Shortly after it was completed in 1853, the fort was closed.  Throughout its two years of construction, the fort had nothing but friendly and peaceful encounters with the local Indian tribes.  However, in 1858, the fort was occupied once more when the Butterfield Stagecoach chose it for a stop.  The fort was used once more as a Civil War outpost and then again as a military post during the 1880s.  The fort belonged to private parties for awhile, but it is now a 22 acre tourist site. It still has a dozen or so chimneys sprouting up above the plains and three intact stone buildings believed to be the powder magazine, a guardhouse, and what was either the commissary or a warehouse.   

So who, or what, haunts Fort Phantom Hill?  It’s difficult to say.  Some believe the spirit of oppressed and displaced Indians walk the grounds still searching for their former homes.  Others claim there is a Lady of the Lake.  There is also the claim that the tall, thin, La Llorena haunts this place.  La Llorena is a legendary, emotionally-tortured woman of Hispanic lore who haunts lakes and rivers, searching for the children she murdered in a vengeful lover’s rage.  La Llorena generally makes her presence known through quiet moans, mournful sobs, and hysterical, piercing screams.  Visitors to Fort Phantom Hill report all of the above.  Southwest Ghost Hunters Association conducted an investigation at Fort Phantom Hill and they have some interesting photographs on their web page, some that seem to offer clues.

But there is yet another story of pain and sorrow on the frontier, and this story is also a contender for the identity of the ghost that walks these grounds.  This is the story of a lovely, young bride and her adoring husband.  They settled in this area sometime in the late 1800s.  The couple, both passionate about the other’s safety, swore that no one would ever be allowed to enter their cabin without using a secret password, thus ensuring the safety of whoever remained inside.  Early one morning, the husband left for town.  He was attacked by Indians on his way home.  He was seriously wounded, but managed to escape, though his injuries prevented him from speaking.  He staggered onto the cabin’s porch and fell against the door.  His wife heard the sound, picked up the rifle and shot him.  Many area residents believe it is the broken-hearted settler’s wife who walks about the fort, moaning, screaming, and begging for forgiveness, trapped in a cycle of grief that will last until the end of time. 

Theater Ghosts

The lights went out and for one brief moment I was swallowed by darkness. My eyes adjusted as the ads started to play on the screen before me. I stretched out in my seat, crossed my arms and sighed. I love watching movies alone, especially if the theater is at least partially empty, and this one was almost completely so. In fact, everything was perfect for the moment and I was drifting off with my typical suspension of disbelief when suddenly I realized that someone had joined me in the back aisle and I nearly jumped out of my skin!

My view of him was hazy in the night-scene light beaming down from the screen. He wore a business suit and sat quietly, as if he had been there for quite some time already, though I was certain he was a new arrival. His elbow was braced on the arm rest and his chin rested in the palm of his hand. He seemed lost in the show, as if he was a great fan of the performers, or perhaps a movie critic. I don’t know why I was so startled. I must have missed his entrance. Oddly enough, I also missed his exit. The lights came on, the man was gone, and I had the strangest feeling that I had just spent the past three hours watching a movie with a ghost.

There seems to be an unspoken law that theaters must have a ghost. It’s hard to imagine that so many people could be packed into one place without leaving remnants of energy behind, but I suppose it’s more likely that you’ll find cast and crew lingering after death. This is understandable when one considers the mental and emotional energy that goes into each performance—that energy must be very attractive to ghosts, particularly those who survived on the same kind of energy when they were alive.

And rumors of theater hauntings have been circulating for many, many years. In fact, according to the College of the Siskiyous Theater Department website, (California) during the time of William Shakespeare, candles were left burning in the theater long after a performance ended in order to keep the ghosts of previous performances off the stage. Is this a metaphor? An urban legend? Or is there a story behind this superstitious behavior? Did someone actually spot the ghost of a former stage actor wandering about? Or perhaps Christopher Marlowe was seen checking in on his contemporaries after his death! Regardless of the origin of this particular behavior, to this day, a light is left burning in theaters long after the performers have left the stage, and this light is called a “ghost light.”

The Shakespeare topic reminds me of The Avon Theater in Decatur, Illinois. The Avon’s name was suggested by a theater fan in 1916 as a way to entice theater goers with a reminder of the great Elizabethan playwright. The Avon is said to be very haunted! Troy Taylor of Ghosts of the Prairie fame has done numerous investigations in this theater and reports on these investigations in great detail at The Avon’s website. The Avon was recently remodeled. Is it possible that the disruptions brought these spirits out of the darkness? Perhaps this is why so many theaters are believed to be haunted—with every new show comes a new set of furniture and stage decorations. Theaters, it seems, are in a constant state of upheaval.

