Ghost of the Mound

I always had an interest in things deemed "creepy" or "paranormal" to the rest of society, reading creepy stories on the internet and constantly getting books about ghosts from my parents. I lived in a small town - or rather a village, it could fit into one square mile - you've likely never heard of it, though. Gnadenhutten was its name, it was (or rather is) in Northeastern Ohio; I lived there for about a decade, maybe a little longer. It is a quiet town where a lot of elderly spend the rest of their days and a relatively safe place for families with children to grow up in.

My family moved there from a city up about forty minutes to an hour's drive north to escape some family issues when I was eight. I won't go into those details, though, they aren't very important to what I witnessed. You see, I essentially become the town's paranormal investigator. I was still an amateur with the most equipment I had being a notebook, my hand-me-down Nintendo DSi camera, and my instincts. The fact still stood firm though, and the less-than-accepting natives of the town shunned me more and more as an outsider than previously.

I'm sure you probably wonder why I'm telling you about all this? Well, it's not to raise awareness about it or anything; much of what happened to me that day.

Beside the village cemetery, there is an area with rebuilds of certain wooden houses, a mound, a museum, and a tall obelisk monument. The mound in particular is very important; I'll explain later. Four days after I write this will be another anniversary of an important event here. It all started with my older brother. He was visiting myself, my mother, and my siblings (I'm the second youngest girl out of all of us) from the city I mentioned earlier, since we'd recently began fixing ties to him. I hadn't seen him in nearly ten years, nor had I remembered seeing my mother so happy. Something my brother said made me wonder though. He said the entire town had really bad karma, but I didn't think of why he'd say that until later.

My older sister was notorious for riding around the entire town on her bike, then doing the same by walking when the weather wasn't good enough for it. However, one late autumn evening, she was walking by the historical site alone when she heard a whisper in her ear. She looked everywhere, but found no one there. Another time, a strange orb chased her away, almost describing it as the Will-'o-Wisps of Scottish folklore. She refuses to go near it at night now, and is wary of it during the daytime even.

That's when I decided to become a paranormal investigator, I wanted to find explanations to these occurrences. As I said, I didn't have any other equipment besides my DSi's camera and a notebook, so I was unsure of whether or not I was going to be able to get anything.

I went in the evening on Saturday, March 2nd with the notebook and DSi in my bag, it was nearly twilight when I got there. I...wasn't exactly prepared for what would happen, as I went in thinking nothing would (not skeptical, but not jumping at the first thing that happens and deem it paranormal) occur.

Something just didn't feel right with the ground underneath my feet when I got to the edge of the fenced-in mound. I thought that rodents were tunneling near the mound, since they're almost abundant around there, then my foot would only sink in one place. That wasn't the case though, the snow hadn't melted and the ground was supposed to be frozen. But it felt more like it had down poured all day and turned to mud that would squish under your feet with every step. I didn't think too much about it though, I was too focused on taking images with my DSi.

Then things began to pick up. I don't think my ears were deceiving me when I heard a faint song, a hymn echoing in the approaching night. I could feel the slight chill run up and down my spine like a small avalanche collapsing. Stay calm, stay calm...I kept telling myself that phrase over and over again, though my mind and body weren't on the same page. Already, I was shaking; how pathetic!

I look a shaky, deep breath before I managed to utter, "Who is singing?" I got no answer, and the echoing song faded. It was calm for a bit, nearly peaceful. But it never was peaceful here, I'd soon understand that.

I was about to go home, where my apartment was on the other side of the village. Though, the sound of a humming child stopped me in my tracks, coming from behind me. My arms only shook worse; if you saw me, I'd be shivering as if I were in the arctic without a coat. Or, a better visual; Scooby Doo after seeing a 'monster'. I didn't know what I should do, so I turned to face the sound.

There was a light mist over the mound, almost like smoke but not quite. It was almost as if it had some sense of a form; small, thin, human. As I stared, it took more and more of a definitive shape, that of a little boy. The impression of dark eyes staring into mine, sad and full of grief, his black hair caked in blood, the deerskin clothes had a few blood splatters too. He must have been one of the victims...

The figure suddenly vanished. I felt a terrible pain in my head, up around my scalp. My hands would have reached up to the pain, but I was scared still. I couldn't move; not an arm, not a finger, not a single blink. My blood felt cold when a bitter blast of wind blew through me, though the air was calm everywhere else. I stood there for a minute that felt like an eternity, before I could finally snap out of my terror.

Needless to say, I was never much of a runner, but I ran all the way home that night, hearing a whisper in my ear as I exited the fence of the historical site. I don't go there anymore as I don't live in the town now, but I'd never forget what happened that day. The morning after the incident, the caretakers found a bloody bone sticking out of the ground near where I had stood. My footprints where I was standing had a dark red hue to them, almost as if the ground was soaked in the Native Americans' blood.

Take care in learning about the place you live in. It may be of help to avoid such things happening to you, before it's too late. Why am I saying this? Let me explain for you, the town's founding history.

Despite its looks and peace, the town was forged in death. In the late 18th century, the land was owned by a tribe of peaceful missionaries and Native Americans who had converted to Christianity, Moravian to be specific. However, other tribes allied with the British forced them out of their homes and villages scattered around. Two of the missionaries were taken to Detroit under charges of treason, though they were acquired. The Native Americans, though, had a more gruesome fate in store.

They were starving some time after they were held captive in a single town, as their rations were running dangerously low. Over 100 of them escaped back to their respective villages to harvest their crops and gather stored food they were forced to leave behind. While this was going on, and the 160 Pennsylvania (headed by Lieutenant Colonel David Williamson) rounded the group up and accused them of being the culprits in the raid. Of course, the Native Americans refused the accusation, but Williamson didn't listen, and were instead convicted by a counsel they held. The decision was to kill them. Some left, not wishing to take part in such an act, one being reminded of a similar incident he'd witnessed.

The Native Americans were thrown into two houses; one for the men, one for women and children. They sang hymns all through the night, as they asked for time to prepare for death. That next morning, on March 8th, 90 to 99 men, women, and children were tied up in the 'killing houses', stunned, and killed with scalping cuts. Only two boys managed to live and tell the tale. No murder charges on the militia were ever made, and now it is known as either the Gnadenhutten Massacre or the Moravian Massacre.

I don't ever wish to see that again, but I know I will. Things like that never leave anyone, they always will haunt me.