– March 2011 –
“I booked Gettysburg and Baltimore. Chuck, Micaela, Connor, and I will spend the Fourth of July in Fell’s Point,” I told Poe.
Poe clasped his hands together in excitement.
I knew that he just wanted us to go to Baltimore, but Gettysburg called to me after Chuck and my previous visit. I wasn’t sure whether it was the history, the haunts, or still-unanswered questions on my past life journey when I originally began thinking of scheduling a Gettysburg trip. All I knew was that it was a location that I had to go to and I had to go in October. What better time to celebrate Chuck and my five-year wedding anniversary? Well, Chuck could think of a million different places, but he relented.
Before booking our room, I had asked several people where we should stay and Cashtown Inn was hands down the most recommended. When I asked why, I received the same “you won’t be disappointed” reply. So I went online, looked at the photos of the rooms and chose the A. P. Hill room. I was completely unaware that several years before the room had been part of the Ghost Hunters episode where one of the stars, Grant, witnessed a frame moving in the middle of the night. I just chose it because it looked cute!
We also asked several people for recommendations on which tour to take and were given some vague responses, but a friend graciously loaned us several books that helped us get an idea as to what we wanted to do when we arrived.
Our seven-hour trip began by getting up at 4:00 in the morning with hopes of being on the road at 5:00 o’clock, but unfortunately that time was closer to 6:00 o’clock. As we made our way into Ohio, a rainbow appeared in the sky in front of us, and as we got into Pennsylvania, another rainbow appeared ahead. We took that as a positive sign. I was surprised that a main interstate didn’t run through Gettysburg, but instead we had to take a two-lane road around the mountains to get into Cashtown. It was that trek that seemed to take the longest as we waited for tractors, horses, and even cows to cross the road, but we finally took the turn at Mr. Ed’s Elephant Museum onto Old 30 to come into Cashtown, Pennsylvania, where the Cashtown Inn proudly stood.
On Mondays you have to check in between eleven and one, but we knew we would probably be later so I had called beforehand to let them know it would be closer to 3:00 o’clock, when in fact we got in just after one. No cars were in the lot and the door was locked so we followed the instructions that were left for us on the door as to where to locate our key. We unlocked the large front door and made our way to the steps when two ladies came out of the kitchen, surprising both of us. They instructed us on the following morning’s breakfast and then they made their way out, leaving us to get settled and to unpack in our room.
The Cashtown Inn is about seven miles to the west of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, but has its own history with the Civil War. Built in 1797, the name was created because the very first innkeeper would only accept cash for goods along the then toll road—a road that would serve as a supply line back to Virginia for the Confederate Army and bring the entire Confederate Army of Northern Virginia to Cashtown’s doorstep at the very beginning of the Civil War. Oh, if those walls could talk. Or do they?
The paranormal activity began almost immediately, although I was completely unaware in the beginning what we were witnessing. Both Chuck and I could hear running up and down the stairs and just thought perhaps someone else had come in to the inn, only to open the door to our room and see absolutely nobody there and yet still hear the noises and creaking on the stairway as if someone were going up and down the third-floor stairs to the suites.
Our room, the A. P. Hill room, had a queen-size canopy bed, a beautiful replica Victorian vanity, and original dated signatures of visitors and stagecoach operators from the 1800s still visible on the walls. It overlooked the small town of Cashtown, the orchard, and the route the Confederate army took during the fateful battle. In a small frame, there was a note from Grant of Syfy’s Ghosts Hunters that simply read: “Things move in this room.” I laughed and thought it must be the many trucks that travel through the road, but that it was endearing.
Chuck and I had made the trip minus food, so we decided that lunch would be first on our agenda, and we quickly figured out that Lincoln Highway (Old 30) led to US Route 30. We both stopped breathing the moment the battlegrounds came into view—so much so that we pulled over and just stared at the vast land. Tears instantly sprang to my eyes. The energy was incredibly intense and so sad.
I saw Poe and Alto both overlooking the land. Poe’s eyes clouded with emotion as he looked over at the battlefields.