Shakespeare may attract the ghosts of past performers in England, but there are others who haunt the British theaters, as well. According to Lancashire England’s The Blackpool Gazette, a group of ghost hunters recently spent the night at the Grand Theatre, which boasts both a suicidal theater fan and a dedicated former manager that paces the floors, leaving the scent of pipe smoke behind him. Blackpool’s Grand Theatre has a long history of paranormal sightings, as does another English theater, Nottinghamshire's Little Theater in Raeford, which is haunted by a man in black evening attire. It’s difficult to say exactly who this man might be, but one thing is certain: He loves to whistle. There’s something about that image that appeals to me—a man in black, whistling a snappy tune, strolling through the halls after the lights have all gone out. All but the ghost light, of course.  

I’ve often wondered if the man who sat beside me in the darkened theater that night was, well, real. He just seemed so…odd. His sudden appearance--and equally sudden disappearance—left me feeling rather unsettled. Perhaps he was simply a man running late for the show, and in a hurry to get home, but then again, it’s perfectly reasonable to assume that anyone with an intense love of the theater would return to that place after death. I love old movies and once considered a degree in film theory. I am equally in love with the peaceful anonymity of a darkened theater. I can imagine how wonderful it would be to return after death to watch one more show, compare it to the classics, critique the directing, and admire some unknown actor’s outstanding performance. Perhaps some day I will be the ghost perched in the aisle seat watching carefully in the dark, sneaking out before the credits to leave a trail of lavender-scented perfume and the sound of clicking heels echoing down an empty hall.  

A Thin Piece of Glass

Rain falls outside my window like a sparkling, silver curtain, separating me from my beloved garden and freshly-planted roses. I can smell and taste the crisp, clean water as I stand behind the window’s steamy glass. I can feel it in my veins, on my skin, and in the very air I breathe. The soil in the garden just beyond the window is black with moisture. I want to sink my fingers in the cool, liquid mud and let my body slowly fall into the earth like roots. I belong to this place. I can feel my roots sink deeper every day that I am here. I know how it feels to be attached, both physically and emotionally, to a home, a place, a way of life. I know why, sometimes, a perfectly content and happy spirit will return.

Lighthouse Keeper George Parris was a happy and contented soul when he and his wife, Lorraine, moved into the Old Presque Isle Lighthouse Museum. The thirty foot lighthouse was built in the Presque Isle, Michigan area in 1840. The lighthouse was in serious disrepair at the turn of the last century, but a wealthy family purchased the structure from the U.S. government, refinished the keeper’s house and lighthouse and opened them up for tourism. George and Lorraine took over caretaker duties in the seventies and kept the property in excellent condition. George so successfully charmed visitors that they often returned, year after year. He set his roots deep in this place, and he was content. 

Then suddenly, fifteen years after he first set foot inside his beloved lighthouse, George died of a heart attack. Lorraine was heart-broken, as well. She had lost her wonderful husband. And you can only imagine her shock when she traveled down the road and raised her eyes to see the lighthouse beacon shining proudly into the night sky. Why was this moment so shocking? Apparently, the Coast Guard had removed the gears--preventing the lens from rotating--when they built a more modern lighthouse years before. George himself had disconnected the electricity to the tower.     

The light in the Old Presque Lighthouse is said to have a yellowish cast and it has now been seen by many people. George can also be seen on occasion as he makes his rounds inside the building. There is a story on numerous internet sites concerning a sighting by a young girl who claimed to have spoken with a man resembling George. She identified him from an old photograph. Another story on Wikipedia reports that Lorraine was saved from a lightning strike by a premonition she was certain came from her deceased husband.

Someday I want to visit the Old Presque Lighthouse, but if I never get the chance to meet George Parris, I will never doubt that he climbs the stairs and lights the beacon at his beloved lighthouse. As I gaze out my window in Texas watching the rain slide down in thick rivulets I can easily imagine George standing at the top of the tower, staring out into the rain, searching the horizon for lost ships. I can also imagine George tending the lighthouse grounds, repairing the aging structure with the same love and care he would show to a treasured family heirloom, and I know that the sparkling, silver curtain of rain that separates me from my garden right now is no different than the thin barrier that separates George from his treasured home.