Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  “I majored in history at the University of Maryland after growing up not two miles from this spot. Throughout my childhood I heard tales from different townspeople, including my parents, about sightings on and around the battlefield. This made me concentrate on Civil War studies at Maryland, and led me back here. At the time jobs were scarce, so I took a position at the wax museum in town and started putting together some of the stories I’d heard for a book on Gettysburg paranormal phenomena.

  “Well, just from casually asking around, the tales started piling up. Townsfolk, tourists, rangers, lots of people were seeing things that had no plausible explanation. From orbs flying around the cemetery to ghost regiments marching in broad daylight, to the sounds of voices and small arms fire in the woods. Then there were all the private dwellings in and around town that served as battlefield hospitals, places of untold suffering and death in the days during and following the battle.

  “So, I purchased really good film equipment, as well as ultra-sensitive audio recorders, and went all over the place shooting footage and recording sounds at all the sites I’d heard about.”

  “Even at night?” T.J. cut in.

  “Well, that’s a touchy subject,” said Elway, one eye closing a bit. “As the nephew of a battlefield park ranger, I’m sure you’re aware that nobody is allowed on the grounds after dark. But I have gotten some images at dusk and dawn that are quite interesting.”

  “I’ll say,” said Bortnicker. “But not only outdoors. I remember in Part Two when you investigated the report of a Union soldier gliding down the stairs of some woman’s home—”

  “That was Part Three, actually, but yes, she had seen such an apparition. Too bad it wouldn’t manifest itself for me, but I intend to keep trying. So far, I’ve only been able to capture orbs, dark forms or milky shadows, though other people like that woman have claimed to see soldiers plain as day. Unfortunately, when they try to make contact the apparitions have either vanished or walked away through walls or whatever. I’ve also captured some disembodied voices, which was included in Part Three.” He settled back further into his chair, tenting his fingers before him as he spoke.

  “As you may have learned from the documentaries, there are two types of hauntings: residual and intelligent. Residual hauntings involve a scene from the past replaying itself like a film loop, over and over, with the spirit or spirits involved being oblivious to their surroundings. That’s how different people, including an entire tourist group from Germany, could see soldiers marching through the Peach Orchard in the dead of winter.

  “The intelligent hauntings are far more rare. That’s where a spirit or ghost tries to, in some fashion, make contact with us in the present time.”

  “Why?” asked T.J., inching forward.

  “Well, most of those soldiers who died during the three days of Gettysburg were young, or in the prime of life. They were violently wrenched from this world way before their time. Many were rolled into shallow graves, either whole or in pieces, some to be subsequently reburied, others to be forgotten; that is, if they weren’t dug up by scavenging animals. There are hundreds of men out in those fields we don’t even know about. There might be men buried in your Uncle Mike’s backyard, for all we know. Now, if you were one of those poor souls, wouldn’t you want to tell someone your story?

  “But, little by little, the land does give up its secrets.” Elway’s voice dropped to where it was barely above a conspiratorial whisper. “Just a few months ago after a hard rain a ranger conducting a battlefield tour spied a shin bone protruding from the ground out near the railroad cut, where there was some heavy fighting the first day of the battle. A team of archeologists investigated the site and unearthed an entire skeleton, minus the bottom part of one leg, a tattered leather belt with cartridge box encircling the skeletal waist. Yes, the dead are everywhere in this place.

  “Anyway, to get back to the business, I got my book published locally, which led to some national recognition, and other books. Then, somebody from the History Channel contracted me and asked if I had enough footage to help fill out a one hour program. I said sure, if they could supply actors and reenactors to help tell the story of each vignette.

  “The rest, if you’ll pardon the pun, is history. There are now three installments of the documentary that are regularly aired on TV and sold on DVD via the Internet and just about every tourist shop in the state of Pennsylvania. The capital that’s generated has enabled me to begin, and then expand, our ghost tour business. During the warmer months we’re booked solid every night, seven days a week, with multiple groups operating simultaneously. The explosion of paranormal investigation-type shows on TV has only heightened the interest.”

