Entertainment
Dead Battery - The Crossroads
In this haunting episode of 'Dead Battery - The Crossroads', we follow young Bobby as he navigates the supernatural challenges of his Mississippi upbringing, confronting the enigmatic shadow...
Dead Battery - The Crossroads
Entertainment •
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Interactive Transcript
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Who can steal the sunrise and wipe away your grin?
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Make you wish to chew, could scrub away your darker skin, the shadow man.
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The shadow man can.
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The shadow man can.
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Cause he cheats out everyone and makes the world not good.
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You've almost arrived at the Crossroads.
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Stay tuned.
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Clock Stale Mississippi 1921, Little Bobby was just 8 years old when he discovered
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that sometimes the throne folk is your quiet, if you're staying in a corner.
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If you look really close at the floor, or the wall, even your own shoes, they will talk
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like you're not even there.
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Invisible.
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In this evening when his mama sinks her voice down low, that's when Bobby's hearing
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leans in.
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Mama tells Hattie, don't you go out there.
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Not for love, not for money, not for nothing.
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But baby, baby, if you do go, don't you be late.
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Don't touch nothing to give you.
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Lesson to be exactly what you want.
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Only thing he won't is whatever you can't give.
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Bobby's still invisible, still as a secret.
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Don't you go there, Hattie.
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Don't do it.
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Hattie's face setting that look you get when you ain't gonna cry no more, because crying
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time is over.
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How do you hear me?
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Bobby, bump the fork off the table and it can't go on the floor.
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Mama's head snapped back.
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Invisible no more.
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But can you black behind outside, stop sneaking around?
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Yes, um, Bobby walks.
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Real slow toward the door, still listening.
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Not Hattie.
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Gotta bring him something.
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Something nice, make him think it's the most important thing you got.
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Bobby never asked why Hattie didn't come round no more.
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For a 15th birthday, running back home from Mr. Cooper's field, there wasn't a cake, no
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wrapping paper.
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And just when the grin was leaving his face, he looked at his patty on the floor and right
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on top.
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Still in the not new Montgomery Ward box, they had wooden six-string guitar.
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Saying one had been sitting in the display case, the Jones General's Thor for over two
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years now.
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Shots.
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He turned toward his mother to share smiling back at him.
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Don't be your ticket, Bobby, I know it.
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Every night he plugged and picked and slammed and slapped and knocked until one night.
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The G-strings snapped.
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He tied it back together, that's he could, till it broke again.
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And again, he just started over.
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Learned to play with five strings.
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Then four.
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Three, finger sliding up and down till three strings whaled like six.
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Figured once harvest time come, he could purchase more.
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Mama loved hearing him play, she could stop her feet, clap her hands, that's your ticket.
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And she took sick.
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He played for her.
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Sometimes pressing wet tiles on her burning forehead, sometimes strumming a song she might
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like.
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First, she snapped her fingers to his time.
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And she didn't.
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Two strings left.
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From the third night, Bobby made himself look at her, full on.
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Shrunking, tiny.
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Shivering underneath every blanket they own, eyes squeezed shut, mumbling to someone he
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couldn't see.
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He couldn't figure another way.
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Bobby kissed on the forehead, said his jaw, like had he done all those years back.
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Then took the only thing he owned, was either clothes on his back.
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Guitar.
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Ball with long hours under the Mississippi sun, she said it was his ticket off the plantation
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because her dreams are always bigger than his.
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The dream time was over.
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He stepped out into the night and pressed the door closed behind.
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His walk, turning to a run, can't be late.
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The way looked different at night.
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Oon shuttled, swept the gravel road, passed road after road of devil's weed he ran
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and ran and finally came to the place where his road intersected with the other.
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There he stood, right in the middle.
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The center like he heard her tell person after person to never do.
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Then he whispered the words, she told person after person to never say.
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Starlight shone bright enough to read by.
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No one for miles down either stretch of the road.
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Then, hello.