I looked to see that Chuck had wandered off to grab a map from a small tourist building.
“There’s speculation whether you would have gone to war or not, and if you had, whether or not you would’ve survived the brutality,” I said to Poe.
Poe stood silent, still staring, as if watching the replay of the battle.
“Because, you’re a lover not a fighter, right, Edgar?” I teased, trying to break the tension.
Before he could respond, Chuck asked me if I was ready.
Gathering control of my emotions, we continued down the road, quickly realizing that the road took us right into the town square that had a roundabout that was not only confusing, but defeated its purpose, as it was crazy congested with semitrucks. We did an eeny, meeny, miny, moe with regards to where to eat and chose the Pub and Restaurant. I found it so interesting when we entered and saw an article from the owner entitled “Believe.” Since Poe came on the scene, he, Alto, and Tallie would show me the word believe as a sign that I was either in the right place at the right time, or that I needed to change my perspective to get to the right place at the right time. Glancing over the story, I couldn’t help but smile. The owner had also overcome a lot in order to make that restaurant, her dream, become a reality. The food was just okay, but the wait staff was incredibly friendly and that evened it all out.
While we perused shops, we had come upon Cannonball Old Tyme Malt Shop and decided to stop in for a treat of an old-fashioned vanilla soda. We sipped our sodas as we wandered the streets, took pictures with Lincoln, and then decided to see if we could find Devil’s Den and Sachs Bridge. Since we knew how to get to Sachs Bridge, we decided to stop there first. Night had fallen and time was of the essence.
Sachs Covered Bridge was built in 1852, and it was used by both Union and Confederate troops during the Battle of Gettysburg in 1863. Floodwaters swept it from its abutments on June 19, 1996. The bridge was rebuilt, and its trusses were supported with steel beams and raised three feet in elevation. Apparently the bridge was inadvertently turned the opposite way than it originally was when being repaired. Many paranormal investigators claim that the bridge is incredibly haunted by soldiers from both sides and I was anxious to see if it was all hype.
Both the bridge and the battlefields closed at 10:00 o’clock at night, and being a rule-keeper, I thought it best to adhere to the signs. As we pulled up to Sachs Bridge, we noticed a group hanging out at the bridge. The full moon reflected off the river, and I took a walk alone down to the bridge as Chuck stopped to take some photos. At the middle of the bridge, I felt as if I had gone through cobwebs, my sign that I was touching the veil to the other side. I began asking questions, looking around, and wondering why I couldn’t see the spirits and could only feel them. It was something that I wasn’t used to. I checked in with my guides.
“This is just the beginning,” Alto warned. “Stay strong and learn.”
I shrugged and allowed the feelings to come to me. It was then that I felt surrounded by at least ten entities who were a bit frustrated with their work being disturbed.
I walked back toward Chuck and asked him if he wanted to take the walk, but just as Chuck began walking, another car came up and three people got out. “Which end are the ghosts at?” a man asked me. I just laughed at him and continued shooting pictures. Chuck came back and shook his head as if trying to wipe off the excess energy and we made our way to the car just as three other vehicles drove in. I got in the passenger seat only to notice we had a hitchhiker looking at me from the outside.
“You must stay,” I said. “You still have work to do, remember?” He merely nodded.
Chuck and I had a conversation before leaving on why nobody tried to cross over the spirits, as it seemed that there were both residual and intelligent entities. He laughed and asked if we could put a bounty on their head and threaten the ghost tour companies to pay up or else I would cross the soldiers over. He was just joking, I knew that.
We headed back to the inn as my phone and camera had died at Sachs and I wanted everything super charged. Plus, the temperatures were dipping down and I wasn’t dressed for the weather.
After a quick super charge and super change, we stopped at a cemetery in Cashtown to check out some of the gravestones. Just as we turned into the battlefields, the sun began to make its descent and the fields took on a different feel. I was amazed at the amounts of people walking the fields and pathways alongside it, taking in the energy. We found ourselves at the Eternal Light Peace Memorial and got out to take a look. The moon was hung low in the sky as the sun set and we grabbed our cameras and recorders and made our way up the steps. Something caught my eye, and I saw a white-tailed rabbit hop right by me. Both Chuck and I felt a heavy energy overtake us at the same time and we noticed that we were completely alone on the grounds, or at least alive in this dimension.