  “Like Gonzo Ghost Chasers?” asked T.J., thinking back to his encounter with the bewildered Mike Weinstein.

  “Oh, them,” sniffed Elway. “It’s TV shows like theirs that give paranormal science a bad name.”

  “How so?” asked Bortnicker.

  “Well,” said Elway, “and this is not for publications, boys, but those guys are rank amateurs. How can anyone take seriously a bunch of pumped-up twentysomethings in skin-tight tee-shirts screaming admonitions to ghosts to ‘come out or else’? And do you notice not an episode goes by that they don’t get some kind of response, usually unintelligible garble on their EVP recorder that they claim is a disembodied spirit intelligently answering their queries? And if one more of those morons mistakes dust particles for energy orbs...”

  Elway noticed the boys staring at him and immediately composed himself, again the smiling academic. “Well, it could be worse,” he joked. “At least they’re not as bad as those yahoos over in Britain. You’d think they’re having a weekly ghost convention on their show, getting scratched, kicked, possessed and whatnot.”

  “So, if one of those Gonzo Ghost Chasers told you he saw a real apparition out there, you’d just disregard it?” asked T.J. “Because they were in town a week ago.”

  “Yes, yes, I know that,” snapped Elway, a bit testily. “I’d take anything they said with a grain of salt. No, a bowling ball of salt.”

  “So, what you’re saying,” Bortnicker ventured, “is that you, personally, have yet to see a full-bodied apparition that’s more than a silhouette or some whitish gas?”

  Elway’s congeniality faded immediately, his lips forming a straight line. He absentmindedly pulled at the bottom of his beard.

  “Yes,” he answered evenly, “in my case. But other witnesses have seen actual soldiers.”

  “Just not anybody who happens to be among your competition,” said Bortnicker, polishing his glasses casually.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course, Mr. Elway,” said Bortnicker.

  “If you two are doing a newspaper article, how come you haven’t written down a word I’ve said? Or produced a tape recorder?”

  Bortnicker slid his glasses back into place with great care, looked Elway in the eye, and tapped the side of his shaggy head. “No worries,” he assured the ghost hunter, “it’s all in here.”

  They strolled out together, Bortnicker quipping, “Like The Dan, I have seen the glory of ‘The Royal Scam.’ ”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Later that day at General Meade’s Luncheonette on Steinwehr Street, Carlton Elway looked up from his egg salad sandwich to see Chief Al Warren slide onto a nearby stool and pluck a laminated menu from its chrome holder on the counter. He picked up his plate and moved next to him, trying not to spill his iced tea in the process.

  “Hope the rain stops for tonight, Carlton,” said the chief as he slipped on his reading glasses. “Your ghost tour customers are going to be pretty soggy. How’s the egg salad today?”

  “Go with the meatloaf. And don’t worry, Al, we’ll be out there, rain or not.”

  “Yeah, I guess ghosts don’t know the difference anyway.”

  “Very funny.”

  Warren chuckled at his own joke then ordered the meatloaf with extra gravy on
his fries. Out of the corner of his eye he spied Elway watching him. “Something on your mind, Carlton?”

  “Well, kind of,” said Elway, brushing some egg salad off the lapel of his Gettysburg Official Ghost Tours windbreaker. “I had a weird visit today.”

  “Who was it? Lee or Grant?”

  “You’re a riot today, Al. No, seriously, these two teenagers came to question me about the business and whatnot. Said they were with a high school newspaper, but I think that was a bunch of crap.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Well, they were asking about paranormal stuff I might have seen out on the battlefield and all—”

  “That’s to be expected, considering your widespread fame.”

  “Can you give it a rest, Al? The thing is, the one who did most of the talking was a real geeky kid I’d never seen before. But the other one is Mike Darcy’s nephew.”

  “The park ranger, Mike Darcy?”

  “One and the same.”

