Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  “So, how long has he been a ranger?”

  “Well, he retired from teaching five years ago, but he’d started learning the ropes as a seasonal ranger a couple years before that. Technically, he retired because of disability. He ruptured a disc in his back while breaking up a fight, but teaching twenty-five years of high school industrial arts, or what you’d call shop class, was enough. He does miss coaching football, though.”

  “Did he have some good teams?”

  “Too many to count. Football’s real big here in Pennsylvania, you know. Dad was never a head coach, didn’t want the headaches, he’d say, but he loved coaching defense. You’re aware he was All Big-Ten linebacker at Michigan State. D’you know what his nickname was?”

  “Nope.”

  “Maddog Mike. See, his idol growing up was this guy Mike Curtis who played for the Colts back in the day when they were still in Baltimore. This guy was a maniac. Used to try to rip guy’s heads off and whatnot. So, Dad became “Maddog” Mike Darcy. Wore Curtis’s number thirty-two and everything. He had a bunch of his college buddies over once and they told me some pretty wild stuff, both on the field and off. As you can see, Dad’s calmed down a lot. You’d never know he was this crazy football guy. But his legend lives on. I mean, I’d hate to be some guy coming over to pick me up for a date and have Dad giving him The Stare.”

  “He’d do that?” said T.J., imagining Uncle Mike in “Maddog” mode.

  “Of course, silly,” chirped LouAnne. “I’m his baby!”

  “But your mom is so laid back.”

  “Well, as they say, opposites attract. She’s not at all into the history thing like Dad. Just putters around the garden when she’s not volunteering at the hospital or the library. Sometimes I need a buffer between me and Dad. He’s so protective!”

  “So, uh,” ventured T.J., “does that mean you have a boyfriend?”

  “Not at the present time, and it’s not because of Dad, either. Just nobody around here who’s worth the trouble. Ninth grade guys are such dorks.”

  Then T.J. remembered that although they were the same age, his cousin was a year ahead in school because she’d skipped a year in elementary school early on. Yet she seemed so much older. He was caught totally off guard when she suddenly asked, “And what about you? Lots of females chasing you through the hallways?”

  T.J. panicked. Yes, there were some girls at school who thought he was cute and all, and he always showed good manners, unlike most of his male classmates. So far he hadn’t mustered up the courage to approach them, let alone ask them out. But he didn’t want to look like a loser...

  “Well, there’s this girl I’m kinda going out with. Katie Vickers.”

  “Katie Vickers,” LouAnne said slowly, letting the name roll off her tongue. “Sounds pretty.”

  “Yeah, she’s all right.” Desperate to get off the subject of his nonexistent love life, he decided to impress her. “I’m going out for cross country next year. The coach at the high school gave me a summer workout program and everything.”

  “Great!” said his cousin. “We can train together!”

  “What?”

  “T.J., I was on the freshman cross country team at my school this year!” She regarded his look of disbelief and added, “What, you think your mousy little cousin can’t be an athlete?” She shot him a definitely un-mousy look.

  “No, no, it’s not that—”

  “I just didn’t want to do the typical girlie sports like field hockey. Or even soccer. I mean, really—running up and down the field and sometimes never touching the ball. I prefer track. Just being alone with your thoughts...relying on your own ability and all.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Problem is, I would actually rather train at night during the summer, when it’s cooler, but I can’t on nights I work. See, at the Inn I alternate with a boy over at Gettysburg College who plays the part of a Confederate soldier. He’s pretty authentic, if I do say so myself, but no way does he makes the tips that I do. Anyway, I’d like to get a track scholarship to college, help my parents out with the expenses. If I’m good enough.”

  “You will be,” offered T.J.

  “You’re sweet, Cuz, but it’s gonna take a lot of work and I’m gonna have to lay off the partying. Man, at my school it’s like every Saturday there’s a kegger somewhere. You’ll see when you get to high school.”