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Bobby spun round to see the shadow man walking toward him.
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Only then kept him from screaming was his mission.
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Yes, sir.
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Yes, sir.
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Tell my mama to sit.
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Talk to my hair, some medicine for, for making better.
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Bobby kept his head down.
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Don't look in his eyes, only take what you come for.
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I brought you my guitar and trade.
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It's a fine guitar.
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It's real fine.
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Real fine.
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Bobby, listen to the instrument out of the cardboard box he still carried it in, held it
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out to the man.
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Just, just, he's spraying in his all.
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Don't maybe you might have some medicine and trade.
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Bobby felt the instrument lifted from his hands than the man.
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Like he was testing the quality.
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Like he was weighing the terms he beat on the guitar like a drum.
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POP, POP, POP, POP, POP, POP.
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Started touring it.
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To a scale that Bobby didn't know.
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Tapping in strange stretching notes.
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High low, low, high, high, low, whales.
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Streatures, grinds.
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I thought you might have some medicine.
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The man played wild, phonetic, howling, streaks.
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Bobby's guitar, calling angels and demons and sorrow and pain and mercy and latches and
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cotton and chains and fire.
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And the man stopped.
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He held the guitar out.
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Bobby snatched it back.
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It wasn't until he saw the man's eyes.
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But the horror come.
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A million times, he said it, don't touch nothing.
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He'd give you.
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Let's just what you came for.
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The man smiled.
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And if no, sir, I come from medicine.
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The man turned away.
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I need medicine.
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From a mama.
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The road's at empty.
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Why, except the buzz of the crickets.
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And they grew silent as well.
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He looked down and stumbled back.
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Six gleaming, red-stringed, shown fire from the guitar.
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And even as he wanted to throw it down, he held it close.
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Back down the road, passed a field to the shack where he'd left her shivering just a few
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hours before and terrified.
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He cracked open their door.
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Thockness, stillness.
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Then.
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Boy?
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Mama.
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Boy.
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But what did you do?
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He saw both upright on the side of her bed desperate, searching for his eyes.
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Then horrified.
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And she saw him clutching the guitar.
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He touched it, didn't he?
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He touched it.
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Bobby couldn't answer.
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Couldn't even look at it yet.
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Take it back, boy.
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Take it back.
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He just strung it from his all.
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He just gave him a strings.
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He don't give.
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Nothing, baby.
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He takes.
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He saw her to you.
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Then.
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Cheeks flushed eyes bright, medicine.
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That's what he caught a guitar now.
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Medicine.
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He knew the prize.
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She did too.
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Smash it, baby.
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It's gonna kill ya.
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Smash it.
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The Bobby couldn't do that.
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Look at that.
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It'll kill her.
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Instead, they're in a dark.
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It called to her and he read for it.
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And he played.
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As she wept his finger sliding up and down the blood red strings, it growled low and hungry
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like a living thing.
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Breathe and laugh and spitting.
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Some of his life for hers, it tasted like a pretty good deal.
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Please, please smash it, baby.
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It will kill you.
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Even as he felt the darkness like a drug, he felt too, the thrill, the magic, the hurt,
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the brow, the wolf.
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Don't worry, mama.
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Bobby smiled.
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The mysterious and down the glimmer and strings.
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Don't worry, cause I ain't dead yet.
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She is the season.
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Today, the very first step of a spook journey like no other, the crossroads.
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Be careful what you ask for.
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Because the crossroads star.
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Now.
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A story today, come from a meme.
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He's an apprentice violin maker in a tiny Pennsylvania town.
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A remain is working for free so he starts looking for a night gig.
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It's time to keep the lights on.
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And one day, as he wanders around the nearby town of Gettysburg, he spots a sidewalk sign
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reading tour guides wanted.
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Normal enough, but when he takes a closer look at the sign, he learns a company is actually
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looking for someone to lead ghost tours.
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Now, remain is not really that kind of stuff, you know, the spirits, the hauntings, everything.
