Mind Fuck Tuesday: Outdoor Ghosts

Note: Ten years ago, I decided to do my sister a painting of “Witch’s Hollow” from memory (mentioned below). I am not only an amateur at painting, but the memories of the place were difficult to access without any reference pictures. This is the painting I produced from a memory decades old. I was never pleased with the lighting, but it really is basically how the place looked. Some day, I really should finish this--I'm sure she'd love to see the place again since we have no photo references.

**When Julie and I were in Sedona last weekend, she picked up some awesome items for a fantastic giveaway. Go and heck it out at her blog.**

We hear a lot about ghosts within buildings, held to the sentimentality of the structure, remaining in the site in which they died. What we don’t hear quite as often are outdoor ghosts.

La Llorona is a popular outdoor ghost here in the West and Resurrection Mary is the popular one in the East. La Llorona is a womanly ghost who cries for her missing child. There are many variations of the story, but the most popular is that she drowned her child because her lover didn't want kids. Here in my neck of the woods there’s a report of one about 25 miles away in a wash (or as westerners call it an “arroyo”). These separated mother and child scenarios are the most popular outdoor ghost here, but in the East, you have the hitchhiking ladies. Resurrection Mary is a ghost often sighted in the Chicago area where she supposedly is seen in white alongside the roadway, even picked up by drivers who later found out they took a ghost for a drive. Similar such roadside lades in white have been reported around the Midwest and East.

As well, outdoor ghosts are reported on battlefields such as Gettysburg and here in the West ancient Native American warriors are viewed upon occasion. There is also a legend in Arizona about the Army Corp’s camels. Back in the 1800s the Army Corp decided since camels survive well in deserts, they would be a great way to travel supplies and men distances, so they incorporated them. Later, they let them loose. People still report a stray camel with a ghostly army man atop of him haunting the desert.

The reason outdoor ghosts aren’t reported as much is because of simple logistics. The outdoors are a huge area and your chances of being in the spot where ghostly phenomenon is occurring are very low. As well, outdoor lighting and sounds can distract from any actual phenomenon. If the leaves are blowing in the wind, you have an automatic debunking excuse for anything you hear. Within a quiet building, light, shadows, cold spots, and sounds are much easier to detect.

We had a good deal of outdoor hauntings at Aspen Grove. One was a dark caped man who peeked into the cottage windows and rode our horses fenced in the field near the woods. There was a large black man in worn clothing who just stood there and stared near the orchard and the hickory stand. There was also the supposed drowned nurse who screamed down near the creek.

But, the one that disturbed me the most was in the woods.

I loved to follow the Pohick Creek that ran through my yard and then tumbled through the surrounding woods. I’d follow this fascinating creek through our yard and into the woods. There it was a tangled gnarly mass of sumac, raspberry brambles, and saplings. I had to trudge in the stream to stay away from the plants and ticks. Eventually, I came to my favorite place in the world, “Witch’s Hollow.” That’s what my sister named it and was the perfect name because it was magical and also seemed like it had shale shelving that created an altar with a waterfall, all lined by thick spongy moss.

When standing on the mossy bank and playing in the stream, I could look across to the other shore, wet slick slate shelving created a height of about 6’. The land and trees met that shelf and so the forest was elevated there.

It was in that forest that I first saw him.

I came looking for crawdads and avoiding the light pitter patter of a drizzly day under the protective canopy of the woods. The greens were bright and lush in the dull air and the stream was bubbling and gurgling and tinkling over the 3-foot waterfall.

I was on my knees on the moss when I heard a limb on the ground snap like someone stepped on it, so I glanced up. We had a lot of wildlife including deer, but they avoided people like mad. The deer would come out into our yard only at sunset when no one was around. I expected to see an unsuspecting deer that didn’t realize I was quietly sitting there.

The strip of woods across from me were not only elevated, but about 50 feet deep before it met with a meadow. This created a back lighting for the trees within. I tilted my head up and surveyed the area. When I didn’t see anything, but still felt as if something was watching me, I stood up and peered up into the woods.

My eyes scanned back and forth amongst the wet dark bark of the trees in search of something moving within. The tiny leaves of the sumac danced from the droplets of rain and when I was about to shrug and go back down to poke around the rocks in the creek, I caught the shaking of a slender sapling out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head to the left and squinted at the young tree when I saw something behind it to the left a bit more that was not a tree. It was a dusky deep gray and seemed soft compared to the bumpy bark around it. I studied the strange wrinkling creases and length of it, my eyes traveling up. My heart thumped wildly when I realized I was looking at pant legs!

