Since the time I was a young child one of my favorite songs is one that many consider the best country/western song ever. In 1948, Stan Jones wrote “Ghost Riders in the Sky: A Cowboy Legend,” recorded by over fifty artists, including Johnny Cash, Peggy Lee, and The Sons of the Pioneers. The song is about ghost cowboys damned forever to chase a herd of red-eyed cattle with flaming brands and hooves of steel. The song thrilled me with its mystery and drama. It also gave me nightmares.

Those who live near the city of Center, close to the Texas and Louisiana border, are also kept awake at night by a herd of ghostly cattle. On Bone Hill, late at night, when the winds howl through the trees and moonlight casts mysterious shadows, the sounds of crying cattle can be heard for miles as these lonely strays search for their former caretaker and friend.

Prior to the 1850s, cattle rustlers roamed the woods and prairies of east Texas doing their best to avoid the wrath of the Texas Rangers. Often, as they were running from the law, a cow or two would run free of the pack. These strays often wandered for weeks before finding others in similar circumstances and eventually a large group of strays settled on a hilltop near Center, Texas. A few adventurous townspeople occasionally tried to rustle up the strays, but the herd stayed strong for years.

One day, a cowboy rode into town. His name was Don Torbellino and his own herd had been stolen from his fields back in Mexico. He promised to care for the ever-growing herd of cattle on the hilltop and keep them out of crop fields with the condition that he be allowed to occasionally cull a cow or two for his own herd. Torbellino was a great animal lover and the orphaned cattle quickly grew attached to him. At the sound of his voice, they would run to his side.

In 1845 a particularly severe winter struck eastern Texas and many of the cattle died, their bones left to rest on the hilltop, which was eventually renamed Bone Hill. That same winter, Torbellino disappeared, leaving his horse, saddle, and rifle behind. Soon after, passing settlers reported hearing the sounds of crying cattle near the hill, sounds that can be heard to this day. Some say the cattle are searching for their friend and companion, Don Torbellino. Others say they are crying out in fear, each reliving a nightmarish ride with cattle rustlers…like the red-eyed, silver-hoofed herd in “Ghost Riders in the Sky.”       

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My grandson has finally arrived! Elijah was born last week and he’s a handsome and cuddly little fella! Even though he was early, I was in Colorado, waiting to meet him, having left Texas weeks before. It was a beautiful drive, as always, through the heart of New Mexico, but I did keep an eye on the Points of Interest signs and signs for towns I’ve never heard of before. When I travel between Colorado and Texas I often drive near the ghost town of St. Elmo. Located off Hwy 285 by Chalk Creek near Colorado Springs, St. Elmo is where Miss Annabelle Stark still walks the streets in her white, gossamer gown, tied to a place, and possibly a time when her father was a wealthy and popular cattleman and business owner in this once-booming silver and gold mining metropolis. Annabelle lived with her parents and two brothers, but she did leave to attend college and was considered a fashionable young woman.

As often happens in mining towns, the more than 2000 residents moved on in the early 1920s when the mines stopped producing, but the Starks decided to stay. The Starks purchased homes and properties as the miners and their families left, but without a town, the properties did were not worth much. Then in 1922, the Denver, South Park & Pacific Railroad (DSP&P), which brought many of the miners and families to the area in the first place, changed its route and no longer traveled to St. Elmo. Still, the Starks stayed on, desperate to hold onto their dreams for the little town, but their dreams never materialized. Annabelle, however, is often seen peering out windows of the remaining buildings, or flitting across a dirt road from one stand of trees to another, still doing her best to protect the family’s properties.

What holds Annabelle Stark to this quiet, little ghost town? Do we “return” to the places we love after death, or do we simply stay when we die? Why did she choose not to marry and move? By all accounts, Annabelle was an attractive and charming young woman who certainly had a bounty of handsome suitors available, but many claim that she remained single. There are stories that say Annabelle was once engaged to a man in Salida, Colorado but the engagement was broken with no explanation. However, the Colorado Central Magazine lists Annabelle’s name as Annabelle Stark Ward, which would seem to imply that she was once married and perhaps divorced or widowed.