We got back in the car and started our way through the entire route of battlefields, stopping and shooting pictures—and not where we felt activity, not where any book had told us was most active. We let the spirits guide us until we ended up at Little Round Top and then down to Devil’s Den.
I could feel both Alto and Poe sitting in the back seat as Chuck and I rode around the battlefields. It was just before 9:00 o’clock at night and the sun had fallen, cascading shadows along the darkened battlefield, when Chuck stopped at an observation tower.
“Want to climb it with me?” Chuck asked.
“Not a chance,” I laughed. Not only did I not like heights, I disliked heights in the dark.
Chuck parked the car, grabbed the camera, and, seeing that we didn’t have a flashlight with us, used his cell phone as a light to maneuver himself to the top of a tower. I could hear his footsteps clang up the metal steps as I held my breath awaiting his return. With all of the car’s windows rolled down, I could feel an energy shift and turned around to see if it was one of my guides, but they had both disappeared, probably back to the hotel to enjoy their evening. The energy grew thicker to the point I was ready to scream for Chuck to come back, but before I could yell, I heard his footsteps running faster and faster down the tower. He opened the door to the driver’s side and stared at me with glassy eyes.
“Someone was up there with me,” he said, panting and handing me the camera to put back in the case. “As I looked out over the battlefield, I could see soldiers, Kristy. I mean, I could see them! And then there was something, err, someone up there with me, and I was sure he was going to push me over.”
I shuddered. The tower had a railing, but not one tall enough to save someone if they were pushed.
“Did you take photos?” I asked, hitting the menu button to scroll through, and noticing that he had. “Wait, look!”
I handed Chuck the camera to look at the photos that he had taken. On each photo he snapped there were several—what looked like people—soldiers illuminated in green, on the ground, standing up, kneeling. Some wore hats. Some looked to be holding guns.
“Are you certain there aren’t real living people in the fields? Maybe there is a reenactment tonight,” I reasoned, looking at the photos again.
Chuck shook his head and whispered, “No, nobody is out here but us. Presumably.”
I knew that he was right, but I was still confused. Sure, I saw and even spoke to the dead, but there were several, maybe fifteen figures on the photographs. I wanted to make sense of it all and there wasn’t any sense.
My entire life has evolved around the paranormal. If it didn’t find me, I sought it. Lunch hours were frequently taken at the local historical cemetery where I would have peaceful conversations with those crossed over and ghosts-in-waiting. Not once during my excursions did I stomp and storm about forcing them to show themselves or demand they make lights flicker on my meters or force them to move a toy. Well, it did (and still does) help that I am a medium and can see, sense, hear, and communicate with those on the other side of life. Just as many, I have watched my fair share of paranormal shows. Some I love, some I tolerate, and then there are some that I just shake my head at in total disgust. Ghost hunting is normally as exciting as watching paint dry. I am also a proponent for respecting the spirits and ghosts as we live as one, under a different sky, a different paradigm, but still as one. So yelling and screaming in their home, at them, requesting them to do circus tricks that the family dog, if he could, would more than likely exchange some choice words after the request … well, it just doesn’t cut it. It is disrespectful. Even snapping zillions of photographs, as if you are the paranormal paparazzi, is ridiculous.
I have found so-called haunted locations denoting on their contracts that it will not be allowed for anyone in a group to cross over a spirit. That they like their ghosts. I wonder if they would feel the same way if the tables were turned and they missed the last train to heaven. How they would feel being kept hostage? It is wise to think in paranormal situations as if the person is standing in front of you. Would you tell that person, “Sorry, I like the money that I am making off of you therefore you aren’t allowed to leave to be with your family?” Although I have come into contact with some soulless people in my lifetime, I doubt that the majority would have the guts to say that.
