American Ghost Stories

[adventuressclubamericas]

On this Halloween night, how about one last haunted tale of Sin City?

It was early evening when a party of four friends of ours arrived at Las Vegas’ The Underground speakeasy. After spending some time admiring the Prohibition-era decor and artifacts, (including an original flapper dress,) they were handed menus and shown to their table. As they were taking their seats, apparently someone unseen decided that they weren’t welcome there - the flameless candle in the center of the table suddenly rocketed off entirely on its own, crashing into the wall some 5 feet away. While a bit surprising, the staff at the speakeasy shrugged it off. These things happen there, and in the museum above them.

The Underground is located beneath the National Museum of Organized Crime and Law Enforcement, better known as the Mob Museum. The museum is considered one of the most haunted locations in Las Vegas. No surprise, considering the collection of artifacts that are tied to some of the most violent criminal acts the US has seen. But one artifact stands out above all others - a simple brick wall. It was against this very wall that on 14 February 1929, 7 men were gunned down by persons allegedly working for Al Capone. It seems that the wall still carries echoes of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre and shares its story all too vividly with visitors today. Some, perhaps, more than others. If you approach this wall, you may find yourself growing more and more nauseous. Or perhaps, you’ll hear the gunshots. Or worse, the screaming.

The Mob Museum, located near Fremont Street, is open daily from 9 am to 9 pm. The Underground speakeasy is open Sun - Thurs, 11 am - 11 pm, Fri - Sat, 11 am - Midnight. You’ll need a password (available on their website) to get into The Underground. The ghosts work on their own schedule.

The Mob Museum

The Speakeasy

[adventuressclubamericas]

It's Friday night! Time for another dance on the dark side of Las Vegas.

You might not think that flooding would be much of an issue for a desert city like Las Vegas. But sometimes, when the monsoons come, the results can be catastrophic. Such was the case in July 1975, when intense rains overwhelmed local drainage systems resulting in a flash flood that claimed two lives and caused over $4.5 million in damage (equivalent to $22 million today).

In the wake of the storm, officials built a series of drainage tunnels under Sandhill Road to manage future floods. It seems that in so doing, though, they unearthed something else entirely. Something unearthly; something that wants to be left alone.

Naturally whenever you build something like this, the curious and adventurous are going to want to check it out. The most common way is to drive onto the “old dirt road” the runs alongside the tunnels. Many people do just that; many wish they hadn’t. For if you’re driving slowly in the early morning hours, you may just see an old woman appear suddenly in your headlights. She’s dressed in rags, her skin translucent, her eyes bugged out and her mouth agape in a silent scream. And she is not happy to see you.

As you ride past her (or worse, through her,) you may think you’re done with this screaming spectre. Go ahead, believe that. Just don’t look in the mirror, because SHE’S RIGHT BEHIND YOU. Chasing your car, screaming the whole way. Until you finally exit her road, and she simply vanishes.

So what about you? Do you dare go introduce yourself to this Sandhill Road Guardian, this Screaming Spectre? Or perhaps any of the other ghosts and entities that call these tunnels home? Because she’s not alone, not by a long shot, and they’d love to have you join them.

[adventuressclubamericas]

It's Friday night, so time for another Sin City Spooky Story!

Over the years, many celebrities have become synonymous with Las Vegas. The most famous of these is probably Elvis; Sin City has made a small industry out of his memory. But close behind The King is arguably the most flamboyant and flashiest celeb to ever hit the Strip - one Wladziu Valentino Liberace.

Liberace was a born entertainer whose personality was almost as sparkly as his wardrobe (so. Many. Rhinestones.) A virtuoso pianist, he started wowing crowds at the age of 16 and continued for the rest of his life. In the late 1970s, he started displaying his collection of cars, costumes, and other memorabilia at his museum on Tropicana Avenue in Las Vegas. The prize of the museum, though, was his piano.

Liberace died 4 February 1987 at his home in Palm Springs, CA. But it seems his spirit chose not to go too far, for after his passing strange things started happening in the museum. Many people reported seeing a shadowy figure among the artifacts, one that zips away at an unearthly speed, or simply disappears altogether if someone gets too close. Museum staff have reported some of the rooms being rearranged, and hearing footsteps without seeing any feet. But the most startling haunting activity is centered around that piano. It simply starts playing, all by itself, when guests enter the room.

