Ridge Cemetery on Williamsburg Hill - A Haunted Photo Capture?

Ridge Cemetery - what looks to be a face over the middle tombstone

Since my third book is published, it’s time to think of the next one.  I’ve been tossing around the idea of writing historical fiction, a genre that I love to read, and I think I’ve found the basis of the story.  Research for it began with a trip in August.

My husband and I drove to south central Illinois to an area of the state that technically no longer exists.  Well, one area does, which is a reminder of what used to be, I suppose. 

The town of Williamsburg, Illinois was a thriving community, which began in 1839.  Its prosperity was due mostly to the stagecoach line that ran through the village.  The demise of Williamsburg came in 1880 when the railroad constructed its line to the east of the village.  Stagecoach travel died and the residents of the town moved to be closer to the railroad.  Williamsburg became a ghost town and there is nothing left of it. 

Ridge Cemetery Cropped Photo - Face over Tombstone

However, the village included an area known as Williamsburg Hill, which rises over 800 feet.  Somewhat of an anomaly, its location is in the middle of flat cornfields.  It’s easy to see once you get there but mapping it was a little difficult for us.  The GPS in the car had us driving through cornfields; thankfully my iPhone led us directly to it. 

On top of Williamsburg Hill is Ridge Cemetery and if you believe the folklore written about the area, it is haunted.  I did not wish to go to Ridge Cemetery (reading about it “gave me the creeps”), but when you’re the passenger in a vehicle driven by a determined human being, well, sometimes you end up where you didn’t intend to be.

Ridge Cemetery - Williamsburg Hill

And that is how we ventured onto the grounds of one of the “Top 10 Creepiest Cemeteries in Illinois” (per Mysteriousheartland.com).  The road leading to the cemetery has a sign warning all visitors that the grounds close at night and trespassers would be prosecuted.  Fortunately, it was mid-afternoon.

The path to Ridge Cemetery was dark due to the overgrowth of trees on either side of it.  This caused my anxiety level to go into overdrive, as shadows played across the road and I had no idea what we were about to meet.  Then once we reached the cemetery at the end of the road, the area brightened to a serene and peaceful looking resting place on the other side of an unlocked gate. 

As we were the only people there, I didn’t even want to get out of the car.  It felt as if we were trespassing or intruding on something intensely private.  But when my fearless co-passenger issued a hearty, “We’re here, might as well get out,” I could do nothing but follow his lead.

I grabbed my camera and started taking photos of the area outside of the gate, constantly looking over my shoulder as if something might appear and spook me.  The intent was to never, in any way, go onto the grounds.  However, hearing a “Let’s go in,” meant either following the leader or standing by the car by myself.  The answer was clear and I was sticking close to the spouse.

Ridge Cemetery - Williamsburg Hill, IL

Quite honestly, the grounds were very beautiful and I felt comfortable for part of the time.  Even though the cemetery dates back to the nineteenth century, families in nearby communities still bury loved ones there.  Fresh flowers graced some of the tombstones.

I began taking photos in a rapid sequence with my digital SLR camera, never concentrating too much in one area.  I moved around a bit, got a lot of photos and then the part came when I didn’t feel comfortable.  It was accompanied by a terrible smell that would linger then dissipate.  This happened several times and I was ready to leave.  The fear factor had returned.

When I looked through the photos later, I was very surprised.  While several images have some strange shadows, there was one sequence of photos that seem very clear.  I’ve included one of them here in this blog post, cropped and at normal size.   Other than annotating with a copyright, the photos are not fixed in any way.  In other words, I did not add that large, floating face above the middle headstone. 

I’m not sure if I captured something, but it looks as if I did.  At any rate, the experience might cause Ridge Cemetery to find a place in my story somehow.  

A New Year and No More Reluctance

Yesterday marked my blog's first anniversary.  This is quite an accomplishment considering I never had any intention of starting one in the first place.  Blogs (one of the most unappealing words, I think) did not interest me and I didn't really feel I had anything of narrative substance to offer readers.  I also didn't think I could keep up with the world's multitude who feel they do have a lot to say.  But I took advice and reluctantly started one, never thinking I'd keep it updated.

I began 2012 as "The Reluctant Blogger" thinking I must be the only person keeping a blog who did so unwillingly.  Clever, even.  Boy, was I wrong.  There are a lot of reluctant bloggers out there lending a voice to everything under the sun...diets, recipes, special interests, writing, acting, music, non-profits and businesses.  And I realize that each one of them do have something to say, however reluctant they may be, to those who are willing to listen.  If readers found them, then certainly I must have a minuscule place in the blogger world, I rationalized.