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But the job is a job, right?
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So he signs up to be a Gettysburg ghost tour guide.
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Spooked.
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Spooked.
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Spooked.
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Archae little 8 year old boy looked at me and said,
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Rameen, that's not a civil war name.
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And everyone laughed and I was a little bit embarrassed.
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On the one hand, I knew that he was right.
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And on the other hand, I felt kind of bad actually.
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It was like, I can't be myself and give an authentic experience.
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But if this 8 year old is having his suspension of disbelief,
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just because of my name,
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that's a problem.
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So from there on out, I decided that I would conduct these tours
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under my alter ego of Charles.
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I'd bring my violin along and I would play spooky songs
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as I was walking around town telling these ghost stories.
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I'm a terrible violin player, by the way.
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Like really cat strangling bad.
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Tonight, my name is Charles.
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I'm dressed as a soldier from the 10th Virginia infantry
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wearing gray wool clothing.
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My guests will be following my small candle
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that I have in my lantern.
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We'll go up the hill, pass the National Cemetery,
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and we'll go up to the abandoned orphanage,
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where after the war, children found only horrors
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at the hands of a terrible woman named Rosa Carmichael.
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She kept the children in the basement,
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in pits, in chains.
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Eventually, the town's folk found out she was run out of town,
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never to be heard from again.
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The guests, they are horrified.
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They're shaking their heads in sadness and disbelief.
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Some of them who have children with them
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reached down and squeezed their kids' shoulders
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to comfort them, maybe to reassure themselves a little bit.
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But it's a true story, and it's absolutely horrifying.
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But then at the end of the story,
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in order to make it paranormal, then I'm saying,
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and they say to this day,
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some of the children that met their end at this orphanage
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still haunt the grounds.
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They may tug on your dress.
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You may hear them pattering around across the street,
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and if you listen very carefully,
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you can still hear their chains jangling
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from the basement windows,
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where they were kept under horrific conditions.
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And is this true, like, no, I don't think it's true,
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but it ties the true history into the paranormal experience
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in such a way that I'm sort of covering my bases now.
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When I first found this opportunity to work as a tour guide,
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I was so excited to combine my interests in history and
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military history in particular,
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and to tell the guests the reality of life in the 1860s
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that, to me at least, are terrifying,
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even without a paranormal component.
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But these were not the stories that people expected.
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And then I kind of got a talking to from my boss,
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who very gently told me that I need you to spook things up a little bit here,
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dumb down the history and amp up the paranormal.
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I myself am not a hardcore believer in the paranormal.
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I am ambivalent, agnostic, but I recognize that this is the job.
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This is what people expect.
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And who am I to say, whether a paranormal experience that someone else has,
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is or isn't real?
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Now I incorporate some of the more terrifying paranormal stories that I've heard from other tour guides.
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Our next stop will be the old creek bed at Winebrenners' Run.
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This creek used to meander its way all the way around the battlefield,
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and at the time of the battle it was the sight of terrible horrors.
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The Battle of Gettysburg occurred between the first of July and the third of July.
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1863.
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And then on the 4th of July, there was a torrential downpour.
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All of the creeks were swelled up.
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There was flooding throughout.
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And in this particular little area of Winebrenners' Run,
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the story goes that there was this wooden grate that had been placed there right where the creek
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sort of meets the edge of the town to catch tree limbs and other things that would naturally fall
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into the creek or be swept up if the creek got really full.
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Unfortunately, there had been established during the battle a couple field hospitals on the
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banks of this creek. And so when the medical staff were doing imputations, they were piling up
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these limbs. They were working as quickly as they could to try to save lives.
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And the carnage was just sort of laying on the side of the creek.
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In the aftermath of this rainstorm, hundreds of limbs and many dozens of bodies of men who had
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become wounded and had sought shelter in the creeks get swept up in the engorged creek until they
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encounter this wooden grate. And you've got this dense mass of just horrible stuff that has blocked
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the flow of water going through the town.