The Liberace Museum closed 17 October 2010, but several of the artifacts have gone on tour since - and if reports are to be believed, Liberace’s ghost goes with them. They’re currently on display at the Thriller Villa, Michael Jackson’s former home not far from the Strip, open by appointment. Stop by if you get a chance. Lee would love to play for you!

[adventuressclubamericas]

Time for another Tale of Terror from our Con city, Las Vegas!

Circus Circus Hotel and Casino has been a fixture in Las Vegas since the late 1960s. With its circus theme and attractions, it’s seen as one of the more family-friendly destinations in Sin City. Yet not everything about the hotel is quite so innocent, (and no, I’m not just talking about the creepy clown they have looming over the Strip.)

It seems that not so long ago a young woman was staying in Circus Circus’s Room 123. She decided to get cleaned up before heading out for the evening. When she stepped out of the shower it was immediately apparent that she had not been alone. For scrawled across the bathroom mirror she found a message:

“Help Me!”

She was not the first to see such a message in the glass. Other residents of Room 123 had the same experience, or heard scratching in the walls and whispered cries. Some had even seen the furniture move on its own, or encountered a woman and her young son asking after a “Robert,” and then vanishing before their eyes.

It seems that this mother and son are the reason for the haunting. Legend tells us that they were staying in Room 123 when their lives ended in a murder/suicide, perhaps after this “Robert” abandoned them. Yet while their bodies are gone, their spirits linger, still crying out for help finding him after all these years.

[adventuressclubamericas]

It's October, so naturally, it's time to start sharing ghost stories from our Con host city!

After a long day - and even longer night - soaking up everything that Las Vegas has to offer, you’ve finally made your way back to your room at the Horseshoe Hotel. As you’re going through your bedtime rituals, a sound grabs your attention. It sounds like a child coughing, coughing right outside your door. You make your way to the peephole to take a peek - nothing. So, you brave it, open your door, and stick your head out. Look down the corridor, then around the other way - again, nothing. The poor kid must be staying in one of the other rooms, or maybe just jumped on an elevator. In any case, there’s nothing more to do, so you head back to bed and fall into a deep, deep sleep.

A sleep that’s interrupted a couple hours later by the child’s coughing again. Only this time, it’s not in the hallway. The coughing is clearly coming from within your room!

As your eyes snap open your nightmare grows worse. For the coughing is joined with the screaming of the hotel’s fire alarm, and your room filled with flashing red light. Each flash of the light revealing the shadow of a boy, standing right at the foot of your bed!

After what feels like hours but is only a few short moments, the “boy” disappears for good. Immediately after, the alarm silences, and the lights go out. You bolt from the bed and dash out of your room, trying to find someone, anyone, who can make sense of this. You finally find some hotel staffers who listen to your story with the polite disinterest of someone who has heard this tale a hundred times before. Because they have.

From its opening in 1973 until 1986, the hotel now known as the Horseshoe was the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino. On 21 November 1980 a fire broke out in the casino and spread quickly, killing 85 people and injuring more than 700, most victims dying from smoke inhalation. Paranormal activity has been reported at the hotel ever since, with the coughing boy being one of the more common occurrences.

[americanghoststories]

It had to be a hoax.

After all, it was April Fools Day, 1971, when the call came into the Mobile Press-Register. And what the caller was describing – a creature with the upper body of a woman, and a lower body of a wolf – was just too fantastical, too impossible, too frankly ridiculous to be real. No, no, clearly, it had to be a joke.

But then the next call came in.

And the next one.

And the one after that. And the one after that.

All told, more than 50 people would report encounters with this wolf woman, who they nearly universally described as being both “pretty” and “hairy” (the two don’t have to be mutually exclusive, y’know…). Some saw her skulking through the trees or roaming through their backyards. A few unfortunates encountered her when she was stalking them, before breaking into a full run to chase them down.

The good people of Mobile, AL, were beside themselves. They simply had no idea what to do. They stopped going out at night, choosing instead to hole up at home with all the doors and windows locked. Parents stopped letting their children go out to play. At least one young girl would beg her brother to teach her to shoot the family’s rifle so she could protect herself when the wolf woman charged. Although they’d never comment on it publicly, the sheer volume of sightings demanded that the police open an investigation, but it appears they never uncovered any solid leads.

