Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter

by Josh Gates

  Our investigative equipment is uncooperative inside the hospital. My thermal imager stutters and powers itself on and off. Batteries seem to discharge in minutes, and the night-vision cameras become finicky. Since radioactivity shouldn’t affect the gear, we’re left unsettled by the malfunctions. Along with just being creepy, it’s also a frustrating experience for us, since we have to rehab the electronics through thick gloves and partially fogged faceplates. Once we get everything up and running again, we slowly ascend a staircase to the next level. We wander through various exam rooms, passing under antiquated surgical lights and around old obstetrics tables. A thick patient register lists hundreds of procedures that were carried out here. Across the hall I shine my light into a pediatric ward and rows and rows of rusting cribs. For a moment I think I catch sight of a person in the window. Just for an instant. It’s probably a reflection, I tell myself.

  Room after room of blackness fills my periphery, partially obscured by the edges of the mask. At the top of the next stairwell, I turn the corner to see a human shape in the thermal display. I just about jump out of my skin and yell to Evan to point the camera down the hall. Nothing. I’m baffled. The image on the thermal appeared to be a person leaning out from a room or from the wall itself. We search up and down the hall, but despite our best efforts, we can’t replicate the reading or find any explanation as to what the device picked up on. We hustle into the back part of the building to keep searching, but the area turns out to be hot with radiation. We’re forced to make a hasty retreat from the complex at the urging of our dosimeters.

  It’s well past midnight as we make our way behind City Hall, and I try to shake off the figures I thought I saw in the hospital. There isn’t much time to reflect, though; one horror quickly begets another here. The night-vision camera reveals what our eyes cannot yet see: the massive skeleton of a Ferris wheel. We move into an open yard and the decomposing remains of the dark carnival. Our flashlights flicker across the steel cadavers, and I can’t help but feel like the crew from the Nostromo exploring the remains of that lonely alien spaceship. Support struts from a partially collapsed Tilt-A-Whirl fan out like bony ribs, and the great wheel looms over us like a giant. Jael goes to examine the bumper cars, but I remain near the wheel, transfixed by, of all things, the ticket booth. I’m suddenly thirteen and basking under the honey yellow lights of the carnival that passed through our small town each summer. Just past the whirling Gravitron ride, I’d stand on my tiptoes to see over the ticket booth counter, a dog-eared copy of Something Wicked This Way Comes sticking out of my back pocket.

  Back at Chernobyl, I can hear only my breath inside the heavy radiation mask, and Bradbury is ringing in my ears: “Death doesn’t exist. It never did, it never will. But we’ve drawn so many pictures of it, so many years, trying to pin it down, comprehend it, we’ve got to thinking of it as an entity, strangely alive and greedy.”

  Jael yells out. She thinks she sees someone sitting in one of the bumper cars. I run over to her at about the same time our medic, Rex, images a heat signature in the second floor of a nearby building. The dosimeter screeches. The bumper cars are too radioactive, and we race to follow the thermal hit. The ticket booth recedes behind us.

  Our last stop is the elementary school. It’s visually overwhelming. Homework on desks dated April 26, 1986. A basketball stranded on the gymnasium floor. In the library we walk on a carpet of books that have long fallen from their shelves. Pages tear under our boots. In the music room, we fiddle with an old piano, tapping out a dissonant chord. As we move into the next room, all of us hear a soft tinkle of keys as the piano sounds out behind us. Every hair on my neck stands on end. We run back, but the piano is lifeless.

  The strange activity increases as we get deeper into the building. In one of the classrooms, I think I see a thick shadow behind Jael that causes me to reach out, accidentally hitting her in the face. The tension of this place and the discomfort of the suits are unbearable. We’re all on edge. Moments later, Jael screams and runs out of the building after feeling as though something has grabbed her hand. Shortly after, the dosimeter alarm goes off, indicating that, like a roast in the oven, my team and I are done. It’s time to get out of here before we get overcooked.