Annabelle had two older brothers, and this might possibly explain the fact that she rarely attended any social functions without her family. One brother, Roy, and her mother, Anna, may have passed away years earlier, but Annabelle and her brother, Tony, who was once a telegraph operator for the DSP&P, remained in St. Elmo. They operated the Home Country Hotel and Stark Brothers Store, which also housed the local post office. In later years, Annabelle was often seen patrolling her properties with a shotgun. She may have become rather eccentric, refusing to bathe or clean her home. It is not surprising that she died after a short time in a mental hospital around 1958. After all, they had removed from her beloved town where she had lived for most of her adult life! 

As a former gold rush state, Colorado has more than its fair share of ghost towns and St. Elmo is said to have been one of the “busiest.” At one point, St. Elmo had over 150 mine claims and was on its way to becoming a bustling city. Of course, Cripple Creek, Colorado, which is also located in this Southern sector, had over 4500 acres of mining claims. Nevertheless, St. Elmo was busy and happy. St. Elmo was started in the 1870s at the height of the gold rush and was possibly named after a popular fictional character from the 1859 book St. Elmo by August Jane Evans. In the book the main character, St. Elmo Murray, experiences a spiritual awakening through the influences of a woman named Edna Earl. The book may be as romantic and exciting as the town of St. Elmo once proved to be, which might also explain why Annabelle Stark refuses to leave.

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Have you ever had the feeling you were not alone as you stood in an empty, silent room? Did you ever see a shadow moving in the dark, moving so quickly and disappearing so completely that you questioned if it was ever there at all? I’ve had these experiences in Ludlow, Colorado at the monument dedicated to the Ludlow Massacre, a scarcely remembered incident in American history that changed the lives of American miners forever. I’ve had these experiences as I stood beneath the monument itself in a dark, damp cellar that once held frightened women and children huddled together in fear as a battle raged on above their heads. The women and children died in this cellar, but some part of them remains. Not just the feeling of dread they felt when they knew they were about to die. No, there is so much more in this place. There is also the feeling of hope, the feeling that perhaps, through their sacrifice, others might live.  

Near the Colorado border with New Mexico, just off I-25, is a Point of Interest marker that most drivers pass without a second glance. I am one of the few who cannot drive on without stopping to pay my respects to the men, women and children who sacrificed their lives to make life better for others. It is a lonely, yet lovely place, once haunted by the sound of the wind and the clanging of a nearby railroad sign. They’ve fixed the sign, but the wind still howls, mourning the lives lost in the horrific battle of April 20th, 1914. The battle took place in a tent camp where miners and their families stood side by side in protest against the oppressive and dangerous working and living conditions forced upon them by Rockefeller’s Colorado Fuel and Iron Company, one of many mines employing young children, forcing families into eternal debt with the company store, and demanding that employees work with little or no safety precautions. The frustration and anger of these miners was fueled by union organizers who traveled from camp to camp, inspiring workers to stand in masse against mine owners who valued their donkeys more than the men and children who worked as slaves in the dark pits worming their way through the mountains.

The battle took place in a small valley near a railroad track where the miners had pitched their tents. The fight raged on for fourteen hours while the women huddled in cellars dug out of the ground to shelter them during the fight. A small number of men and boys were killed during the initial gun battle, then a train passed by and the miners ran for cover behind its slow-moving cars. The state militia, who were called upon to handle the situation by the governor, took advantage of their temporary abandonment of the tents and set the tents on fire. Two women and eleven children suffocated in a cellar beneath one of the tents. The deaths were later blamed on the owner of the mine, John D. Rockefeller Jr., who steadfastly denied knowledge of any wrongdoings at the mining camp, but eventually accepted full responsibility for the incident and spent the rest of his life trying to redress the situation.