Then, after about a week, the wolf woman just vanished. Perhaps she moved on to greener pastures, better hunting grounds. Or maybe she got a little too close to one of the cars she was chasing and slinked off into the woods to die from her injuries.

Or maybe she just got better at hiding. People do still go missing all the time, after all. Who’s to say that at least some of them met their fate being stalked by a very beautiful, very hairy, creature from their nightmares?

[americanghoststories]

content warning: abuse, murder most foul

Our story tonight takes place on Maryland's Eastern Shore during The War (remember, this is the South, there's only one war that's The War). Our villain tonight made his fortune pursuing the fine and noble tradition of smuggling, and with that he'd acquired all the trappings fitting a person of his means at the time, to include a fine plantation and many, many people that he owned. More on that in a bit.

Now legend doesn't tell us how our smuggler came into possession of a small part of the Confederate treasury, but he did. Legend does tell us that many plantation owners in the area had been given some of it for safekeeping, so I suppose we can assume there was nothing nefarious about his getting some. That he had absolutely zero intention of giving any of it back is another story...

Word went out that the Union army was moving through the area, confiscating Confederate treasure and arresting all those found harboring it. Now, spending time in prison was not going to work at all for our smuggler, so he hatched a plan to hide the loot and get away scot-free. And he knew just the person to "ask" to help him with this - Lizz.

Lizz was one of the women our smuggler had enslaved. She was a bit larger and more powerfully built than the other women on the plantation, so had become more commonly known to our smuggler as Big Lizz (he wasn't terribly creative with names). With her strength, she'd be the ideal person to help hide the treasure.

As it turns out, Big Lizz also knew that the Confederate treasure was with her master. And she made sure that the Union know about it...indeed, she's the reason the army was coming to the plantation in the first place.

So Big Lizz and the smuggler went out that fateful day, venturing deep into the Greenbrier Swamp. He ordered her to bury the treasure in a certain spot, which she did. Then he noticed, oh wait, that spot over there is better...so had her dig it back up, and bury it again in the new hiding place. Oh, but wait, what about over there? All day long, over and over again, Big Lizz would bury the treasure, only to exhume it and rebury it somewhere else. It's almost like the smuggler was torturing her this way because he'd found out that she was a Union spy. Oh wait, he did, and it was.

Finally, satisfied with the last hiding spot, he ordered Big Lizz to dig up a sapling nearby, and replant it on top of the treasure so he'd be able to find it again. Which of course she did. As she finished planting the tree, our smuggler stepped up behind her, drew his sword, and with one terrible stroke, cut Big Lizz's head clean off. (Rude!) He stood by, unfeeling, watching the swamp claim Lizz's remains.

Legend doesn't tell us the smuggler's fate, but it does tell us he never reclaimed the treasure. It's still there, in the Greenbrier swamp. Whenever you have lost treasure, people will try to find it. And on this quest, they have...help.

The DeCoursey Bridge now spans this part of the swamp. It is said that if you drive to the middle of this bridge at midnight, honk your horn 3 times, flash your lights twice, and turn off your car, Big Lizz will come. She rises from the swamp, holding her severed head in her hand, her eyes glowing red. She'll point into the swamp, as if showing you where the treasure is hidden, then beckon you to follow her.

Many fools have. And have never been heard from again.

[adventuressclubamericas]

In the late 1800s, Lou Graham was one of Seattle’s most prominent seamstresses. If you get the impression that, in this case, “seamstress” was a euphemism for something else, you’re right. While prostitution was widespread, it was also technically illegal, so many of the Emerald City’s sex workers adopted the fiber-based alias. Lou Graham was one of the best.

She also had a plan. While most of the sex workers plied their trade with the blue collar, working-class men that the city was swimming in, Graham went after a different market. She built a high-end brothel and saloon catering to Seattle’s upper class. Her establishment proved to be insanely popular – and insanely profitable. So much so that when her place was destroyed in the Great Seattle Fire, she not only had cash on hand to rebuild, but was able to make loans to other businesses so they could get back on their feet, too.