  For some reason that remark made T.J. feel terribly young, and LouAnne, sensing his discomfort, quickly righted the ship. “But I bet you’re a good runner. I can tell by your legs. I can see your thighs and calves are cut up right through your jeans.” Which embarrassed him even more. What was it with this girl? Even when she was being friendly she made him feel so off-balance.

  “So, you wanna run tomorrow morning?” she said with one eyebrow raised.

  “Okay. Like, seven o’clock?”

  “Too hot. Make it six. You’ll end up thanking me. And here we are.”

  T.J. looked up, amazed. They were back at Uncle Mike’s house. Had they really covered all that distance? It had flown by.

  “I was about to come looking for you guys.” Mike pushed open the front door, concern etched upon his face.

  “Oh, Daddy, puh-leese,” said LouAnne, disarming her father with a peck on the cheek. “I had T.J. to protect me. And, guess what? He’s doing cross country, too! We’re running the battlefield tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s fine, as long as you stay to the paved surfaces. But let’s lay off the night runs for a while.”

  “How come?”

  “Well,” said Darcy, measuring his words, “there’s been some mischief going on lately in the woods.”

  “I knew it!” cried LouAnne.

  “No, you don’t,” cautioned Mike. “Not the half of it. So, I want you to lay low for a while. Get your track work in during the morning, before it gets hot. And, T.J., watch out for your cousin. She talks a good game, but she sometimes suffers from overconfidence.” Then his frown melted into a smile. “I have no idea where she gets it.”

  “Me neither, Maddog,” said LouAnne, and with a toss of her hair she was off to her room down the hall from T.J.’s.

  Watching her leave, the elder Darcy turned to his nephew and, placing a meaty hand on his shoulder, whispered, “Don’t ever have girls.”

  As T.J lay in the dark guestroom, serenaded by an army of crickets outside his window, he reviewed the events of the day and concluded that perhaps this trip to Gettysburg might not be so boring after all.

  Chapter Seven

  “Okay, let’s go over this one more time,” said a weary Al Warren as he sat across from the abject figure slumped in an office chair before him. “You want a cup of coffee?”

  “Not strong enough,” murmured the thirtyish man dressed all in black. His short, spiky hair was styled in the popular “just rolled out of bed” coiffure and his toned arms bulged from the two-sizes-two-small tee shirt with the letters GGC stenciled across the front in a ghostly silver scroll.

  “And how do we know you haven’t just been drinking? The patrolman whose car you almost ran into said you were babbling like a crazy man.”

  “So breathalyze me.” His eyes glowed with disdain.

  “Okay, okay,” soothed Warren, palms held outward. “From the top, Mr. Weinstein. You’re in Gettysburg...”

  “To film a show. It’s called Gonzo Ghost Chasers. On the Adventure Channel. I lead a team of four on an exploration of a haunted site. We film over the course of a week and then our editors back in LA put the show together. This is our second year, and it’s a popular series.”

  “So where’s your production crew? I mean, I can’t tell you how many supposed ghost hunters and paranormal experts have passed through here the past few years, and they all have some kind of entourage with them.”

  “Yeah, well, see, that’s what makes us so different. It’s just the four of us; me, Caroline, Josh and Nugent with our own hand-held video recorders and EVP equipment.”
r />   “EVP?”

  “Electromagnetic voice phenomena. It picks up sounds that the human ear can’t hear.”

  “Sounds? Like what?” Warren glanced sideways at Bruce Morrison, head of the park rangers, whom he’d called over from a late meeting down the hall.

  “Dude, from the other side. You know, dead people.”

  “Oh.”

  “So anyway, tonight we were just scouting the area. The conditions were perfect, some moonlight, very little wind. What we do that’s different from the other shows is we all go out on our own and individually try to provoke the spirits into responding to us. That’s why we’re the Gonzo Ghost Chasers,” he added sheepishly.

  “Uh-huh,” Warren replied with a grunt, wondering whether this clown was actually serious about all this nonsense. “Go on.”