The first time I stopped at the Ludlow monument I was a young mother with two children. I was running from an abusive relationship, beaten, heartbroken, battered and bruised. As my children slept in the car, I stared up at the marble statues of the proud miner, his worried wife, and the frightened child she sheltered in her arms. When I reached my destination, I researched the massacre at the local library. Instead of making me sad, the story of these strong, determined people gave me strength. A few years later I returned to the monument with a friend. We strolled about the grounds, listening to the wind, admiring the detailed work of the sculptor and speaking in whispers of this brief moment in history that meant so much to so many. Then we found the cellar. It is unmarked and covered with a heavy, metal door. We slowly descended into the darkness using a small flashlight as a guide. The feeling of dread was immediate and overwhelming and I started to cry. I turned to look for the stairs…and that was when the shadows seemed to move. Just for a moment. Just long enough to catch my eye. We scrambled up the stairs and ran for our car. We didn’t speak until we were well into New Mexico, and even then, we didn’t speak of the shadows. Not ever.  

I once wrote a juvenile horror story about the Ludlow Massacre and it was published in the Midnight Lullabies anthology now available through Amazon. All proceeds for the book are donated to Doctors Without Borders, which seems appropriate to me somehow. The story is called “Blood on the Sangre de Christos,” and although I am proud of the story, it still falls short of capturing the dread, horror, and, oddly enough, the inspiration one feels when visiting the monument honoring the victims. There is the ghost of a painful memory in this place, the imprint of emotions felt long ago. I have no doubt that these poor, abused souls have moved on to a better place with the families they loved so well, but I am also convinced that some part of them remains as a haunting reminder of the thousands of immigrants who died in the mines as they strived for a better future for the ones they loved. 

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Last week, my husband and I celebrated his birthday.  We went for a quick drive through the Hill Country of Texas and ended up in the charming, historic town of Llano.  We decided to try the Badu House, a popular restaurant and bar.  Oddly enough, from the moment I entered the building I knew I was watched—in the doorway, near the stairs, and as I entered the bar.

It was a warm, spring afternoon and we asked to be seated on the patio.  As I stared up at the wooden blinds covering the second story windows, I had the strangest feeling that someone was peering down at me--there was a tickle on the back of my neck and arms.  The food was tantalizingly delicious and the atmosphere on the patio was calm and peaceful, but I couldn’t keep my eyes from the upstairs windows.  I finally asked to speak to the manager.  I told him my husband and I loved old buildings and asked him for a tour.  He led us across the street to the banquet building.  It was lovely with huge windows and carefully restored rock walls and wood floors, but I felt nothing out of the ordinary and wanted to return to the Badu House.  I knew there was someone in that house!  So, I took a deep breath and quietly asked if the building was haunted.  The manager smiled.  

Les Terrell has managed the Badu House since the summer of 2007.  “I have always believed in ghosts and was fascinated by them, but had no personal experience to go on.  About a week later, I could no longer say that,” he explained as he led us upstairs.  He told us that his first experience came with a strong smell of cologne that lasted about three minutes, a smell so strong he could taste it.  Then he heard a shuffling sound, and the sound of moving cloth.  And he saw a shadow.  The shadow was moving.  “All these things made it clear to me that I was needed downstairs at that moment in time,” he said.  “I guess that was my welcome to the Badu House!” 

Terrell has received an extended welcome.  Once, as he descended the stairs, he heard a door slam behind him on the upper floor.  He also heard something tapping and scratching on a closed door a few feet away from where he was working.  Needless to say, there was nothing on the other side.  He heard shoes scuffling across the floor, coming from a darkened hallway and recorded heavy, creepy breathing and doors slamming on digital audio left overnight between shifts.  These sounds were recorded five or six times over a few hours. 