  At the van, we carefully peel back the radiation suits, which will later be burned. We pile in and drive through all of the checkpoints, into the dawn. Halfway to Kiev, we pull over at a cheap motel and rent three rooms for an hour. We all take hot showers and scrub our skin until it’s ready to bleed. Most of our clothes are thrown into the trash can. We emerge reborn. For the first time in days, the sun even peeks out through the clouds.

  Can the unprecedented level of radioactivity provide a scientific explanation for what people are seeing in Pripyat? Or is there something else? Is Chernobyl haunted? I believe it is, in a sense. After all, ghosts are a semblance of life. A trace of existence. There are few places on earth where modern civilization has been reduced to memory. What remains here is a specter of the past and a warning for the future.

  Chernobyl haunts us with the reminder that all of man’s ambitions are ephemeral. Our grandest designs and sturdiest monuments, fleeting. Waves of exhausting sadness came over me at Chernobyl. It’s the side effects of exposure, not to radiation but to deafening silence. It forces us to face an uncomfortable truth: that we are all simply ghosts in waiting.

  16: On the Subject of Ghosts

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  Jiankou, China, 2009

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  Shining my flashlight in front of me, then behind, all I can see in either direction is the endless stone ribbon of the Great Wall. I’m freezing my ass off up here. It’s the middle of winter in Jiankou, China, and the wind is whipping up over the crumbling ramparts, making my crew and me fairly miserable. My feet slip and slide on icy cobblestones that have been wholly neglected for the last five hundred years.

  The Great Wall of China is a construction effort without equal, a monumental barrier designed to close off the entire northern frontier of China from Manchurian and Mongol invaders. It is the single largest man-made object in the world, stretching for more than 3,100 miles. The top of the wall is wide enough that ten men could march along it shoulder to shoulder. Regularly spaced multilevel guard towers interrupt the span and were once fully garrisoned with soldiers.

  Though the project required generations to plan and execute, from where I’m standing, the placement of this particular section seems utterly ill-conceived. Where the original builders encountered natural obstacles in the form of jagged mountains, rather than, “Oh, I don’t know, go around,” they simply built over them, undeterred by topography (or the laws of physics, it seems). The result is an improbable stone line that zigzags up and down like a General Motors stock graph. This part of the wall is so unnaturally steep that it’s referred to as “Eagle Flies Facing Upward.” With the way I keep slipping, though, it’ll soon be renamed “Josh Falls Facing Downward.” The area is incredibly dangerous and has been closed to the public entirely.

  As haunting stories go, this one is pretty straightforward. It has been estimated that as many as a million people died building the Great Wall of China; many of their bodies were reportedly interred in the stonework itself. Locals have attested to visions of phantom soldiers as well as a malevolent energy that possesses people to jump to their deaths. Add the fact that several visitors have died mysteriously, and you’ve got a compelling story on your hands.

  Eventually, we make our way into the highest guard tower that locals believe is paranormally active. The shelter of the tower interior cuts the wind and feels comparatively warm. We wander through a few empty stone rooms, peering out through arrow slits at encroaching fog. Walking around the central chamber, I feel Evan’s hand on my back. This isn’t uncommon, since at night we wear large backpacks with cameras strapped to them, and every hour they need to be tended to. I assume that Evan is changing out a tape as he jostles me around. I quietly ask what he’s doing and shudder when I
hear an answer from twenty feet away. I spin around and, sure enough, he’s nowhere near me. Nobody is near me. I suddenly feel sick. I’ve just been touched by nothingness.

  My good friends Jason Hawes and Grant Wilson from Ghost Hunters tell new investigators that they will be “hit, punched, grabbed, slapped, and pushed” by things they can’t see. The idea being that if you hunt for ghosts long enough, one of them will eventually reach out and smack you. But even though I’ve experienced the same phenomenon that they so often describe, I remain an entrenched paranormal skeptic. That’s probably a good thing. Like Jason and Grant, I don’t think every creak and moan is a ghost. If I did, I’d have the same investigative acumen as Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.