  “Well, we decided to split up the battlefield, and I got Devil’s Den. I figured I’d check out where that famous photo of the dead Rebel sharpshooter was taken after the battle. We had a local guy drop us off at our sites—”

  “Which is illegal after dark,” cut in Morrison.

  Weinstein held up his hand in acknowledgement. “I was there a little while, and it was really quiet. All you could hear was that little creek nearby. So I turned on my stuff and started recording, provoking the spirit of the dead Confederate.”

  “By saying what?” asked Warren.

  “Dude, it’s all on the tape, but I said, like, ‘Are you here? I’m talking to the dead soldier in the photo. Are you aware you died for nothing? Are you ashamed you were fighting for an unjust cause? The bondage of other human beings?’ Stuff like that.”

  “Oh, boy,” said Morrison, checking his watch.

  “Yeah, you can say what you want, man,” Michael Weinstein argued, “but then how do you explain that guy showing up?”

  “What guy?” asked Warren and Morrison simultaneously.

  “The Southern soldier, man! It’s like, all of a sudden I caught a whiff of what smelled like, I don’t know, something putrid.”

  “Did you smell horse?” cut in Warren.

  “Horse?”

  “Yes, was there the smell of a horse?”

  Weinstein’s eyes widened as he recalled. “Yes,” he said slowly, “there was a horsey smell in there somewhere. Hey, how would you know that?”

  “Lucky guess,” said Warren. “Continue.”

  “Well, then the battery on my EVP recorder died. Just died, man, even though I’d changed it that afternoon. That’s what happens sometimes. Spirits drain batteries in order to manifest themselves. It’s happened on other shows, but not like this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I looked up and he was there, man. Not some whitish orb floating around. Not some shadow figure or mist. A real, honest-to-goodness ghost!”

  “Describe him, er, it,” said Warren, learning forward in his chair.

  “Well, I was sitting against one of the boulders, looking up at him, but the moon came out from behind some clouds and it was like a spotlight hit him, so I got a good look. We’re talking over six feet tall, with a beard and kinda curly long hair, in a full Confederate uniform! Boots with spurs, a big old saber on his belt, gold braid all over the place, and to top it off, a Western style hat with a big plume hanging off it.”

  “Was he armed? Besides the sword, I mean,” said Warren.

  “Dude, this guy was packing the biggest pistol I’ve ever seen! I mean, bigger than Clint Eastwood’s in the Dirty Harry movies!”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure! It was an inch from my face!” Weinstein shuddered at the still-fresh memory.

  Morrison crossed his arms over his chest and casually leaned against the wall, his salt-and-pepper hair and bifocals giving him the appearance of a quizzical college professor. “What did he say, Mr. Weinstein? Be specific.”

  “Well, he asked me what unit I was with, which at first I didn’t get, but then I figured out maybe he thought I was some kind of soldier like him. So I told him about the TV show and all, and he looked at me like I was from another planet or something. Then I guess he didn’t get the answer he wanted so he told me I was disturbing hallowed ground or something and that he was going to have to shoot me! Well, the whole time I was slowly reaching down for my infrared camcorder, which I’d dropped, so I could maybe throw it at him or distract him and take off, but just as I got my hand on it he says something like ‘I truly regret this, but you leave me no choice,’ and he pulls the trigger!”

  “But—”

  “The gun jammed, dude! He tried it a couple times but it didn’t work! So he starts reaching for his sword, but I grabbed the camcorder and bolted. I ran as fast as I could till I found the road, screaming at the top of my lungs for the team¸ anybody, till I saw the park patrol car top a rise and I sprinted for all I was worth. And here I am.”

  Warren shook his head. “But how do we know this Confederate ghost soldier isn’t a real human? You know, some nut running around at night in uniform?”

  “Well, he has to be on my video recorder. It was on the ground, but it was on “RECORD” the whole time.”

  “So let’s see it.”

  Weinstein reddened. “Could you ah, um, give me a minute to go to the men’s room? I’ve got to get out of these boxer shorts. And don’t ask me why.”