  The counter waitress arrived and placed Warren’s meatloaf and steaming mug of coffee in front of him. The chief took his fork, lifted the slab of meat’s corner from the plate underneath, and frowned. “So the kids are asking questions. So what?”

  Elway let his voice drop to a whisper. “Listen, Al, something’s going on around here, I can feel it. Rumors are starting to fly.”

  “Like what?” said Warren, dabbing gravy from the corner of his mouth.

  “Like stuff going on at night on the battlefield, that’s what.”

  “Do tell.”

  “C’mon, Al. We went to school together way back when, before you went off to Philly. If there’s an opportunity out there—”

  “Opportunity? What are you talking about?”

  “You know, like...paranormal investigation stuff.”

  Warren rolled his eyes. “You’ve been watching too many of your own documentaries, Carlton.” But secretly he was worried. Was Mike Darcy blabbing confidential information to his nephew? He’d have to find Bruce Morrison, and fast.

  “Well, are you going to let me in on anything if it does come up?” persisted Elway.

  “Oh, yeah, Carlton, you’ll be the first one I’ll tell. We might even make a documentary out of it. What are you up to by now, part six?”

  “Thanks for nothing, Al. You know, I’m vice president of the Chamber of Commerce. I have a right to know anything that might affect my livelihood.”

  “You want some info?” said Warren. He looked both ways then whispered, “Don’t order the meatloaf. That stuff’ll kill ya.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning Mike Darcy followed his usual ranger routine, preparing for the first of five days on, followed by two consecutive days off, on a rotating schedule. He rolled out of bed at the crack of dawn, performed a series of stretches designed to loosen up his chronically stiff back then did three sets of sit-ups, crunches and leg lifts to combat the onset of a middle age spare tire. Darcy managed to work out three times a week on a weight machine he’d installed in a gym he’d built in the garage. As for his legs, they got all the work they needed from the continuous walking he did performing his daily duties at the battlefield.

  Mike showered, filled a travel cup with coffee that Terri had prepared in the percolator the night before and went outside into the light of a promising June morning. The previous day’s rain had taken the edge off the humidity for the time being and birds were singing in the trees. As he entered the driveway beside the house he could hear Bortnicker’s snoring from the second story bedroom. Lord, that boy could saw wood. But he was happy to have the kids visiting. They provided a diversion for his daughter, whom he sometimes felt worked too hard during her time off from school.

  As he started the truck he thought about his nephew. T.J. was a good kid, but there was this kind of melancholy and lack of self-confidence that always seemed to be trailing him. The death of his mother had been devastating and his father’s girlfriend had become a divisive force. Maybe Mike could spend some quality time with him this week.

  Before he knew it he was pulling into the Visitor Center lot. Lifting his still-hot coffee from its cup-holder, Mike entered the rangers’ office door, went to his locker and opened it. Inside were taped small photos of Terri and LouAnne, and one of himself circa 1974 in his Michigan State home green jersey, scowling at the camera. He was staring into space when he felt a tap on the shoulder.

  “Hi, Mike. Got a minute?” said Bruce Morrison.

  “Sure, Bruce. Something the matter?”

  “I’m not sure. Come into my office.”

  Mike didn’t know what it was, but Bruce Morrison’s room always reminded him of the principal’s office of a school: degrees and commendations filling the walls, photos with visiting dignitaries. There was no doubt that his boss knew his stuff; he was featured on virtually every modern historical documentary about Gettysburg, but Mike found him dry and pedantic, not the enthusiastic teacher/coach type he’d been in his previous career. As a result, the two sometimes clashed over inconsequential things, though there remained an underlying respect for the knowledge each possessed about the Civil War and Gettysburg’s role in it. Perhaps their mutual discomfort stemmed from the fact that Mike was a “townie” who had grown up on his family’s property on Seminary Ridge, while Morrison was an interloper from South Dakota, where he’d overseen the Little Bighorn massacre site for a few years in the ‘80s before moving up to the most prestigious battlefield park in the land.