  Why am I a skeptic? Well, let’s talk about the problem first and then the promise. There are a number of pretty staggering assumptions we have to make as paranormal explorers. The first assumption, of course, is that there are ghosts. Or at least there might be. We’re ostensibly looking for some sort of entity or presence that is able, on some level, to manifest itself in the physical world.

  The next assumption we make is that ghosts mainly come out at night. People ask me all the time why we only conduct paranormal investigations after the sun goes down. The answer is simple. Statistically, more ghost sightings are reported after dark. This is a good thing, too, since it makes for better television. Nobody wants to watch me hunt for ghosts at Pompeii at three in the afternoon while an Italian guy sells gelato in the background. But as to whether there actually is more paranormal activity at night is certainly up for debate.

  We make further assumptions through the use of a variety of equipment. We use thermal imagers in the field because there’s a school of thought that states if ghosts are able to manifest themselves, they must emit some sort of energy or heat. But again, this theory is backed by precious little evidence. We use audio recorders to conduct EVP sessions. “EVP” stands for electronic voice phenomena. These are background recordings that, when amplified, are supposed to reveal paranormal speech. Thomas Edison first proposed the use of sensitive audio recording equipment to capture these sounds from the beyond in a Scientific American article. In the one hundred years since, the technique has been widely used. The results can be compelling but are largely open to interpretation.

  Finally, we assume that ghosts like to hang out in places where death or great tragedy has transpired. We don’t hunt for ghosts at a Chuck E. Cheese’s. If this measure is a just one—if the dead congregate in places where life has been extinguished—then I’ve certainly been in a position to see ghosts. Over the course of my tenure on Destination Truth I’ve visited some of the world’s most tragic addresses. I’ve spent the night alone atop the desert fortress of Israel’s Masada, where nearly one thousand Jewish zealots committed suicide. I’ve wandered through the oldest coliseum of the Roman world at Pompeii. Within this stone girdle, untold numbers of people were put to death in unspeakable ways. I’ve walked the lonely shores of Easter Island, tempting powerful Polynesian spirits, and rapped one-on-one with King Tut himself in the deserts of Egypt. Hell, I’ve even looked for ghosts at the bottom of the ocean amidst the twisted wreckage and skeletal remains of a Japanese fleet from World War II. The point is, I’ve spent a lot of long nights investigating the Grim Reaper’s Greatest Hits. And still, I can’t say for certain if ghosts exist.

  All of our assumptions speak to the larger problem: the methodology of paranormal research is largely experimental. This is probably going to be an unpopular statement to some die-hard fans, but looking for ghosts isn’t exactly scientific.

  Take the great magician Harry Houdini, who was obsessed with the paranormal. As someone who plied his trade convincing audiences of his supernatural abilities, in the latter part of his career he devoted his time to debunking so-called spiritualists. He made a deal with his wife, Bess, that after his death, he would try, for ten years, to communicate from the other side. At yearly séances, Bess would work with mediums attempting to glean a code known only to Houdini and his wife. On October 31, 1936, the final séance was held on the roof of the Knickerbocker Hotel in Hollywood. The code remained unspoken and Bess Houdini reportedly said, “My last hope is gone. I now reverently turn out the light. It is finished. Good night, Harry!”

  While we can’t really call Houdini’s method scientific, he gets points for trying to prove that the afterlife is real. But when it comes to ghosts, proof is hard to come by.

  Hypothetical example: If, during the course of an investigation, the Ghost of Christmas Future walked out from a solid brick wall and waved a scythe and a bony finger at the camera while bolts of lightning shot out from under his hood, it would not constitute proof of anything. Nada. Zip. Not unless one could coax him to appear again and again. The real world of paranormal encounters has no such regularity. No Headless Horseman—the decapitated Hessian soldier who can be relied upon to appear nightly on a covered bridge. Without this, there can be no hard science.

  Science involves gathering empirical and measurable evidence, forming hypotheses, and testing said hypotheses. There must be repeatable results in order to draw conclusions. Oh, and the testing has to be wholly objective and conducted in a controlled environment. Without a demonstrable connection to the other side that can be studied and written about in peer-reviewed journals, the pursuit of paranormal truth will always be marginalized by science.