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So at the end of the tour, this older gentleman comes up to me and he's got a beard and a hat and
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he has a walking stick with him. And he says, look, look, I've captured something here. You need
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to take a look at this. I'm looking at this picture and he says, you can see between the spokes of
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the cannon's wheel. There's a boot. And sure enough, I'm looking at this picture and there's a
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knee height leather boot. And he says, I think this might be the boot of a cavalryman.
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And I smile and nod and I say, wow, that's really something. I've never seen anything like this before.
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And meanwhile, out of the side of my peripheral vision, I'm looking at the footwear of everyone
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that is along on this tour. And of course, there's a woman wearing riding boots. And of course,
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these are her shoes in the picture, but I'm not going to burst his bubble.
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I encourage him to email it to the company email address and we'll take a look and maybe we'll add
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it to our own archives and that that seems to quite satisfy him.
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It is a normal afternoon at the ghost tour company. It's too early to be taking guests out. So
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I'm getting some hours in on desk duty, helping people with their reservations and advanced bookings.
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And my coworker, who is one of the paranormal investigators, comes up to me and says, hey,
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we are short staffed for a ghost hunt later this week. Do you want to do it?
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And at this point, I have never done a ghost hunt for a few reasons. Number one, it's really not my
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bag. Number two, the hours are rough. I'm not going to be done until four o'clock in the morning.
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My coworker says, look, the money's really good and it turns out that the pay for
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conducting these ghost hunts is like four times as much money as I'm going to make from giving tours
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that night. So I'm convinced. All right, I agree to go on my first ever ghost hunt.
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This evening, there are three of us from the tour company that are in charge of the ghost hunt
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and our guests, who number about 10 are gathered around in the gravel parking lot of this building.
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And it is a hulking old mansion. We're all decked out with vests and ball caps and flash lights
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and this, you know, tactical equipment looking like a bunch of mall cops, but conducting a ghost hunt.
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And the people on the hunt love it. They are so into it.
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This house is a prime location for a paid ghost hunt. My two co-hosts are doing a great job of
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setting the scene. They are being cryptic about things that have happened in the house.
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And it turns out that things did happen in this house. A young woman hanged herself in the attic of
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this house. The home was used as a field hospital during the Civil War with limbs
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piling up to the window sills that floorboards had to be replaced due to blood soaking them.
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We start distributing equipment and the first thing we have to do is conduct a demo to demonstrate to
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them how do they use the equipment. We have EMF detectors. That stands for electromagnetic frequency.
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It basically looks like a gun and you point it in the direction of where you think a spirit is
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now my coworker who's a very industrious young guy he's making these devices.
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He's going to Radio Shack, he's getting bits and bobs, he's buying paintball guns and taking
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them apart to create this really tactical looking device. And then there's this other device we have
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called the spirit box. It's like a pocket radio. It's got an antenna and it doesn't have a microphone
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on it. It's got a very primitive LCD screen. And essentially what the spirit box does is that it
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cycles through radio frequencies and you hear snippets of words where it might say
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but every so often it's going to pick up a word or it's going to pick up a snippet of sound
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and that if you are an imaginative person you're going to hear what the spirit box is telling you
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and thus interact with a spirit. I believe that it is utter garbage. Frankly I feel guilty.
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I feel like I'm participating in a scam. Not because I was worried about people finding ghosts
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but because I was so certain that they were not going to and that I was selling them a false dream.
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My coworker, the same one who is making EMF detectors is leading tonight's ghost hunting
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expedition. He is like a drill sergeant of fear. He is completely deadpan saying that the energies
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that inhabit this space are very unsettled and that bad things have happened in various areas of
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the house and we want you to go in there and see what you can feel and then at the end of the
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tour you can tell us where you found evidence and where you felt energies.