Graham rebuilt her bordello at the corner of Washington and 3rd Avenue, the Washington Court building. From here, she continued to build her wealth, and with it, her power and influence. As much or more government business was conducted in Graham’s parlor as was in City Hall, and it was said that no Seattle businessman would be taken seriously until he became familiar with her.

As with anything political, the pendulum would swing, and Seattle would go through a period where it took a hard stance against businesses like Graham’s. It was during one such period that Lou Graham left Seattle for San Francisco. She died there in 1903 at the age of 48.

But Seattle was never far from her mind. The bulk of her estate went to support education in King County, and it seems that she’s returned to her old haunt (pun completely intended), the Washington Court building. She’s seen there frequently, dressed to the nines in period clothing, looking for all the world like any other human – until she walks through a wall. She also sometimes taps people on the shoulder, or even whisper in their ear. Ironically, the building today houses the Union Gospel Mission, yet it seems that Seattle’s most prominent sex worker still holds court.

[adventuressclubamericas]

Like many other Seattle bars, it's said that the Owl N' Thistle Irish Pub, located in the Colman Building, has a ghost. Unlike the other bars, though, the Owl N' Thistle's ghost seems musically inclined. He's been known to play a few tunes on the pub's piano. But he'll only play if the bar isn't busy, staying silent when the place is packed. Seems he's a bit on the shy side, too. Swing by the Owl N' Thistle for an Otherworldly concert while you're in Seattle for Miss Fisher Con 2025! Just, maybe only go a few at a time.

[adventuressclubamericas]

One of the more recognizable landmarks of Seattle is Pike Place Market. Seems like every visitor to the Emerald City finds their way here. Directly adjacent to the market is Post Alley. Yes, this is where you’ll find the infamous Gum Wall, (enough said about THAT!) But tonight, let’s focus on something more…seasonally appropriate. You see, among some, Post Alley is known as Ghost Alley.

There are many haunted tales tied to Ghost Alley. Tonight, though, let’s talk about Arthur Goodwin. Now Arthur was, to say the least, a colorful character, known for wearing a ridiculously tall top hat and dancing between the market stalls. But Arthur was more than just the dancing guy – he designed the interior of the market and shaped it into the shopping and entertainment destination we know today. And he ran all of this from his office, located at 1499 Post Alley.

Time caught up with Arthur, as it will for all of us someday. Today his former office is home to Ghost Alley Espresso, because it’s Seattle so, naturally, there’s coffee. Along the east wall of the shop, the owners have to both nail and wire whatever pictures and the like they hang on it. Otherwise, whatever hangs there will be flung from the wall. Electronics behave weirdly there, almost as though some unseen person is messing with them.

But the most startling paranormal event? The owner received an email from a customer one day. Attached to this was a child’s drawing of a man they saw in the store. A man with a ridiculously tall top hat, dancing about. (Check it out on the Ghost Alley Espresso website)

It seems that Arthur hasn’t left the market after all. Be sure to stop by and say “Hello” (and maybe pick up a latte) while you’re in Seattle for Miss Fisher Con 2025!

[americanghoststories]

It was October 1903 when the creature arrived in Van Meter, Iowa. It was first encountered by U. G. Griffiths, the town’s implements dealer. He smelled it before he saw it, a powerful stench, like a barnyard in Hell. Then it appeared, a tall sort-of-kind-of-not-really human shaped creature, standing easily at 7 feet, with smooth bat-like wings, racing along the rooftops at breakneck speed. In the center of the creature’s face was a horn, and from this horn shone a brilliant, blinding light that illuminated its way.

Griffiths knew exactly what to do. He shouldered his shotgun, (hello, it was hunting season, of course he had his gun,) and opened fire. He could see that several of his shots found their mark, and yet, the creature did not fall. Indeed, it brushed them off as if they’d never been fired and sped along its way.

The very next night, Peter Dunn, the town’s doctor and bank cashier, (what, you’ve never had a side gig?) encountered the creature. Dunn also opened fire, but the creature, unfazed, simply flew away. It did, though, leave behind three-toed tracks in the soft earth, that Dunn had the presence of mind to make a paster cast of.

The next night, the creature woke up O. V. White, who shot at it while it perched atop a telephone pole. This woke up Sidney Gregg just in time to see the creature hop away “…like a kangaroo.”