As I glanced out at the battlefields, I curiously wondered why the soldiers hadn’t found a way to Heaven, and thought perhaps they just needed a guide. Just as Alto, Tallie, and Poe guided me, maybe I needed to help guide them. I looked over at Chuck, who was staring straight ahead, obviously shaken, and thought it best to just go back to the hotel and sleep it off. Tomorrow was another day.
Although Chuck slept that night, I barely did. Before bed we had followed the directions in the room and put a quarter on a piece of paper and outlined it with a pen. The note on the desk said that the coin would move during the nighttime. I awoke in the middle of the night to a noise. Through the light from the street lamp peeking in the windows, I could see Poe sitting at the desk in front of the coin, playing with it. I grabbed my eyeglasses and looked at the alarm clock. The time, 3:33 a.m., glowed back at me. I shivered, not from the temperatures, but instead by the irony of the time. It is said that the three o’clock hour is witching time and ghosts and demons roam during the hour, wreaking havoc.
“What are you doing?” I whispered to Poe, glancing over to make sure Chuck was fast asleep. He was.
“There are ghosts here,” Poe said, solemnly.
“Umm, no shit, Sherlock,” I responded, smirking at him.
“Sherlock?”
“Forget it,” I said, holding back my laughter and making a mental note to inform him of the impact his detective stories made on the literary world. Poe’s work inspired Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and many others. Sherlock Holmes exists thanks to Poe, but now wasn’t the time to tell him that.
“There are thousands of ghosts,” he expanded. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Sad, isn’t it? Can we help them?”
Poe looked at me as if he wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry to wake you, Kristy. Go back to sleep.”
I stretched and snuggled back under the covers and mumbled instructions for him to put the quarter back where it originally was and to not disturb the other two couples staying at the inn.
I fell asleep to Poe snickering, but woke a half hour later to the doorknob jiggling. I looked around but nobody was there.
“Chuck,” I said urgently shaking his right shoulder. “Someone’s trying to get in the room.”
Chuck slowly opened his eyes and removed his CPAP mask. The doorknob continued to jiggle. Shrugging off the blankets, he quietly walked over to the door, unlatched
the lock, and opened the door. I stood in back of him, peering around. In the hallway stood the four other guests, pajama clad and looking as confused as we were.
“What the … ?” A young lady who looked to be in her late twenties asked, her brown eyes wide and her accent Southern.
We all looked at one another, confused, nobody knowing how to begin until I blurted out, “Someone was trying to get into our room. Our doorknob was moving!”
“Ours too,” the young lady said, introducing herself as Ann and her fiancé as Seth.
A heavy man with a gray receding hairline donning boxer shorts and a white T-shirt echoed the same. “I don’t believe in this … ghost thing,” he added as we all laughed. Because obviously this “ghost thing” had us hanging in the hallway at four in the morning, looking like the Scooby-Doo gang.
I looked around the hallway to see if Poe might be pranking us, but he was nowhere to be seen. Nor was anybody else, ghostlike or otherwise.
Morning came sooner than hoped, and I immediately scheduled a nap into our itinerary. As I jumped in the shower, I heard Chuck let out a hoop and a holler.
“The quarter moved!” he exclaimed.
I pretended to look as surprised and excited as he was, but I had to wonder if Poe had actually put it back where it belonged. After we were showered and dressed, we gathered in the Tavern for breakfast, meeting up with the rest of the inn’s guests. As we chatted and laughed about our after-midnight hallway meeting, Jack, the owner of the inn, inquired what happened.
The older gentleman laughed and shook his head, still in amazement. “I came here for the history, not the haunts. I’ve never experienced anything like that until last night.”
“Now that isn’t true,” his wife said, adding cream to her coffee. “We’ve heard cannons going off in the battlefield and heard the soldiers cry. He always thought it was recordings, but I knew it was otherworldly. And maybe now he’s been convinced that I was right.” She laughed and lovingly touching his arm.
“Yep, I think I believe now,” he chuckled and took a swig of his black coffee.