  Morrison gently closed the door behind them and moved to his desk. “Glad the humidity broke,” he said to get things started.

  “No doubt,” agreed Darcy. “It’s been brutal out there lately.”

  “Listen, Mike,” said Morrison, absently toying with a paperclip, “I’ll get right to the point. You’ve been a great asset to our ranger community. Nobody outworks you and you manage to, as they say in sports, ‘bring your A game every day.’ And I appreciate that, though I sometimes wonder if you care that I do.”

  “It’s much appreciated, Bruce,” Mike replied.

  “Well, good. But we might have a situation here, I don’t know. I’d like your input.”

  “Shoot.”

  Morrison winced at the word. “Funny you should say that. As I understand it, you’re rather a local authority on black powder guns. You’re part of a shooting club and all?”

  “Well, not a formal club, per se. It’s more of a group of enthusiasts who get together and practice at the firing range over in Bonneville.”

  “Are these guys collectors? Reenactors?”

  “Some of them. I just happened to come by my firearms by chance. You see, my grandfather’s family purchased the property in 1880, and when he was a young man he was given a Sharps rifle and a Colt pistol by an elderly neighbor who claimed he’d taken them from the woods in the days just after the battle. For a long time they were stored in the attic. Then, after my dad died and we were sorting out his stuff, my mom led me upstairs, opened this long wooden box and there they were, not much the worse for wear.

  “I was still teaching and coaching back then, of course, and I had no idea I’d end up getting so involved with the town’s history again or end up a park ranger.

  “But in the early ‘90s I started researching the pieces and found out they were quite valuable. I took them to a local gunsmith who offered me a nice buck for them, which I could’ve used on my teaching salary, but I simply had him refurbish the mechanical parts. Another teacher at my school who later passed away was a black powder shooter, so he showed me the ropes and that’s how I met the guys. We try to get out every few weeks. It beats playing golf, I guess. And, I think it gives me better insight into the people I talk about every day in my job. Sometimes when I’m shooting...I don’t know, this sounds corny, but I can almost imagine myself as a soldier on the field, staring down the barrel at an oncoming enemy charge.” Mike stopped talking, wondering if he’d let his tongue run away with him. This was already the longest conver
sation he’d ever had with his superior.

  “So, you, above all of us, must understand the damage that was inflicted upon the victims of these shootings.”

  “Of course. At close range a Colt .44 cavalry pistol is devastating.”

  “And that’s the model you own?”

  A realization was beginning to dawn in Mike Darcy’s mind. “Bruce, you don’t think...that I could be involved in all this!”

  “No, no. What’s happened here is purely coincidental. But I wonder if you’d care to explain why your nephew and his oddball friend were in Carlton Elway’s office yesterday pumping him for information about nighttime activities on the battlefield?”

  “I guess it’s ‘cause that’s what Carlton does,” Mike reasoned.

  “So what you’re saying is you haven’t breathed a word of our staff meeting to your family? And that your nephew’s questions were just another coincidence?”

  “Must be,” was Mike’s reply, though he couldn’t fathom T.J.’s actions, either.

  “Well then, I guess we’re done here, Mike. You wouldn’t mind me coming to you if I have any further weapons questions?”

  “No, that would be fine, Bruce.”

  “Okay then, have a good day out there.”

  And with that, Mike Darcy walked out of Morrison’s office, his simple summer day not quite as bright.

  * * * *

  That same morning, about the time Mike Darcy was arriving at the Visitor Center, there came a light tapping on the guest bedroom door. T.J., never a sound sleeper, was confused. The night before, they’d filled in LouAnne about their meeting with Elway and Bortnicker had cracked, “If he’s a bigtime ghost hunter, I’m Brad Pitt.” The cousins had agreed that a day off from running was in order. LouAnne sometimes suffered from shin splints and didn’t want to overdo it. T.J. gratefully agreed. So, he was surprised when Aunt Terri poked her head in the door. “Are you decent, T.J.?” she whispered.

  “Yes, Aunt Terri. What’s up?”