Over and over again, people throughout the town had their own encounter with the creature. One of the local high school teachers proclaimed it to be an “antediluvian monster.’ And over and over again, many of them would try – and fail – to kill the creature.

Finally, these good Iowans had had enough. When they got word of strange sounds emanating from the abandoned coal mine on the north side of town, they formed a posse and marched off to confront this evil once and for all. As they gathered and the gaping mouth of the mine, they found what they’d been looking for was already waiting.

"Presently the noise opened up again, as though Satan and a regiment of imps were coming forth for battle," said the article in the Des Moines Register. Then with a giant whoosh, out of the mine launched the creature, followed closely by a smaller, perhaps juvenile, specimen.

The night was pierced by the light of the creatures’ horns, the air turned sour with their putrid stench, and the men’s hearts leaped to their throats. They could only watch in horror as the creatures (dare we imagine, mother and child?) flew out into the night. But they would wait, this Van Meter Army, and vanquish the monsters when they returned.

Return they did, as the sun’s rays first breached the horizon. This time, the men’s nerves didn’t break. This time, they stood firm. This time, they opened fire, unleashing a barrage “that would sink the Spanish fleet.” And yet, all of their bullets, all of their shot, had no effect whatsoever on the creatures. Creatures that would only look upon the men with a curious mix of pity and disdain, then slowly make their way back into the mine.

But while they failed to kill the creatures, the men of Van Meter were successful, in a way. For from that night, the creatures, now dubbed the Van Meter Visitor, have never been seen again.

At least, not yet.

[americanghoststories]

Carl was exhausted. It was getting close to midnight, and he’d started driving before dawn. He thought he would be able to power on to Spokane, but after drifting across the lanes on I-90 – twice – he decided that it would be a much better idea to find a place to grab a couple hours sleep here in Coeur d’Alene. Luckily, there was a roadside motel just up ahead with a Vacancy sign blazing. He drifted into the parking lot, secured his room, and settled into Room #1.

He decided a quick shower to wash off the road funk would be a good idea. That’s when everything began. As the water beat down upon him, he started to feel something. You know that feeling when someone isn’t just watching you, but staring at you?  Staring intently, almost hungrily? Yeah, like that. Strong enough that he jumped out of the shower to confront...whoever. But there was no one there. Yet, as soon as he got back in to finish rinsing off, there it was again.

He finished the shower and made his way back to the bedroom. Along the way, he must have stepped in front of an air conditioning vent, because right outside the bathroom it was cold as ice. Yet one more step, and the temperature was back to normal.

That’s when he noticed his wallet.

He’d put the wallet on the bedside table when he first went in. And yet, somehow, for some reason, it was now lying on the floor next to the bed. After a quick check to make sure nothing was missing (it wasn’t) he put it back on the table and climbed into bed.

Thud.

He looked up, and the wallet was back on the floor.

“Weird,” he thought, He retrieved the wallet and placed it instead on the dresser, next to the TV. Then got into bed, shut off the light, and was deep asleep within minutes.

A sleep that would be broken a couple hours later by the terrible scream of a woman. A scream that for all the world sounded like it came from within his room. But that was impossible, he was very alone…wasn’t he? Alarmed, he jumped up and searched every corner of the room, the closet, the bathroom. Of course, there was no one there. So, he dashed to the door, through it open, and looked about frantically for a woman in distress. That’s when he heard the scream once more.

Behind him. In his room.

His heart pounding, he turned towards the scream. He never did see the woman. But he did see his wallet again. Oh, it was still where he’d left it, by the TV – then suddenly, it rocketed off and landed on the floor yet again. But before he could move to retrieve it, it lifted off the ground, and floated right to him.

It’s funny, he wasn’t tired anymore. Grabbed his things, checked out, and tore out of there as fast as he could.

Carl would tell his story many times, but of course nobody believed him. Well, nobody except for one old man. A man who had spent his own night in these Idaho lodgings. “Boy,” he said, “what did you expect when you checked into the Bates Motel?”

This Bates Motel closed its doors in 2015, so you can’t stay the night. But I understand that the building still stands – check it out the next time you’re in Coeur d’Alene.