The waitress brought the dishes of food out to us and the conversation quickly turned to which tour each of us had signed up for that day. Chuck and I decided to self-discover. I had gotten him to take the tours in Charleston, but that was pushing it, so we decided on a lazy day of exploring the town and battlefields, a definite nap, and then a ghost tour in the evening. Chuck was most excited about visiting Rita’s, a small stand that sold Italian ice and custard, but became quickly disappointed when we drove by and it was closed for the season.
With several maps in hand, we made one of our first stops at the Wheatfields. On the humid afternoon of July 2, 1863, a wheatfield would become the center of fighting and death.
In 1863, the wheatfield was golden with ripened grain, but over the course of just one afternoon the field and the surrounding woods would be trampled and bloody, with the dead lying in the hot sun for days before being collected.
We got out of the car and began to walk around the field, snapping pictures. I could feel both Alto and Poe, one on each side, as if I had bodyguards. As I walked, I immediately felt as if I had been shot in the stomach and I fell to the ground. The pain was intense and I wondered if it was true pain or empathy. I balled myself up on the sacred land.
My moans surprised Chuck, who ran over to me.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been shot,” I answered with surprise. “I’ve been shot,” I repeated, falling to the ground.
“Get in the car, Kristy!” he said, panicking.
“Kristy, get up and get in the car now,” I heard Poe telepathically demand.
I sat up but still held my stomach. Maybe it was something more, I thought, but discounted that because I could feel the blood coming out of my phantom wound. “No, this is so cool. Who can say that they’ve been shot and not really have been sh— ?”
Before I could finish my sentence, I heard the quick steps of a horse come up to me and then felt a stabbing sensation underneath my right arm, as if someone had spiked me with a sword.
“Now I’ve been stabbed,” I said, falling back on the ground. “I’m dying.” I wanted to laugh, but it hurt. Bad.
Chuck mumbled some swear words, picked me up off the field, and began to carry me to the car.
“Stop, stop,” I protested, “I’m okay. Honest.”
“Get in the damn car, Kristy,” Chuck argued, placing me in the passenger seat.
I could see both Alto and Poe staring at me from where I had dropped. They shook their head as if to express an unrelenting frustration. I couldn’t really blame them.
I visualized a rainfall of white light around me, washing away all the excess energy. After a few minutes, I began to feel the tension in my stomach release and the pain in my arm diminish.
Chuck didn’t say anything, just shook his head at me and then started to laugh. “Honestly, Kristy.”
I grinned back, “But how cool is it that I can say I was shot in Gettysburg?”
After all the excitement, we decided that it was the best time to get some lunch and go back to the inn for a nap. As we climbed the steps to our room, we were met at the landing by the younger couple holding their luggage.
“Checking out?” I asked, startled. They had told us at breakfast that they were going to stay one more night before heading home to Georgia.
Ann brushed her long, brown hair with her fingers and whispered, “Seth’s scared. I am good with all of this—I grew up in Savannah—but he’s freaked out.”
We wished them a safe trip back home, but before we unlocked our room door, Seth called up to let us know that the other couple also checked out and informed us that according to Jack we were the lone guests there for the night.
It didn’t faze me or Chuck. After all, my life was haunted, not just this town, and thankfully except for being shot on a battlefield, Chuck was used to the craziness that ensued.
The hour nap felt more like eight hours, and I was extremely grateful. As we dressed for dinner and the ghost tour, we heard footsteps in the hallway and assumed it was housecleaning, or perhaps a new guest. Opening the door to leave, we were met in the hallway by absolutely nobody. I grinned at Chuck, who mumbled something about wishing he had known what he was getting into when he married me. I laughed back at him, knowing that he knew exactly what he was getting involved in, albeit maybe not to the degree.
We visited Dobbin House Tavern, where we were led down into a candlelight basement. Wooden tables were staged close together without any privacy, but instead like one big family having dinner.
Dobbin was the oldest standing structure in Gettysburg, dating back to 1776. Originally, it was built as a home for Reverend Alexander Dobbin and his family. According to the Gettysburg Tour Center, Dobbin was an integral part of establishing the area, and was highly revered. Although unsubstantiated, the home was rumored to be the very first stop on the Underground Railroad north of the Mason-Dixon Line. During and after the Battle of Gettysburg, the house served as a temporary field hospital, as most all buildings were—churches, homes, etc.
