I’m hiking into the woods near my home in the Dells at night, feeling eyes on me. My mission is to see if I can get the resident barred owl to call back to me, an annual event that, to my family’s amusement, continually beckons me. The skeleton shadows, however, are creeping me out.
It doesn’t help that I recently participated in Baraboo’s ghost tour, a combination of local lore and ghost hunting. Our guides passed out ghost meters and dowsing rods, items unfamiliar to me. We used them as we crept around the dimly lit corridors and rooms of the original offices of the Ringling Brothers. When my ghost meter showed activity, the hairs on the back of my neck tingled. I won’t ruin the surprise in case you go, (https://www.barabootours.com/), but contact me and I’d be happy to share the videos and photos I got.
We also heard about the hauntings in the nearby buildings, some of which were once morgues. Our tour guide told a story about the area “poor house.” I was familiar with the expression “end up in the poor house” but I hadn’t considered that our area had one nearby. I did some research which painted an all too vivid picture.
According to https://bit.ly/4887w3A, the Sauk County Poor Farm and Insane Asylum near Reedsburg was established in 1871, had a capacity of 100, and cared for the poor and mentally ill. The inmates— that’s the term they used—farmed, quarried rock, wove rugs, and upholstered furniture. Our ghost tour guide told the story of how, after the poor farm was closed down, the people in charge of mowing the lawn removed over 30 grave markers. It might have made their job easier, but now these poor souls don’t even have a marker to claim they were on this earth.
One line still haunts me: “The right leg of Etta Burk, a Baraboo girl who is an inmate of the poor house, was amputated above the knee yesterday.” (July 13, 1904, The Baraboo News).
The night breeze with its whispers makes me run my sweaty palms down my pant legs. I look around for my owl hoping I can do my thing and return back home. I’d once brought my grandsons into these woods at night, and I’d told them a ghost story about an escaped convict on the loose. I might have been a bit overzealous, and I’m not sure their mother has forgiven me yet.
Walking in the depths of this valley, I feel tingles snaking down my back. I tell myself not to think about creepy things, especially my recent discovery of a dead fingers fungus photo Mark Roberts posted on Instagram, https://bit.ly/4h1Ff2J. I shiver again, just remembering it.
I shine my flashlight on the valley’s fern-covered rock structures. I had hiked this same walk in the daylight and taken a photo of a rock formation that resembled a face. I see it now. It looks much more sinister in the dark.
What’s that sudden flash of light? Am I hearing rattling chains? Echoing footsteps?
I’m too creeped out to go any farther. I’m going to accomplish my mission and get out of here. I cup my hands. “Who cooks for you?” I call. “Who cooks for you?”
Night closes in and my echo comes back. “I’m watching you. I’m watching you.”
I promptly turn around and hurry for home.
2 Replies to “I’m Watching You”
This was a fun article, Amy! Perfect for the season, too.
Thanks for being a faithful reader, Gayle.