Two weeks ago, shortly after he started his morning shift, Terrell saw his first ghost.  “It was standing at the other end of the hall when I came upstairs.  When I looked up I saw…the outline of a person side step out of the hall and into my locked office.  I opened the door and nobody was there.  Then last Saturday, April 28th, I was here alone counting liquor late at night.  It felt so weird that I couldn’t wait to get out of here.  About the worst I have felt it.”  Terrell said that sometimes, when he’s working alone upstairs, the atmosphere is almost unbearable.

Psychic clairvoyant Sylvia Brown visited the Badu House and claims there is a female entity in the building.  Hill Country Ghost Hunters has conducted two investigations.  “One investigator was touched on the side of the head with a simultaneous EMF spike,” Terrell explained.  “I stayed with them all night running the same equipment and we caught twelve unbelievable EVPs.  One of the female investigators was touched twice that evening.  We caught three distinctly different voices during the investigation.  Two were definitely male--one had the same deep voice tone we caught on a December first investigation--and one was female.”  Terrell played the recordings for us.  In one of the recordings, a male and female seem to be communicating with each other, and they were chatting about the paranormal investigators.  Austin Paranormal also did an investigation and captured an EVP of someone humming a tune.    

The Badu House was built in 1891 and originally served as the First National Bank of Llano.  The building is near the water (as are most buildings in the Texas Hill Country) and is also near a number of large stone quarries in Granite Shoals and Marble Falls. In the spring of 1898 the building was purchased by French native N.J. “Professor” Badu, a noted local mineralogist. Badu remodeled the building into a home for his family and it was passed down for generations until the 1980s when it was sold and turned into a restaurant. It is now owned by Ted Lusher, a Llano rancher and Austin businessman.  Lusher is also a collector of art and antiques.  The top floor of the Badu House, where most of the activity takes place, is the home of the rosary, family photo album and china that once belonged to Maximillian I, Emperor of Mexico, as well as an antique rocking chair and bed, a rather mysterious painting of Maximillian, and other furnishings that could conceivably attract their former owners.  “I think if you are a sensitive, this place is probably never quiet,” Terrell said.  “Luckily, I am not.”

According to Terrell, staff members at the Badu House have ghostly encounters two to three times a month.  “We have experienced slamming doors, swinging doors moving on their own…phantom smells, full body apparitions, sounds of dishes crashing at night and no broken dishes found, cold spots, voices, whispers, laughing….you name it.”  Both guests and staff frequently report feeling as if they were touched by someone when they were alone.  One male staff member had something pulled out of his back pocket then stuffed back in.  When he turned around to berate the playful thief, he realized he was also alone in the room.  Another employee arrived early for work and decided to lie down on the antique bed upstairs, but someone grabbed her foot then touched her hip.  Last November, one of the managers saw a white shadow at the bottom of the stairs. 

Shortly before I posted this blog, I received a message from Terrell.  “A staff member saw a ghost just 10 minutes ago,” the message read.  “A shadow…she could make out the arm and shoulder walking into the Maximillian room.  Never boring here.  As an added bonus…It just so happens that I jumped out and scared her one minute later…before I knew what happened. Thought you might find that interesting.”

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Sometimes there are screams of pain that start low, build in intensity, then shatter the night at a fearful pitch.  At other times it’s nothing more than a soft, dying moan.  On rare occasions, the sound of gunshots will also pierce the darkness.  Who, or what, haunts Fort Phantom Hill, we may never know. But one thing is for certain--it’s not happy.  

Deep in the heart of the Texas Panhandle lies the city of Abilene, and eleven miles north is the ruins of Fort Phantom Hill.  Construction on the fort began in 1851.  It was part of a line of forts running straight through to Colorado that were intended to protect settlers from Comanche Indian raids. Unfortunately, the fort was built in a place that it was never intended to be.  Lt. Abercrombie and his soldiers started construction on what was known as “The Post on the Clear Fork of the Brazos” following confusing orders from General Smith.  The new fort was not only built in the wrong place, but it was also surrounded by cactus and brackish water.  All supplies were brought in by cart from many miles away and the fort was not completed until 1853. 