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And I'm just sort of taking it all in at this point thinking that these are fools who are
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paying for the privilege of terrifying themselves in a building with no electricity, no running
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water and God forbid one of them has to go to the bathroom in the next four hours.
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The
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Once we make our way through telling people the ground rules, we basically cut them loose.
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And our job is not to helicopter over them so much but to allow them to spend time within their
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groups and allow their group dynamic to play out however it's supposed to play out.
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So the groups are out investigating and there's a group cycling in and out of the attic where
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this death by hanging took place. Myself and the other two guides we meet up outside. We're smoking
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some cigarettes. We're chatting and then every 15 minutes or so we think okay it's time to go check
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on the groups. See how everybody's doing. So it's most of the way through the evening. It's oh
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probably 2.30 o'clock in the morning at this point and I'm doing my little walkthrough.
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I'm walking toward the parlor. This room has some windows and a radiator that is looking like
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it's got leprosy. Just paint falling off of this thing. Then I get summoned by one of the groups.
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They say hey we're having trouble with our spirit box. It's telling us that the battery's dead.
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It's saying battery dead through the speaker. And this is unusual because there is a battery
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indicator on the box and I can see that the battery's full but if they're telling me that the battery's
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dead very well I have a pocket full of double A batteries. So I go ahead I pop the back off the
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spirit box, put some new batteries in there. I can see still that the battery indicator says that
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it's full and I head it back to them and I turn to walk away.
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No sooner have I done so than they call me straight back and they say the batteries are dead again.
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And I just got this weird feeling. I know that these batteries are not dead. I know they're good.
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And sure enough the radio scanner which is really all that this device is says clear as day.
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Battery dead.
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The voice coming through the machine. It's a mail voice. It's clear. It's strong. It is not
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like the snippets of speech that sometimes we hear from this device as it's cycling through
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radio frequencies. There's an urgency to the words.
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I am still highly skeptical about the prospects of speaking to a spirit through a broken radio.
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So but I have a role to play which is to help these guests get their money's worth.
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And I don't know what has come over me exactly but I get this feeling that I ought to see if the
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box is going to tell us anything else.
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So without thinking I said is there someone there?
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The box says in the same voice. Yes.
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All of the people that I'm with this group three or four people they're like
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the thought crosses my mind that maybe someone is listening and manipulating the local radio channels
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to try to to fake this out. And I realize that it's not possible through a device that I know
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full well has no microphone on it. So I go ahead and ask a follow up question.
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Are you a soldier? And the box says yes.
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I am feeling like my entire insides are made of ice. This voice it sounds like it's
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coming from far away. It is really freaky.
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And at this point my guests they are discussing amongst themselves very excitedly what types of
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follow up questions they should ask. And one of them says are you a union soldier or a confederate soldier?
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And the box says blue. This of course we interpreted to be a reference to the union uniform which
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is blue as opposed to a confederate uniform of gray. This carries on for a little while and
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they're asking yes or no questions. Are you cavalry? No. Are you artillery? And the box says yes.
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Battery dead. Battery E dead.
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Now at this point my stomach is down in my shoes. I have managed thus far to not allow myself to
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believe in the legitimacy of any of this technology. And here I am. I'm supposed to be the one that
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is playing it cool. I am so shaken. I cannot stay inside the house. I need to get out.
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I make my way out of the mansion as quickly as I can and I'm back out into the gravel parking
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area where my co-workers are hanging around waiting for things to wrap up. There's only a couple
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minutes left before folks are going to be coming outside and I tell them what has just happened.
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One of them says are you okay? And I said yeah I don't know I think so. They were pretty
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understanding about my being freaked out and not wanting to go back into the building. Neither of them
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are particularly shocked. This was something that they expected almost. They said yeah well
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that's what happens.
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My co-workers congratulate me on my first ghost hunt job well done and I decided that I was never
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coming back to that spot ever again. Later on that week it's a sunny day. I'm walking the battlefield.
