Halloween is the time of the year to unravel tales of hauntings and mischief in the most dark and desolate of places. It is a time to challenge yourself and your bravery.
And that is what I did.
Over the past two weeks, I traveled to a few of the most popular locations around Muncie and Bloomington for an amateur investigator to get a scare: the grave of a long-gone American icon, a cemetery where the dead are said to roam freely and a lonely, little iron bridge just outside of civilization.
These all seemed like excellent ideas to satisfy my inner Sherlock Holmes.
JAMES DEAN’S GRAVE
Park Cemetery in Fairmount, Ind., is the final resting place of the man who epitomizes all that is and ever will be “cool” — James Dean.
Legend has it that whoever travels to the cemetery to pay their respects to the rebel without a cause must leave a cigarette on his tombstone as a gift. After the cigarette has been set on his tombstone, the visitor must turn around and if the visitor is lucky enough, the cigarette should disappear — or in the wildest of tales, it should be lit.
A friend and I decided to take on this legend to see if Dean would accept our offering of cigarettes.
Arriving complete with the tunes of Buddy Holly and The Polecats blaring out into the dead of night, we realized the real challenge might just be locating the grave itself. Then I remembered the grave was supposed to be near four primly cut trees.
“Alright, that’s easy enough,” my friend said. “Let’s see if this works.”
With our optimism bright, we set off to search for the storied grave.
After a few misdirections — there are many sets of primly cut trees — we finally located a grave that stood out from the rest of the pack. Not because of the tombstone itself, it was modest, only identifying the occupant and his life span, but because of the plethora of flowers and cigarettes that resided on Dean’s resting place.
I didn’t hesitate in the least bit, I quickly lit a cigarette for my own personal pleasure and then proceeded to offer Dean some of what I was smoking. Of course, for the ritual to be complete I had to turn my back to the grave. My back was turned for only a few seconds, before my companion said something to divert my attention.
“You HAVE to look at this,” my friend shouted. “I picked up this candle to light it, and your cigarette just rolled off. Logically, I would say it’s the wind.”
Any rational human would say it was the wind, or my companion was just pulling my leg. But the former can be debunked because the wind was minimal, and when it was present, it was blowing in a completely different direction and would have thrown the cigarette to the side of the tombstone instead of knocking it off directly in front of it.
For the sake of a noteworthy night, I have decided to believe Dean had something to do with it. The other explanations are rather unexciting anyway.
STEPP CEMETERY
Bloomington, Ind., is home to a chilly and desolate little graveyard known as Stepp Cemetery, a place of paranormal thrill. Tales of shadowed phantasms, cult rituals and offerings for the dead run rampant in this historical place that lies deep within the Morgan-Monroe State Forest.
But could I and a troupe of four experience some of the paranormal activity? Only a thorough romp through the cemetery would give us that answer.
Upon entering the cemetery, two things were instantly conceivable: an overwhelming sense of “someone is watching me” and nature had decided to tone down the audio, almost completely. It was an eerie place to be, indeed.
The first legend that presents itself in the cemetery is a hollowed-out tree that is supposed to inform you of your destination in the afterlife; you know, heaven and hell. My company and I all made trips into the tree, and none of us even sensed a whisper. OK, so this legend was not producing any chilling results for us, but we still had a few more to go.
Next up was the legend of baby Lester.
The legend of baby Lester involves a grave at the back of the cemetery. Tales say his mother roams in the shadows of the cemetery and lays claim to a stump near the grave to mourn the loss of her child. The visitors to this grave are encouraged to leave a little gift, and so we did. We submitted pennies, guitar picks and other various items to the grave, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ghostly mother. Other than the odd noise in the woods, we didn’t see nor sense any spirit in the woods.
While nothing paranormal happened during the exploration, there is a tombstone that garnered a few double takes. The tombstone, belonging to Richard Samuel Westfall, reads “Never at Rest.” All of us were bewildered at thought of a man leaving this on a tombstone. The prevailing thought was “What kind of guy puts that on his tombstone?”
A bit of research the next night would show Westfall was a highly respected academic and professor at Indiana University and wrote an Isaac Newton biography titled “Never at Rest,” a highly praised piece of work. So much for a malevolent spirit preying on unsuspecting visitors.
The trip to Stepp Cemetery ultimately proved unfruitful in gaining an otherworldly experience to spook us out of our bones. But the trip to this lonely cemetery was worth it, if only to experience an interesting piece of Bloomington history.
SPOOK’S CORNER
Spook’s Corner in Upland, Ind., has the name for some spooky, paranormal experiences, but sadly it was all talk.
The story goes that a bus full of school children crashed near an iron bridge and the children haunt the bridge to this day. But the most popular part is that if you drive your vehicle across the bridge at minimal speed, your vehicle will shut down and the voices of children can be heard.
It sounds like a cliché story, but I was not deterred.
A companion and I decided to give this a test. It sounded easy enough and the worst-case scenario would consist of a broken-down Chevrolet Cavalier with the ghosts of school children to keep us company. No pressure.
After driving to our desired location, we gave the legend a try.
I idled my car across the bridge, with the windows rolled down — yes, it would have been the perfect opportunity to play that Amos Lee single — and hoped for the best. Or maybe I should call it the worst, since a broken-down car would not make me a happy camper.
We made it across with no spiritual interference to slow us down.
“Well, let’s try going the other way,” my companion said. “Maybe going the opposite way will do the trick.”
Yes, do the trick — the one and only time a sane person will ever hope for vehicle failure.
So, as a good investigator should, I gave the opposite direction a try.
Still nothing.
No engine shutdown, no otherworldly voices. Nothing.
Unfortunately, this seems like just a legend. But maybe “Lady Luck” was not with me that night.