  So if our methods for seeking the truth behind paranormal claims are so experimental, why bother looking at all? Well, according to a recent CBS News poll, 48 percent of Americans believe in ghosts. That’s more people than those who support Darwin’s theory of evolution. And what’s more, one in five people believe that they have personally seen or been in the presence of a ghost. If we conclude that a legitimate ghost sighting would constitute proof of an afterlife, 20 percent of Americans would therefore have witnessed a miracle.

  And isn’t that sort of a big deal? In the previously mentioned poll, a broader question revealed that a staggering 77 percent of people believe in some sort of life after death. And despite the fact that there’s a clear overlap between religion and the paranormal, television networks are loath to make God a part of the conversation. Heaven forbid that spirits and spirituality be uttered in the same breath.

  So why avoid the connection? Quite simply, because it’s so immensely polarizing. A whopping 87 percent of people who believe in the afterlife believe that science will never prove if it exists. This statistical chasm is exactly why inquiries into the paranormal are vital. Faith and doubt have bubbled in the human mind since primitive tribes first worshipped animistic tokens and fertility idols. The search for ghosts is inescapably tied to the search for meaning, explanation, and divinity.

  Irrefutable proof of the existence of spirits would rattle the foundations of our society. So, yes, it’s worth looking for them.

  On Destination Truth, we may never prove the existence of ghosts. Without one of those smoking toasters from Ghostbusters, we certainly won’t be able to capture one.

  But what we are doing is listening to those who have had compelling experiences and then trying to substantiate their claims or explain them as best we can. It’s not exactly science. But it does nag at science. Fierce debate and unconventional thinking have always underscored the history of scientific discovery. We’re simply contributing to the ongoing conversation.

  Half of us believe. Half of us do not. Where do you stand?

  17: Tourists and Pharaohs

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  Egypt, 2009

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  Egypt is a den of thieves. Let’s get that out in the open right off the bat. Having gone toe to toe with some of the planet’s most hardcore hagglers, touts, and cons, I put Egypt in a class all by itself. Which is to say, I love this place. Anyone who has traveled with me can attest to my genuine affection for all manner of well-attempted tourist molestation. During my last visit to Cairo, I was in the country for two minutes and thirty-seven seconds before som
eone attempted to rip me off. And the guy who tried was working for passport control. Kudos, Egypt. Good to see you’re keeping up that sterling reputation.

  I had just stepped off a flight from Dubai and was standing in line to buy a tourist visa. It wasn’t a promising sign that visas were being administered by a dude at an airport bank, rather than a government office. An enormous and weathered sign to my left read, “Visa: $15 U.S.” The lone teller looked up at me and said, “Hello my friend. Price is two hundred Egyptian pounds.” As a point of interest, anyone in a financial transaction who calls you “my friend” who isn’t actually your friend is usually about to twist a proverbial knife into your back. A little quick math in my head revealed that this price was more than double what was listed on the sign. “I thought it was only fifteen U.S. dollars,” I said.

  Behind the teller, a loitering Egyptian police officer flashed a crooked smile at me and winked. So much for the cops.

  “Okay. Fine. Fifteen dollars,” the teller relented.

  After I gave him a twenty-dollar bill, he then argued that he had no change in either currency. At a bank. He had no change at a bank. You’ve got to respect anyone with the balls to even attempt that kind of move.

  Beyond passport control is one of Egypt’s classic scams. I call it the “hotel shuffle.” Here’s how it works. A con wearing an official-looking “Visitor Assistance” badge walks up to an arriving tourist and asks if he needs a hotel for the night. Few people show up in Cairo without booking accommodations ahead of time, and so the tourist invariably explains that, no, he already has a room arranged. The con then tells the traveler that he’s happy to call the hotel and have them send a complimentary shuttle. Most tourists are unnerved at the sight of the salivating mob of cabdrivers outside and take the man up on his seemingly generous offer.