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I wasn't working that night. This day I just felt compelled to go walking. And as I'm walking along
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the road near this house I come across a memorial marker. It's a seven and a half foot tall granite
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monument with a cannon parked right in front of it. And I'm reading a Rhode Island light artillery
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three killed twelve wounded. Battery E.
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I just stand there speechless. So we're hearing battery dead battery dead and we were thinking
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oh okay time to go grab some more AA batteries. But a battery is also a term that would refer to
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a group of guns, horses, carriages full of ammunition, all the men that were part of the battery.
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And as I looked at this monument and read three killed twelve wounded thinking to myself
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is it possible that I actually encountered one of the men who fought in this unit? It really
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to me brought the whole experience full circle. I'm upset I feel as though we have disturbed a spirit.
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This is an entity if you believe that that is stuck in a moment of great distress
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and is trying to communicate a message of great urgency that there has been
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death in their military unit. Battery E dead.
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I continued working at the tour company on a part-time basis for the next probably year.
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My attitude toward tours definitely changed. I think my storytelling became a lot more somber
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when I told people to pay attention to their surroundings. I really met it.
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One of the things that I told my groups regularly was that the men who fought and died here
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were young men by and large. That they had more life to live, they had more things to do. And
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now I wonder if the energy that desire to stay is something that sticks around in a place.
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And that just maybe if you go out looking for it you might be able to interact with that energy.
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When Johnny comes marching home again.
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Johnny comes marching home again.
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Johnny comes marching home again. We'll give him a mighty welcome.
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Thank you for me for sharing your story at the spook. Now, for me, it works full-time currently
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as a guitar maker and musician in Nazareth, Pennsylvania. But occasionally, the mean does lead
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tours at the guitar factory. An original score was by Nicholas Marx, was produced by Casey Georgie.
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Now then, which you've just experienced is but the first foray through that liminal space that
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connects and bars the gate long has been known across time, across cultures that some
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entities routinely pass through the shadow side in this world. And on the next the crossroads
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we're chasing after creatures straight from native blackfoot lore.
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And one young person who always wondered starts the question what he wished for.
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On the next crossroads the goat man and no, you've never walked this way before.
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The crossroads this brought to you by the spook team who wherever they go
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always sign up for the haunted house tours. Except for Mr. Mark Ristich, he just likes to pop out
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a closet from people least expected. As David Kim, Zoe Fregno, Eric Yanyas,
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Taylor DeCott, Marissa Dodge, Miles Lassie, Elliott Lightfoot, Sui Chu, Evan Stern,
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Eve's Jeff Coat, Yshell Lopez, Jack Darrell, Doug Stewart, the spook theme song,
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is by Pat Masini Miller, transgressors, both here and in the shadow should know that no
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SNAP studios content may be used for training, testing or developing machine learning or AI
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systems without prior written permission. Take that sky net on team spooked. The union representative
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producers, artists, editors and engineers are members of the National Association of Broadcast
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Employees and Technicians, communications workers of America, AFL, SIL, local 51.
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My name is Glenn Washington. It's long and understood that what you put into something
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or someone is reflected in what comes out. We treat children with love and kindness because we
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want to nurture the goodness that lies within. We first tend the flocks to harvest the wool. We
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paint the pictures to expand the beauty. We write the books to share the knowledge because care
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and intention are seeded. We know this. Why then? Are we surprised that when we drink a land with blood,
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that it bears a very strange fruit from the poplar trees? We call forth monsters and wonder
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why they answer. No. We are holders of the sacred gift, the power of intention, the ability to
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construct our angels and our demons alike. There is no horror. We cannot manifest.
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And no joy. We cannot sing to life. The shadow cannot move its own volition. We must like the
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pyre. We must sacrifice the land, the ground. And no. They will unleash the bombinations in your name.
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They are doing so right now. Terrorists. So ask yourself, what were you unleashed?
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What were you called for? I will always remember. To never, ever, never, never, never, never, never, never.
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Never, never, never, never. Turn out. You're light.