Contact
I found out later that I had made every mistake in the book. I didn’t know it at the time, but the recorder picked up every sound in that house: laughter in adjacent rooms, conversations three flights downstairs, even the buzz of the Trail of Terror chainsaw. On the occasions I stuffed my phone in my pocket, the recording exploded with static.
After combing three hours of audio and examining 55 photos, I realized we recorded no evidence. No shades of bodies in period costume, no whispered answers to questions.
Yet strangely I knew, in the bones of my bones, that the rooms I had passed through were haunted. I didn’t believe this because of the stories or photos or the EVPs online. That building contained many chapters of lives just as hot blood filled my veins. The fault, I sensed, lay not in the truth but in my ability to perceive it.
I needed another shot. A better process and a local site.
Then I hit pay dirt.
George, a friend of a friend who lives in a basement apartment in Court Square, told me a story.
“A few days ago, right around midnight, I was doing laundry—taking my clothes out of the washer, about ready to put them in the dryer—and all of a sudden, no more than two feet away, I heard two little kids, two little girls, laughing and playing,” he said.
The sound continued for approximately 30 seconds then stopped.
When he went outside, the streets were empty.
“It sounded like they were right next to me,” he said.
It wasn’t the first time he’d heard unexplained sounds—in this house, which was built into 1830 by one of Charlottesville’s prominent families, or in the course of his life. He heard a 3am “banshee cry, a woman’s bloodcurdling scream” shortly after moving in, and in previous homes he’s witness unexplainable conversations, spectral touches, and shadow figures.
“A lot of people in my family have paranormal energy: my uncle, my grandmother,” he said. “My great grandmother was a Monacan Indian healer.”
We set up a time when my friend Laura and I could pay him a visit. Before I squandered another investigation, though, I needed to tighten my investigative process. When I called her to clarify some interview questions, Nan Coleman offered some suggestions.
“There’s an EMF app that does the same job as the $300 piece of equipment,” she said. “Look for unusual, repetitive spikes in activity; that might give you a place to start looking. Just don’t get so obsessed with the equipment that you miss the experience. Make sure you ask the ghosts questions, and really, you might want to just sit and camp out for a while.”
I’d been too embarrassed or afraid to follow this advice in the hotel, though Lotts and Rexrode had given it. But if I wanted to be a real-life investigator, I knew I’d have to force myself to overcome the self-consciousness.
“You know there used to be a hospital downtown,” Coleman said when I told her about the location. “A lot of schoolkids died of diphtheria. If you’re dealing with children, they might touch your legs or your hands or tug on your clothes. Typical things little kids would do to try and get your attention. They can also get scared and cling to you, not realizing that might make you feel sick.”
The night of our trip to George’s apartment, storm clouds dappled an otherwise clear autumn sky. Though it wasn’t part of my explicit instructions, I dressed in head-to-toe black, with running sneakers just in case.
Laura met me at my apartment and I gave her the breakdown, including my equipment—my cheap Nikon, cracked iPhone, and worn-out reporter’s notebook. We spent five blissed-out minutes in meditation, cross-legged on my living room floor, settling into our bodies with breathing, calming the jangle of our thoughts. When we reached Court Square, we recited Saint Michael’s prayer (out loud, in unison, because that felt more official). George sat on his steps smoking a cigarette and beckoned us out of the rain.
Water, I’d heard, brings energy indoors.
We descended brick steps into George’s apartment, which was shrouded in darkness. He showed us the living room where he’d heard the scream and the creepy laundry room where he’d heard the children.
My iEMF app flickered between 48 and 52 as I scanned the perimeter of both spaces and hallways with the device and my hand. No noticeable spikes or obvious cold spots. I didn’t feel nervous or sense any chills. Honestly, I felt a little sleepy.
We sat in a row on the couch: Laura, the skeptic; George, the believer; me, physically and psychically in between. I pulled out a list of questions from my purse, determined to get it right this time.
George put his hand out. “I’ll break the ice.”
“Hello,” he announced, his voice was bold in the darkness. “These are my friends, Elizabeth and Laura. We thought we might talk with you for a while.” He paused. “You can come on out.”
“We’re really hoping to talk to you,” I said. “If you’re here, can you knock on the wall?”
I rapped my knuckles on the plaster.
Nothing.
“If that’s too difficult, can you make this flame brighter?” George reached for a candle and set it in front of us.
For a minute nothing happened. The iEMF held steady. Then the flame spluttered.
“Did you do that? Can you make the light brighter?”
The candle appeared to respond.
We began asking yes or no questions. “If you’re a girl, can you make the flame bigger?” (Yes.) “If you’re not a boy, can you make the flame smaller?” (The light appeared to steady itself.) “Did you live here? Die here? Are you a child? Are you married? Do you like it when we talk to you?”
“Thank you, thank you,” I added. “You’re doing such a great job.”
As time passed I wondered if we were deluding ourselves. We relocated to the laundry room, where pipes sprouted from cement walls and wooden beams. We repeated the cycle of introductions, requests to knock and manifest, and I felt remarkably unafraid.
Half an hour later, Laura and I were practically falling asleep. “You two would never make it as ghost hunters,” George laughed.
I ignored him. “Thanks for having us,” I said, addressing the space. “Thanks for talking to us if you did.”
As we scraped our chairs back to stand, I heard a thump-thump and froze. “What was that?”
“I heard it,” Laura said.
“It sounded like a knock.” George moved to the candle. “Are you here?” he called. “We’re going to go. So if you want to talk with us…” He gestured for the iEMF. “Come closer to this, and we’ll be able to tell.”
Our incessant questions were annoying, I realized. If I were a ghost, I’d want us to go.
Suddenly I felt an alien prickle crawl up my forearm. Invisible fingers seemed to hover inches from my skin.
“Whoa,” George whispered. “I just felt something weird.”
Contact. I stared at my arm and knew it was time to leave. We had all had enough.
Apparently George felt the same way. We said goodbye to the ghosts, snapped a few more pictures, and thanked him for his time. We left Laura’s recorder spinning its wheels in the living room overnight, silently cataloging anything we couldn’t hear.
I felt even better about my second ghost-hunting experience than I had about my first. When I reviewed photos the next day, they were a total bust, but at least I had my prickly arm hairs and a temperamental candle.
Then, after listening to five mind-numbing hours of recordings, I heard something I hadn’t before.
In the laundry room, after we heard the first set of knocks, frustration was audible in George’s voice. He asked the silent spirit if it wanted to talk, if it mattered that we planned to leave. In the muffled quiet, I heard my own voice ask a simple, point-blank question:
“Should we go?”
Then two clear knocks, gentle yet crisp, as though something reached out to the recorder and tapped it.