I knew I shouldn’t have come to the creek alone. Sometimes, the prison had loose prisoners and it became mayhem as the cops canvassed the woods in search of them. I stepped back behind the huge old tree near the water’s edge and waited, hoping he hadn't noticed me. The top of him was obliterated by the waving leaves of a young sapling, but I noted an arm come up as if he were touching his face. The body pivoted away and took one step and was gobbled up by the thicket.

I listened cautiously for the sound of him walking away having not seen me. I was both relieved and still frightened. Something about him just wasn’t right. Not one footfall or broken branch sounded, but he was gone. I waited a long while before I leaped over and climbed the shelving to get up there and check.

I went to the spot where I had seen the legs standing and studied the damp leaves and ground below. Not a single footprint or mark of someone standing and pivoting and yet my own feet sank into the ground. I looked over to where I had stood and saw that there was a clear view for him to have seen me. As I walked back towards the water, I found the broken branch on the ground that I heard snap.

For weeks I avoided the creek. Autumn was in full-force now and the colors were blinding. The plant life was of such a variety that we literally got every color imaginable. With my love of autumn forests (wonder why?), I finally gave in and went back to Witch’s Hollow. This time, I kept my eyes and ears alert for intruders. To my way of seeing it, this man was just an intruder trespassing and long gone, so I relaxed and proceeded to do some sketching.

I couldn’t help scanning the area up above. This time, it wasn’t long before I saw a movement as I was lifting my head. I watched this man in what looked like dingy deep gray clothing walking between the trees. He looked kind of slight and small and I wondered at first if it was a kid walking with sort of unsure footing as if evaluating every place he stepped down, his shoulders hunched over.

There was something about it that was not child-like, though. The clothing was all wrong. He seemed to have a strangely thick belt at his waist and his top looked more like a jacket than a shirt.

I watched as he stalked behind a tree and then didn’t come back out. I leaped to my feet and raced along the water further down to see behind the tree in case he’d turned away toward the field. He hadn’t. I jumped the narrow part of the creek there and clambered up the hillside and to the spot. It probably took me all of two minutes max. Not a person anywhere in sight. He couldn’t have even run out of there that fast. I wandered around in circles looking for him, but he was gone.

Within the same week, I was back there, determined to catch this guy. This time, instead of staying down below, I sneaked up where he liked to walk and perched myself between a tree that had split into two during a storm and left a nice little perch. I curled up, my sweater pulled up tightly around me, bright neon lives dancing in my field of vision and my cold breath puffing in front of me.

I was there a good 45 minutes, maybe an hour. My legs were numb, my fingers and nose icy cold. I heard it then. The sound of a few lightweight footfalls in the fallen leaves. I studied the woods which on a heavy gray autumn day were illuminated more by the leaves than the sun going through fat clouds. The gray was stark against the leaves and I saw him doing his little dainty dog step, lifting his legs high up and over fallen tree limbs, and taking his time as he zig-zagged through the trees perhaps 20 feet away from me. I tried not to move or even breathe for fear he might turn.

This time, I was able to see his bulky waist belt and it looked to be empty, though it appeared as if it might have at one time housed weapons or tools. He lifted his hand to his head. I thought maybe he was swiping back his hair which I couldn’t really seen in detail, but the way he held his hand to his forehead looked concerning. It was kind of like when you cut yourself and you gingerly test the wound. He seemed to sway just a touch before he stepped behind the bright red leaves of a sumac and disappeared.

This time, I jumped down and chased after him. If he was an intruder, I’d chew him out, after all, he looked to be about my size. I was in that spot within 10-15 seconds probably.

He was gone.

I looked over the moist ground. Not one single footprint, though my sneaker left one just standing there. I caught a whiff of the air and it reminded me of the musky old books in our summer home, the scent of mold and dust combined with something like gunpowder, a metallic scent. I sniffed the bushes and tree and walked around in a circle, unable to capture the scent again. I searched desperately the entire area as fast as possible but not a single sign of a footprint or a moving man.

Winter came and I avoided the creek until well into the spring thaw. Upon occasion in the autumn, I saw glimpses of him again. It was admittedly less rare that I went to this spot, as I was busy chasing live boys around that time.

My ultimate conclusion was some kind of young wounded soldier from the Civil War. I came to that conclusion when I looked through my mother’s treasured history books in our home library room and found a picture of a man in his uniform that looked remarkably similar.

Do I believe there can be outdoor hauntings? Heck, yeah.

I still think about that soldier and feel a tender concern for his lack of weapons and injury. I wonder if he repeats in a loop for all eternity, never finding his home. I also found it interested that he seemed to be unaware of me while I was aware of him, which would say that if a ghost is a spirit, they’re not necessarily omnipotent. It would appear by his repeated trail along the same line of trees and inability to recognize me that this was a residual haunting, a moment in time caught in a loop.