Chuck wasn’t impressed. In fact, Chuck was freaked out and kept saying he felt as if he was in a dungeon. Without natural lighting, and candles as the only means of illumination, our neighboring dining partners—two businessmen in for a conference—offered us their pocket flashlight and advice on what to order. Although the food was good, it wasn’t great, and by the end of the meal, Chuck was near full into a panic attack. I couldn’t even see my spirit guides as the place was so jam-packed that not even spirits or ghosts could’ve fit in with or without a reservation.
We stopped at the convenience store to pick up some pops—or sodas as they referred to them—to carry with us on the ghost tour. Checking in at the Gettysburg Ghost Tours, we both used the facilities. Chuck had taken his unopened Diet Mountain Dew in with him and realized that he forgot it, so he ran in to retrieve it only for it to be missing. The girls at the counter laughed at him and said that the ghosts must’ve taken it. He was more than upset, but not wanting to accuse them of stealing his pop, his mood turned dark and ornery. I was already pushing the limit with him for going on this tour.
“Kristy, you see ghosts and spirits, why do we need take a ghost tour? You could be giving the ghost tour,” he grumbled to me as I urged him to run and get another Diet Dew in hopes it would soften his foul mood.
He was right about the tours, though. Both Chuck and I did give ghost tours in Michigan, so this felt a bit like work to him, too. I wanted to hear more haunted history and see the hot spots, and didn’t have any expectations of seeing a ghost. We were to visit the Lincoln Cemetery, the Farnsworth House, the Grove, the haunted creekbed, the Rupp House Museum, the Dobbin
House, the Jennie Wade House, the haunted orphanage, and the Victorian Photography Studio.
We ended up being only two of three on the tour that evening, which made for more locations and more stories from our tour guide. The irony was that I picked up on the fact that our guide didn’t believe and I called him out on it.
“Oh, I want to believe. I think that is why I do these tours. One day, I am hoping, I will see something.”
Poe stood next to the tall man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties. I could almost picture him being a Civil War soldier himself. His stance was straight and his behavior very polite.
“Tell him his grandfather is proud he’s a teacher,” Poe instructed me.
“And over here,” our guide pointed, “is a witness tree that many mediums claim has certain energy. It is called a witness tree because it witnessed the bloody battle and holds the residential energy within.”
I held my hand against the tree and saw visions of the battle within my mind’s eye. Pulling back quickly, I looked over at Chuck. Nighttime had fallen and we each carried flashlights, while our tour guide held a lantern. Chuck put his hand to the tree and pulled away just as I had.
“I don’t believe in mediums,” the guide said, “but I do feel something, a vibration I guess you would call it, when I touch it.”
“Tell him,” Chuck urged as I shushed him, but Poe was prodding too.
“Well, I am a medium,” I said, blushing in the darkness. “And your grandpa wants me to tell you that he’s proud that you are teaching. First grade, is it? He shows you holding a guitar … ”
It was now time for the guide to blush. We were walking up a large hill toward another location, but he stopped in the middle of the street and stared at me. The lantern lit up his face, tears welling in his eyes. I could tell that his relationship with his grandfather had been one much like my own—unexplained and otherworldy.
“Thank you.”
I nodded and we completed the tour without any more of his “If you believe … ” commentary.
Both Chuck and I were thrilled to get back to the inn, take a shower, and go to bed. We noticed that we were the only car in the lot when we unlocked the front door.
Climbing the stairwell, the inn was dead quiet, but as we made our way into our room we heard a clinging noise on the third floor. The third floor of the inn housed several suites, one of which was where the original innkeepers, Mary Mickley, and her family, tried to hide when the Confederate Army invaded Cashtown. The other suite was a two-room suite to the rear of the inn situated atop of the area that was used as a field hospital after the Battle of Gettysburg when General Imboden was charged with evacuating the Confederate troops. I motioned to Chuck not to say anything as I climbed the steps to the third floor. The doors were open to the suites, but they were vacant. I felt someone behind me and swung around to see Poe standing there, looking grim. I turned back around to see at least twenty soldiers that seemed to be caught within a loop of time. Various limbs were stacked up by the windows. Blood stained the walls and the floorboards. There was some movement among what I thought were corpses, but I couldn’t tell if I was seeing their spirits or physical movement. Another noise startled me and I turned around to see Chuck looking around me, as if trying to figure out what I was staring at.
