four, too young to be wandering in the dark and cold. Several people reported seeing her, including one woman who said she approached the child.

  But the little girl ran from the woman, disappearing into the night.

  “They searched for her for days,” said Janice, remembering how concerned people were.

  It did not occur to the police that it could be too late to help the child. The authorities did not consider the possibility that the small girl had been dead for a century and a half.

  If the evasive figure was indeed a spirit left behind by the Donner Party, it could have been Ava Keseberg, the three-year-old daughter of Lewis.

  The little one perished on the trail as a group of folks forged ahead. After she died, they were unable to carry her with them and buried her in the snow.

  A ghostly child in a white nightgown materializes here. (Leslie Rule)

  Her father was unaware of her death until he was finally able to leave the area. When he saw a piece of fabric poking from the snow, he was curious and tugged on it. The snow fell away, and he found himself staring at poor little Ava.

  Ava may still be trying to find her way back to her family.

  The ghost, of course, could be any one of the small children who lost their lives that winter. Boys, too, wore nightgowns in that era and often had long hair.

  Survivors of the Donner Party passed their stories along, each version shaded by their own perceptions. The passing years have surely distorted these accounts all the more. We cannot know what was in the hearts of those who walked the frozen trails.

  The answers to the Donner Party mysteries are buried with the dead, their secrets unspoken on the lips of ghosts. Unless they speak up, we will never know what really transpired.

  Speaking Up

  On the snowy day that I visited the Donner Memorial State Park, I was accompanied by electronic voice phenomena experts Debby and Mark Constantino and ghost hunter Janice Oberding.

  The Constantinos had brought along a tape recorder, and we took turns asking questions of whatever unseen beings might be present.

  “Introduce yourselves first before you ask a question,” Mark advised Janice and me, explaining that they always tried to be considerate of the earthbound spirits.

  After each question, we were to wait a full ten seconds to give the ghosts plenty of time to respond.

  “The tape recorder is voice activated,” said Debby. “Even though we can’t hear the ghosts, we know that they are speaking when the recorder is recording.”

  Sure enough, as we stood in the silence, we could see the indicator on the machine revealing that it was picking up some type of noise.

  The Constantinos phoned me several days after I had returned home. They were in the middle of the time-consuming task of replaying the tapes and removing background noise. “We definitely got voices,” Mark said.

  top: Ghost researcher Janice Oberding points out the path where the ghost of Tamsin Donner travels. Mark and Debby Constantino prepare to attempt contact with the desperate spirit. The Constantinos are the authors of Talking with Ghosts: A Step by Step Guide to Spirit Communication through EVP. (Leslie Rule)

  above: Mark Constantino records a question and then waits for a response from earthbound spirits of the Donner Party tragedy. (Leslie Rule)

  “They are very quiet, though,” said Debby. “Almost whispery.”

  “Did a Frank die there?” asked Mark. “We got a vo
ice saying, ‘Frank.’”

  “Let me see,” I said, as I leafed through the photographs I had taken of the site. I found a picture of the memorial plaque on the giant rock. It listed both survivors and victims. Among those who had perished were Franklin Graves Sr., fifty-seven, and Franklin Graves Jr., five.

  The other remarks they recorded included the following:

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Look for the bones.”

  “Please move.”

  And two simple words bothered us the most.

  “Help us.”

  They Creep Up from Below

  If there were ever a portal to the spirit realm, it is in my own backyard.

  Seattle.

  I came into the world here on a dark and stormy night, my first cries mixed with the moans of the wind. The winter storm was so fierce it knocked out Seattle’s power. A rainy night in Seattle is not shocking news. It rains one out of four days here, so the Emerald City is often shrouded in a silver curtain of water. But it may shock some to know that the misty curtain hides a secret.

  Seattle is haunted. But unlike some cities whose residents proudly trumpet their haunting, Seattleites are somewhat shy about sharing their spirit encounters. While residents of St. Augustine, Florida, New Orleans, Louisiana, and Savannah, Georgia, all claim that theirs is the “the most haunted city in America,” Seattle could give them a run for their money.

  One of the most haunted spots in Seattle is Pioneer Square. Settlers built here in the 1850s—right on top of the mudflats! Everything was fine when the tide was out, but when the frigid salty waters of Puget Sound crept in, things got messy, because the sewers flushed in reverse.

  The hardy Seattle citizens lived with their plumbing problems until 1889 when a pot of glue fell over and sparked a fire. The flames swept through the town, destroying sixty-six blocks.