That I got to witness it and even smell a the lingering scent associated was one of the most amazing moments ever. I had seen a full-body apparition before that I saw very clearly and who seemed to look directly at me. This, however, was a man glimpsed in portions, some obliterated by foliage and with the back lighting, his features were shadowed, but he was a full body. Some day, I’d love to go back there in the fall and see if he still stomps around.

Do you think the outdoors should be equally as haunted as indoors? If I were to haunt the earth, I would do so outdoors--my favorite place!

**Don't forget, this afternoon is a post for Destination Truth "Josh Gates Journals"**


  1. You know, I really like your painting for some reason.

    But I'm not sure why.

    (You can paint? Who knew?)

  2. Vivid story. And major kudos for getting it to happen again. Repeats are a sure sign that what you witness was actually happening.

    And for La Llarona, I grew up with so many latin friends, LL scared the CRAP out of me as a kid!

  3. Eric;
    Yeah. My mom was an art teacher of oil paints. She used to teach in a big gallery in our home and I would set up the trays and easels and watch the students. I started playing with it as a young adult but gave it up about 10 years ago when my hoarding husband left me with no room to store my supplies or paintings. I never got a style I liked so I decided to focus on my writing instead which was a good choice.

    La Llorona does creep me out too. I went to a wash in the desert where people hear her and I laughed with my friend about it and we started having a long talk and getting distracted when we heard a woman screaming and crying several times. The sound was heart-breaking.

  4. That's a great story, scary and true! And what an strange thought that it took multiple encounters to arrive at a supernatural explanation. How many times do we see ghosts and not even realize what they are?

  5. Scared;
    Really good point. I admit to having seen many different people wandering the estate's property and didn't ever catch up to them or find where they went. I know on ghost hunts, we run into that a lot where you swear you saw someone and then you look around and you're all alone. I think we get visuals on ghosts more than we know.

  6. I think the Celtic tribes of old Europe occupied Spain as well, right? Because the legend of La Llarona sounds a lot like the Irish legend of the banshee. I believe in the case of the Irish, say believe her to be a form of fairy.

    This was a very gripping story, and you draw from your personal experiences very well and painted very vivid canvas with your words. I felt as though I was right there with you when you're waiting for the entity to pass again.

    You also mentioned that the Grove you and your sister called your own spot had an "altar" built right into the tree. Were you to doing anything else there that could have attracted the spirits? It would seem that if you shine a light in a dark room, or in this case a forest, you would conceivably attract whatever was out there.

    Imagine being eternally lost in the woods... Poor things.

  7. Hey Aaron;
    Yes, La Llorona reminds me of the white lady hitchhiking at the Chicago Cemetery too. That's a really common running theme--what is it with women in white gowns in the afterlife? God, I hope that's not so! I look horrid in white with my red hair. I refuse to go unless they let me wear peach. No, we were brought up strict Methodists. My sister probably kept her pot stash there, but that's the extent of the magical uses of Witch's Hollow. It was mostly a place to lay down on the spongy moss, listen to the waterfall and daydream. I think all of us looked for those places along the estate that were magically beautiful and it was one of them, but in the time of The War, the creek was more like a river and where the soldier was moving, would have been in parallel with that, a common way for any soldiers to find homesteads and places of refuge since most homes were along such waterways. That's my guess. I think about it and it pulls at my heartstrings even decades later.

  8. I have a few places in Florida that I hold the same affection towards, just favorite little secrets in the middle of nowhere. I think one is a Bed, Bath, and Beyond now though.

    And yeah, I was going to say, why IS it always "a woman with a flowing white gown" that you hear about as far as visual apparitions? Could it maybe be the same lady? Like maybe some form of spirit as opposed to a "ghost". Maybe the Irish were on to something...

  9. Perhaps there is an internal illumination that accounts for the appearance of being white. I've only seen male apparitions, myself. They were dressed. One of them, I sketched out immediately after seeing him. His posture and expression were so insanely bizarre that it still gives me the creeps to recall it. His arms were down along his sides tightly as if he wanted to be a thin pole and his shoulders were drawn up around his ears, his head ducked down and he stared right at me with a look as if he were daring me to be scared of him and at the same time, as if he were looking right through me. I have Irish/Scottish blood myself and I must say that the UK's take on ghosts in general intrigues me a great deal--part based on paganism, part on circles of stone and ties to the earth. They have a very healthy attitude about the paranormal as something that is as much an owner of this earth as the living.


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