[americanghoststories]

It is interesting to me how often sites and structures that are considered holy attract entities and energies that are anything but. Take, for instance, what was once the St. Stephen Seminary on the outskirts of Honolulu. Before it was a seminary this had been Paliku, the home of Harold Castle. Castle sold the 22-acre estate to the Catholic Church in 1946, for $100,000 less than he’d paid for it. Maybe he knew something was up?

The trouble began one October night in ’46. The young seminarians were in their beds. At the foot of each of the beds was a chair and wash basin. Most of the priests had retired as well, but a few were still at their labors. Suddenly, they heard a tapping on the hillside next to the building. Then it seemed the tapping started moving down the hill, getting louder and louder the closer it came to school.

And then, it came inside.

There was nothing to be seen, of course. Just the constant tapping, tapping, tapping, that let you trace the progress of this entity as it made its way down the corridor. That changed when it finally entered the dormitory, for while the tap-tap-tapping continued, the stainless steel wash basins all came to life, rattling and clanking and jumping. The infernal racket was so loud that it woke all the seminarians up. All, that is, except one.

This one young man slept through it all. But that doesn’t mean the entity left him alone. For as he lay there, his neck began to swell. And not just a little bit. It was blowing up like a balloon. Alarmed by this, and taking into account everything else that had happened, one of the Fathers placed a crucifix by the boy’s neck. At that point, the swelling not only stopped, but reversed itself until the boy’s neck was normal again.

And that’s when the tapping started again.

It, whatever it was, made its way down the rows of beds, stopping where the boy still slept. Without warning, the boy’s body was violently shoved into the bed, almost like it was trying to swallow him. Then he was yanked back out and above the bed, looking for all the world like something was trying to pull him into the air. Then back down into the bed, then back up above it, over and over again.

Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. And the Whatever it was decided to leave the dormitory.

But not the seminary.

Moments later, a great crashing and banging rose up from the kitchen a floor below them. As the priests ran in, they saw that pots, pans, dishes and serving pieces had all been pulled from their cabinets and tossed about the room. As though a tornado had struck there, though the night was clear. And then…

Tap…tap…tap… The enemy made its way out of the seminary and tapped its way back up the hill. Though it would come back. Over and over again.

The seminary closed in 1970. Today it’s the St. Stephen Diocesan Center, administrative offices for the Diocese and home to the Bishop of Honolulu. Those that work there today say that things still happen there, a malevolent Presence that can be felt in certain parts of the campus. Especially on those nights when the air is clear, and they hear the sound they dread most rise from the hilltop.

Tap…tap…tap…

[americanghoststories]

The voyage of the Princess Augusta was troubled from the very start. A brilliant square-rigged ship, she’d left Rotterdam in August 1738 carrying more than 300 souls bound for a new life in Philadelphia. It wasn’t long after the ship was under sail that people aboard, passengers and crew, started falling ill. It seems that their water supply was contaminated, spreading disease and, shortly after, death. The first to succumb was the captain, and without his leadership, bedlam would take the helm.

The Augusta became hopelessly lost. Long after she should have arrived in Philadelphia, she was still bobbing about the Atlantic with no land in sight. The food supply ran dangerously low, which spelled opportunity for some more enterprising sailors, little better than pirates at this point, who began to extort money from the passengers in exchange for their allotted rations. By Christmas, of the original 340 men, women, and children who left Rotterdam, only 105 remained.

(Yeah, it was bad.)

Then, on Boxing Day, a miracle! The watch spotted a light on the horizon. It must be a signal fire – land! The ship made all haste for port and salvation.

Suddenly the night was filled with the sounds of a terrible wrenching and splintering. The light of their salvation was one of their doom – it had been lit inland, to lure ships to wreck upon the rocks that surround Block Island, Rhode Island. That is precisely what had happened to the Princess Augusta.

Some of the panicked passengers jumped into the ocean and tried to swim ashore. (Generally not a great idea, especially in a New England December.) The rest clung to the wreck and prayed. Before long, it seemed their prayers were answered, for they spotted a long trail of lanterns making their way towards them. Clearly their rescuers were coming!

Please note, I said it SEEMED their prayers were answered.

Those lanterns weren’t rescuers, they were wreckers. The very ones who had lit the fire to lure the ship to the rocks. They cared not one whit about the survivors, but proceeded to strip the ship of anything of value, then returned home, abandoning the people of the Princess Augusta to the waves and their fate.

