LJ Idol Week 6 - Ghosts
I grew up in Southern West Virginia. Anyone who has ever spent any time there will understand when I say that the culture there is such that it's nearly impossible NOT to believe in ghosts. Ghost stories are handed down not as a fun way to scare yourselves on Halloween or around a campfire, but as integral parts of an oral history that's been passed on for generations. Perhaps this is why no amount of scoffing has ever been able to convince me that ghosts do not exist, or that the supernatural experiences I've had are things that can be explained away.
Another huge part of the history of the culture I was raised in revolves around the coal camps. My dad, both of my grandfathers, and all of my great-grandparents worked the mines, and lived in the camps. My dad in particular has some amazing stories of his childhood.
A few of miles back from the banks of the New River, there used to be a hospital called McKendree, or Miners Hospital Number Two, as it was known at the time. It was established somewhere around 1900, and located close enough to the railroad that most of the patients arrived via train. In about 1939, it ceased to be a mining hospital and became either a nursing home for the African American population (according to official sources) or an Insane Asylum for the African American population (according to the history passed down through unofficial channels). Regardless, this too was closed in the early 1940's.
In the late 90's, I, along with a small group of friends, decided that it was time for us to discover McKendree for ourselves. The group consisted of two of us, myself and Kevin, who had grown up in Beckley, and firmly believed and respected the ghostly history of the place, and 3 friends who had grown up elsewhere, and thought that the two of us were insane. So, after we all got off work at about 11pm, we set out. It took us a while to locate the ruins, as they were no longer accessible by car, and it's difficult to find much of anything when it's midnight in the woods. Kevin and I swore that we could find it by following the energy of the place, while the others simply despaired that we'd have them lost in the woods all night long.
Eventually we did locate the place, and Kevin and I even managed to convince the others that what they felt there was real, and not some crazy attempt to scare the living daylights out of them. And after a few hours of wandering around, we decided to leave the ghosts in peace, and head home, with the knowledge that we'd managed to verify a bit of the area's oral history, and knowing that we would all later be able to pass this particular story on to our own children later on. It wasn't the first or the last time that we'd seek out a particular spot looking for the ghosts we'd heard about growing up. West Virginia is full of just such spots and before going our separate ways, we visited many of them.
That was more than ten years ago. Two of our number are now dead themselves, and none of the remaining three of us are still in West Virginia at all. And around this time of year, I always start getting the urge to go searching again, much like we did that night. I wonder if Chris haunts the road where he was killed, or if the house Kevin died in has become that place where no one lives for very long. Being clear across the country from the places that they died, and not being nearly familiar enough with the ghostly history of my current city, I try to content myself with going to haunted house attractions and experiencing the perceptions of fear and mayhem that popular culture seems to have instilled in most of America regarding ghosts and spirits. My own experiences with ghosts have usually left me with a sense of sadness or peace, so the fear that I am expected to feel seems strange and unreal to me.
I've begun to accept that my days of ghost hunting are over now, replaced with the day to day of being a mom, and a wife, and a grown up. Now I simply content myself with the rare days when the ghosts find me.
Happy Halloween!
Another huge part of the history of the culture I was raised in revolves around the coal camps. My dad, both of my grandfathers, and all of my great-grandparents worked the mines, and lived in the camps. My dad in particular has some amazing stories of his childhood.
A few of miles back from the banks of the New River, there used to be a hospital called McKendree, or Miners Hospital Number Two, as it was known at the time. It was established somewhere around 1900, and located close enough to the railroad that most of the patients arrived via train. In about 1939, it ceased to be a mining hospital and became either a nursing home for the African American population (according to official sources) or an Insane Asylum for the African American population (according to the history passed down through unofficial channels). Regardless, this too was closed in the early 1940's.
In the late 90's, I, along with a small group of friends, decided that it was time for us to discover McKendree for ourselves. The group consisted of two of us, myself and Kevin, who had grown up in Beckley, and firmly believed and respected the ghostly history of the place, and 3 friends who had grown up elsewhere, and thought that the two of us were insane. So, after we all got off work at about 11pm, we set out. It took us a while to locate the ruins, as they were no longer accessible by car, and it's difficult to find much of anything when it's midnight in the woods. Kevin and I swore that we could find it by following the energy of the place, while the others simply despaired that we'd have them lost in the woods all night long.
Eventually we did locate the place, and Kevin and I even managed to convince the others that what they felt there was real, and not some crazy attempt to scare the living daylights out of them. And after a few hours of wandering around, we decided to leave the ghosts in peace, and head home, with the knowledge that we'd managed to verify a bit of the area's oral history, and knowing that we would all later be able to pass this particular story on to our own children later on. It wasn't the first or the last time that we'd seek out a particular spot looking for the ghosts we'd heard about growing up. West Virginia is full of just such spots and before going our separate ways, we visited many of them.
That was more than ten years ago. Two of our number are now dead themselves, and none of the remaining three of us are still in West Virginia at all. And around this time of year, I always start getting the urge to go searching again, much like we did that night. I wonder if Chris haunts the road where he was killed, or if the house Kevin died in has become that place where no one lives for very long. Being clear across the country from the places that they died, and not being nearly familiar enough with the ghostly history of my current city, I try to content myself with going to haunted house attractions and experiencing the perceptions of fear and mayhem that popular culture seems to have instilled in most of America regarding ghosts and spirits. My own experiences with ghosts have usually left me with a sense of sadness or peace, so the fear that I am expected to feel seems strange and unreal to me.
I've begun to accept that my days of ghost hunting are over now, replaced with the day to day of being a mom, and a wife, and a grown up. Now I simply content myself with the rare days when the ghosts find me.
Happy Halloween!