“Looks like we are it,” I said, shivering at the vision from my memory. I glanced back up and everything looked to be back to normal.
After our showers, Chuck went to climb into the side of the bed he had slept in the previous night.
“Nuh-uh. I claim that side. If it’s going to open the door, it’s going to get you!” I joked.
Chuck shrugged, laid down, gave me a good-night kiss, and was fast asleep. Me, on the hand laid down, stared at the lace canopy, and listened. I swore I could hear something on the third floor, something dragging. I didn’t want to remember what I saw, so I brushed it off and envisioned happy things like unicorns and fairies until slumber stole me, too.
It was only an hour later when I was startled awake by a loud thump. Chuck’s breathing was still heavy. I grabbed for my glasses that were on the nightstand, but they weren’t where I had set them before going to bed. I sat up, squinting hard and feeling all around the table, however they for sure weren’t there at all. I sighed, deciding
that I should use the facilities and go back to sleep. I would find my glasses in the morning, and the thump was probably in my dream. As I walked back to the bed, careful to walk around the bench that sat at the foot of the bed, Poe sat once more by the carefully placed quarter.
“On the mantel.”
“What?” asking him, thoroughly confused.
“Your glasses are on the mantel,” he said, not looking up at me.
Puzzled, I walked to the mantel, which was nearest my side of the bed, and sure enough my glasses sat there. I knew that I hadn’t placed them there and looked at Poe for an answer, only to receive a shake of the head.
I put the glasses back on the nightstand, climbed into bed under the covers, snuggled up to Chuck, and was just about ready to fall asleep when the doorknob began to jiggle again. As if something out of the movies, an entity of a soldier walked through the door and past the bathroom door, its movement making the door slam. I lay there, unable to move. He walked to my side of the bed and sat down next to me on the bed.
I didn’t know whether to scream, wake Chuck, or just plain run, but I was too terrified to do anything but stare.
“Ma’am,” he started.
He sees me, I thought. I could see him, he could see me … where was Poe? I looked around to see him standing against the bathroom door and looking agitated.
I nodded back at him, noticing that I was shaking.
“My name is Nathanial Thomas.”
His left arm had been cruelly sawed off and just a stump, bloody and oozing infection, hung.
“Do you know that you are dead, Nathanial?” I asked, looking at his uniform. He had a bloodied white undershirt on with a wool blue coat swung over him. Dirtied and ripped sky blue pants covered his legs. He wore no hat, nor did he have a gun. He looked all of seventeen or eighteen.
Nathanial nodded, “But there is still a battle being fought, ma’am. I will not leave my post.”
“What do you mean?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer me, only looked at me with sadness in his eyes. “You remind me of my ma.”
He went on to tell me his family story and how he died on the first day of fighting.
“Don’t you want to be with your family?” I asked.
“I do,” he said, “But there is still a battle being fought, ma’am. I will not leave my post,” he repeated.
Then he disappeared, leaving me with what sounded like bodies being dragged down the steps. I yelped loudly and jumped on top of Chuck, waking him. I tried to tell him what happened, but I shook like a leaf, my soul feeling chilled and my mind horrified at what I had just seen.
Morning couldn’t come quick enough. We hurriedly ate our breakfast when Jack asked us how our night had been. Not wanting to expand on anything, I just told him about hearing what sounded like bodies being dragged down the steps. He smiled and reminded us that we were the only guests that night. And then he said it was a common complaint, after all the Cashtown Inn was a field hospital. Limbs would be thrown out the window after the amputations, but they piled up to the second floor there were so many. Horrified screams still echo as there was no anesthesia or pain medication. I was never so glad to get back home.
And yet Gettysburg called for me to come back. This time with the kids.