A short time later the good people of Block Island did affect a rescue, bringing all those still alive to safety, welcoming them into their homes. Many would continue on to Philadelphia, while others would live out their lives on Block Island.

Sometime during her ordeal on the rocks, someone – and nobody knows who – set the Princess Augusta on fire. As the last of her passengers reached dry land, she was fully engulfed. As she burned, she became loose of the rocks, drifted back out to sea, and slipped beneath the waves, ne’er to be seen again.

For a little while, anyway.

Two years passed, and on a day not unlike today, the people of Block Island spotted a brilliant square-rigged ship racing towards the island. She was almost to the island when she suddenly burst into flames, then sank. The very next day, a fierce storm blew in, one more violent than most could remember. A storm that would find three ships under way just off the island and send them to the depths. A year later, again the fiery vessel appeared, and right behind it, another storm, and more ships lost. Over and over again as the years wore on, the Augusta would appear, and on her heels, a killing storm. A pattern that continues until this very day, but now the sailors of Block Island know, when you spot the ghost ship, make for port.

[americanghoststories]

The voyage of the Princess Augusta was troubled from the very start. A brilliant square-rigged ship, she’d left Rotterdam in August 1738 carrying more than 300 souls bound for a new life in Philadelphia. It wasn’t long after the ship was under sail that people aboard, passengers and crew, started falling ill. It seems that their water supply was contaminated, spreading disease and, shortly after, death. The first to succumb was the captain, and without his leadership, bedlam would take the helm.

The Augusta became hopelessly lost. Long after she should have arrived in Philadelphia, she was still bobbing about the Atlantic with no land in sight. The food supply ran dangerously low, which spelled opportunity for some more enterprising sailors, little better than pirates at this point, who began to extort money from the passengers in exchange for their allotted rations. By Christmas, of the original 340 men, women, and children who left Rotterdam, only 105 remained.

(Yeah, it was bad.)

Then, on Boxing Day, a miracle! The watch spotted a light on the horizon. It must be a signal fire – land! The ship made all haste for port and salvation.

Suddenly the night was filled with the sounds of a terrible wrenching and splintering. The light of their salvation was one of their doom – it had been lit inland, to lure ships to wreck upon the rocks that surround Block Island, Rhode Island. That is precisely what had happened to the Princess Augusta.

Some of the panicked passengers jumped into the ocean and tried to swim ashore. (Generally not a great idea, especially in a New England December.) The rest clung to the wreck and prayed. Before long, it seemed their prayers were answered, for they spotted a long trail of lanterns making their way towards them. Clearly their rescuers were coming!

Please note, I said it SEEMED their prayers were answered.

Those lanterns weren’t rescuers, they were wreckers. The very ones who had lit the fire to lure the ship to the rocks. They cared not one whit about the survivors, but proceeded to strip the ship of anything of value, then returned home, abandoning the people of the Princess Augusta to the waves and their fate.

A short time later the good people of Block Island did affect a rescue, bringing all those still alive to safety, welcoming them into their homes. Many would continue on to Philadelphia, while others would live out their lives on Block Island.

Sometime during her ordeal on the rocks, someone – and nobody knows who – set the Princess Augusta on fire. As the last of her passengers reached dry land, she was fully engulfed. As she burned, she became loose of the rocks, drifted back out to sea, and slipped beneath the waves, ne’er to be seen again.

For a little while, anyway.

Two years passed, and on a day not unlike today, the people of Block Island spotted a brilliant square-rigged ship racing towards the island. She was almost to the island when she suddenly burst into flames, then sank. The very next day, a fierce storm blew in, one more violent than most could remember. A storm that would find three ships under way just off the island and send them to the depths. A year later, again the fiery vessel appeared, and right behind it, another storm, and more ships lost. Over and over again as the years wore on, the Augusta would appear, and on her heels, a killing storm. A pattern that continues until this very day, but now the sailors of Block Island know, when you spot the ghost ship, make for port.

[americanghoststories]

Max was in a hurry. It was his first day on the job, and while being a custodian at Chicago’s Lincoln Park Zoo might not be his dream, he could do a lot worse. He knew that an older member of the team was waiting to train him, so he did not want to be late. Still, in spite of his haste, he couldn’t help but notice all the people running around the park dressed up in old-time clothes, like it was the Civil War or something. Imagine his surprise when he found that the man waiting for him was dressed the same way.