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. 

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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.  

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It’s a cool, breezy morning and the clouds hang over the city of Galveston like a thick, dark blanket. Even now the coastline beckons. The virgin sand seems desperate for footprints and mysterious, half-buried bits of treasure call out to you. You know you should be back at the hotel because weather like this can turn at any moment and the beach is not a safe place in a storm, but the sound of the waves is irresistible and like thousands of Galveston fans before you, you know you must continue with your walk. In typical mother fashion, Nature is begging you to defy her warnings, and you do. 

You are but a few minutes from home, listening to the waves, when suddenly you realize that some of the sounds drifting your way come from a human source. You turn to find a woman and child a short distance behind you. They don’t appear to be crying, but they do appear to be following you across the sands. Uncomfortable, you turn away and walk a few feet, but the sobbing continues and when you glance back once again you see that the pair is still close behind. Then suddenly the crying stops, and so do you. Slowly, fearfully, you turn to face the pair on the beach, knowing instinctively that they will be gone. No footprints, no shapes or shadows disappearing over the nearby dunes. They have simply vanished. Oddly enough, you are not surprised. This is, after all, Galveston. But you have heard the warning and now you know you must quickly return to your hotel.

Galveston, Texas, long considered one of the most haunted cities in America, has yet another infamous claim to fame besides its ghosts. It is a storm. A storm most residents refer to as “The Storm.” Galveston was stuck by a category five hurricane in September of 1900. The citizens of Galveston were told the storm would come, but they were also reassured that the storm’s fury would be slowed considerably by low tides in the Gulf of Mexico. On the morning of September eighth, many of Galveston’s residents stood on the beaches, dancing and celebrating their luck in finding such a beautiful, safe haven from Mother Nature’s fury. A few hours later, instead of dissipating, the storm grew in strength and slammed into the island with a fifteen foot wave of icy water, shocking the entire population into a huge panic. People scrambled frantically to find shelter, but for most of the residents, this search came much too late. No one knows for certain how many people died that day. Estimates range from six to eight thousand—far surpassing the devastation wrought by Katrina. Houses collapsed and trains that were filled with people were swept into the ocean. The disaster is still considered the worst natural disaster in the history of the U.S.

Along the beach, just three miles west of Galveston, stood St. Mary’s Orphan Asylum, founded by the Congregation of the Sisters of Charity for the Incarnate Word. It was a two-story building housing ninety-three children and ten nuns. When the storm hit, the nuns decided the safest course of action would be to tie themselves to the children and sing loudly to calm the youngsters. Among the dead were ten nuns and ninety of the ninety three orphan children. They were buried where they were found. Each year, on September 8, the Sisters of Charity for the Incarnate Word stop and sing in honor of those who died in the storm. Other town inhabitants were taken to the Strand, a section of retail establishments that served as a temporary morgue. Many of these buildings were also flooded when the wave hit town and most are considered haunted, including one where a body is seen up toward the ceiling, drifting back and forth between the rafters as if riding on a wave.

It's flash flood season again in Texas. Sometimes it seems it's always flash flood season in Texas. Perhaps it’s because of its close proximity to the ocean, or maybe it’s the abundance of lakes and rivers, but Texans have learned to live with flash floods. Within two years of the 1900 Galveston flood the town had rebuilt itself and in a remarkable feat of engineering, created a 17 foot high flood wall that has repeatedly held back flood waters over the years. Within eight years, the town had succeeded in raising most of the remaining and new houses to a much higher elevation with stilts and sand. Nevertheless, the ghosts of the 1900 flood still walk the beaches of Galveston as a constant reminder of how futile it is to challenge and defy the warnings of Mother Nature, ghosts like the shadowy figure of a man running frantically in the sand. We may never know where he was going, but we do know one thing for certain…he will never reach his destination.

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