  “Second door on your right,” said Warren, as Weinstein embarrassedly slinked off down the hall.

  “Gonzo Ghost Chasers. Good grief,” Morrison griped, cleaning his glasses.

  “Yeah, Bruce,” said Warren, “but I want to see what this wacko has on tape. This could be a big help. Let us know what we’re dealing with. He’s lucky he didn’t get his head blown off like the others.” Warren paused. “Do ghosts’ guns jam?”

  “Search me. We’re in virgin territory on this one.”

  Weinstein returned to Warren’s office, obviously relieved. “Okay, let’s take a look at this video.” He hit REWIND, snapped open the viewer, pressed PLAY. Warren and Morrison watched the blood drain from his face as the seconds passed.

  “Well, what is it?” asked the police chief finally.

  “Look for yourself,” said Weinstein disgustedly, rewinding the tape again.

  The perspective was from the ground, angled slightly upward. In the forefront was Weinstein’s hiking boot, but beyond that, nothing but the facing boulders of the alcove. However, the audio was even more perplexing:

  Weinstein: What unit? You mean, like, the army? I’m not with a unit, man. I’m a civilian.

  Silence.

  Weinstein: I’m lead investigator for the Gonzo Ghost Chasers. You’ve seen us on Adventure Channel? You know, on TV? We’re on every Wednesday. C’mon man, you haven’t heard of us?

  Silence.

  Weinstein: What I’m doing is hunting for spirits from the battle. Especially that guy who’s in the picture. You know, the Confederate sharpshooter. The question is, who are you?

  Silence.

  Weinstein: What do you mean, disturbing the ground? Who do you think you... now, wait a minute, dude, don’t get all worked up over—hey, C’MON MAN, YOU DON’T WANNA—WAIT! PLEASE! DON’T SHOOT! PLEASE!

  Then the picture whirled as the camera was apparently scooped up. From then on the only footage was bouncy images of the tops of Weinstein’s shoes, the only sound his raspy breathing as he ran for his life.

  Weinstein pressed STOP and looked up at his questioners. “So, what are you gonna do about this?” he whined.

  “About what?” said Warren. “Even discounting the fact that you were trespassing on Government property, you got no video, no audio, and a pair of wet underwear to back up your story. Not exactly rock-solid evidence, Mr. Weinstein.”

  “I know what I saw. He was a real as you or me, and he—it—couldn’t have been human, or we’d see it on the video! I just don’t understand. I wish the EVP battery didn’t drain, we might’ve caught his end of the conversation.”

  “Well, we didn’t, so I
hate to tell you, we’ve got squat. Are you leaving town soon?”

  “No way. I’m gonna talk the team into hanging around another few days, though we’re supposed to be at the St. Augustine Lighthouse later this week for our next shoot.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “We’ve booked rooms at the Charney Inn. Heard there might be spirits there.”

  Warren rolled his eyes. “Okay, Mr. Weinstein,” he said in a measured tone. “We’ll head out to Devil’s Den first thing in the morning and check for footprints and such. If we find anything, you’ll be the first to know. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough,” said the Gonzo Ghost Chaser, extending his hand.

  Warren shook it, as did Morrison.

  “Ah, guys, we’ll keep the underwear stuff quiet, right?” pleaded Weinstein. “Wouldn’t look good for me on the show if that got out.”

  “No problem,” said Warren, suppressing a smile.

  After the ghost hunter exited, Morrison came over and sat on the edge of Warren’s desk. “Think he’s full of it, Al?” he asked, fiddling with the police chief’s stapler.

  “Something scared him, Bruce. Yeah, he’s a wack job, but I really think he had an encounter with something, or someone, who’s gonna keep shooting people till we catch him. So, I say we step up the night patrols on the battlefield and report even the most minutely suspicious activity. It’s time to let your rangers in on it.”

  “Agreed.”

  Warren looked at his desk calendar. “Commemoration Week’s coming fast. We’re in trouble.”

  Chapter Eight