“Oh, hey, I’m Max,” he said, “I think you’re supposed to show me around, or something?”

The man turned his gaze on Max. “Call me Jonathan” was all he said, before turning and walking away, towards the lion house. Max hurried to catch up.

“Um, I like your costume,” Max lied. “So, what’s up, some sort of ghost tour, or something?”

Jonathan’s eyes slid towards him. “Sure, kid. Something like that,” he said.

“Lame.” Max thought to himself. “Grown people believing in ghosts. I hope they don’t try to make me do that.”

The pair made their way into the service areas beneath the lion house, tidying things and locking things up. As they went a little further, though, a weird thing happened. As Jonathan passed beneath him, the ceiling lights began to flicker.

“Looks like it’s about to go out. Where do you keep the bulbs?” Max asked. Jonathan nodded towards the supply closet. Max quickly swapped out the bulb for a fresh one, and the light shone steadily again.

Until Jonathan walked beneath it once more, and the flickering started again.

The same thing happened at the next light. And the next. And the next.

Max was starting to freak out at this point, but was not going to let it show. “Um, my uncle is an electrician. He could probably fix that, I could call him.”

“Sure, kid. You do that.” Jonathan replied.

Finally they pulled up at the women’s restroom. “One last stop, then we can move on to the next building.” Jonathan said.

After making sure the room was empty, Max went to work cleaning things up. He pulled open one of the stall doors, turned to grab his supplies, and….the door slammed shut.

“Weird,” he thought. Then opened the door again. Only to have it slam shut once more.

Again, he tried to open the door. This time, it was jerked right out of his hand before slamming closed. Then, without warning, the doors of all the stalls started opening and slamming in rapid succession.

Max stopped pretending to be cool. He let loose with a string of words that absolutely cannot be repeated in polite company. He started to run out of the bathroom, but pulled up short seeing a very nonplussed Jonathan just standing there, watching.

“Are you not seeing this???” Max yelled. “How are you not freaking the f*** out????”

“Watch your language,” Jonathan snapped. “Son, didn’t anyone tell you about this place? This used to be the Chicago City Cemetery. 30,000 people were buried here. When they built the park, they moved the stones and most of the bodies.”

“But,” he continued, as he started to fade away, “12,000 of us are still here.”

Max never did show up for his second day of work at Lincoln Park Zoo.

[americanghoststories]

Content Warning: Terrible things happening to kids

Legend tells us that long ago, in the area that is today known as Fernandina Beach in the Spanish colony of Florida, there was a girl. Now, that there was a girl in the settlement in and of itself wouldn’t be terribly remarkable, but there was something about this particular young woman. Something that made her…different. And while we might (MIGHT) celebrate our differences today, in that day and time, different wasn’t good. People don’t understand different, and what people don’t understand, they fear. And so, they feared her. It wasn’t long until the whispers started about her, and not long after that those grew to shouts – “bruja!”

“Witch!”

And so, she was arrested. Legend doesn’t give us much detail on her trial. Perhaps they stripped her, and searched her body for a witch’s mark. Perhaps she was tortured with any number of methods to get her to confess. We simply don’t know. The outcome of it all, though, Legend does tell us. For when it was all said and done, she was led into the forest where her life was ended. They buried her body under the very tree she hung from. Then tried very hard to forget her. But it seems that while her body died, her Spirit still lingers.

And she’s, understandably, pissed.

Time passes, and change came to the woods where our young woman lies. A school was built adjacent to her woods, because of course it was, and her story was resurrected. Today they call her “Wiccademous,” although that’s certainly not her name.

A path in these woods will lead you to her tree. A most curious thing happens, though, as you approach her. The stable ground you walk upon suddenly isn’t so stable anymore. The closer you get to her grave, the more violently the earth quakes beneath your feet. Almost as though she’s warning you to Go Away. You might want to consider listening to her. Some folks haven’t, and…well…

There is a tradition among the JV athletes at the school by her woods. An initiation, if you will. They’re sent for a run through her forest. If they return, they’ll be welcomed on to their teams. Most do. Some, though, never return. Some now are keeping company with a girl punished for being different.