So the year's posts consisted of an eclectic and varied bit of "accounting" on my life, ideas and thoughts, in general.  I strayed from living in a haunted house to what Peyton Manning meant to me.  I mulled over time spent in Rome, Italy and the need to save our wild Mustangs, to funny things my kids said and living through the death of a pet.  My former antiques' business was the subject of a post, along with some short stories I'd written and an endorsement for visiting Tuckahoe Plantation in Virginia.  Of course, I plugged my books whenever possible.  A diverse subject list filled 2012 for me.  This blog didn't have a theme and I'll probably keep it that way.

So gone is that "Reluctant Blogger".  I've removed the title and probably should've researched a bit before naming it a year ago.  At the very least, I would have found just how many of us "reluctants" are out there.  For lack of a better idea, I just replaced the old title with my name.  Simple and nothing spectacular, but it is mine.

I look forward to continuing this as best as I can in 2013.  My goal is at least one post a month, something I accomplished in 2012 until December rolled around, then the holidays got the better of me.  Plus, completing the first draft of my next novel was a goal attained in December.  I'm certain I see a post or two about that in the coming year.

So if I don't meet that monthly target, the world won't end and the sun will rise tomorrow.  This blog will still be here and I'll continue to post when I feel like it.  Happy new year, everyone.  Thanks for reading.
    

Things That Go Bump in the Night

For nine years we lived in a haunted house.  An honest to goodness, noise-making, door-opening haunted house.  It was a lovely Cape Cod style home in Michigan that had been built around 1938.  We were only the third family to own it but we coexisted with who knows how many unseen inhabitants.

Personally, I might be a little predisposed to paranormal belief, but my husband had a practical side to those things.  There were always logical explanations to be discovered for the unexplained. Until "The House".  It made a believer of him.

Our interest in the home came from its potential.  It had a full, unfinished attic, which had already been plumbed and framed.  Our intent was to add more bedrooms and a full bath, which we did, but with some interesting discoveries.  Strange things began as soon as we moved in, but when the renovations started, the activity level became pretty lively.

The first thing of significance happened to me shortly after we moved in.  One morning after I'd walked my daughters to school, I was sitting alone in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.  I should explain that the entrance to the attic had a full sized door from the kitchen.  Behind the door were the steps leading upstairs.  We kept the door closed because there was no heat upstairs (we hadn't started renovating at that point).

As I sat quietly at the kitchen table, with my back to the door, I suddenly heard a "click".  Jumping, I turned around and watched as the door slowly swung open. Creaking as it did so (it really did), I stood, about to bolt because I was sure it had to be an intruder.  But a quick glimpse on the other side of the door revealed nothing.  It scared the "blank" out of me (any word inserted here will suffice).

The clicking sound was the noise the bolting mechanism made as the door handle turned. There was no draft upstairs, the windows weren't open (it was too cold), and that door was sturdy.  It didn't open on its own.  There was no logical explanation for what had happened.  Eventually, we removed the door once the renovation was finished, but I always looked at it with trepidation from that point on.

The obvious spooky stuff like the television turning on and off, temperature fluctuations in certain areas and our dog staring at an empty room while wagging her tail, were common occurrences, as were other things. But the sounds were baffling.  They were loud, blatant attempts at what seemed like communication.

The noises started in a downstairs bedroom.  It began as scraping on the floor near a window.  The apparent assumption was that some animal must be creating it.  But we checked in the basement underneath the room and outside the window, all along the foundation of the house.  There was no sign of any unwanted critter to be found.   And the sound never moved anywhere.  It was only in that one location in the bedroom.  This continued until we completed the attic.  Then it stopped as suddenly as it started.

Or I should say the party just moved upstairs.  The strangest noise came from one of the finished bedrooms.  It was the sound of knocking.  We would stand in the middle of that room and the knocking would start at one end and loudly go the other.  It was always on the same wall, as if someone was rapping on the surface of the wall with his/her knuckles. It was frantic in nature and the sound moved quickly, often lasting for several minutes.  Was someone communicating with us?  Perhaps they didn't like the walls or felt trapped.  It was strange and one of those unexplainable occurrences that continued until we moved out of the home.

The most frightening occurrence happened after we'd decided to move. I was packing boxes in the bedroom where the original sounds started, and without warning, the light fixture that was attached to the ceiling fell to the floor.  Shattered glass was everywhere.  I was lucky.  Had I been about a foot closer to the center of the room, the fixture would've hit me over the head.  It was the only time I had really felt threatened by our experiences. Needless to say, we were happy to move.

We had been told by a neighbor that the original owner of the home was a widow who suffered a serious fall in the house.  The accident ultimately contributed to her death, but she passed away in the hospital.  If you believe in those things, one might wonder if she was the instigator of the mischief we experienced.  I personally felt a few poltergeists took up residence in our home.

If the popular paranormal show Ghosthunters had been around back then, we would've gladly turned our house over for an investigation.  Instead, we're left to speculate as to the "who" and "why" regarding our experiences and believing with certainty there were no logical explanations.