Some places don’t need ghosts to feel haunted. I recently visited Lake Delton’s Dawn Manor Speakeasy. Walking up to the entrance, diners are greeted by historic gargoyle-like stone statues. These weathered guardians once graced Dawn Manor when Helen Raab owned it. I picture the passionate arts patron and world traveler, who died in 1970, walking inside with me to see how it’s come back to life.

Sites—especially those rich in history—have a way of stirring emotions. The most powerful experience I’ve had was standing on the deck of the USS Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor. The air felt heavy, and the harbor water stretched dark and fathomless, holding both stillness and sorrow. Although many people were there, all stood respectfully silent. A deep sadness washed over me as I thought about the lives lost beneath those waters. Visiting battlefields, forts, or sacred places can bring that same quiet ache—a mix of gratitude, sorrow, and reverence.

One of those places for me is the Kingsley Bend Indian Mound Wayside, just south of the Dells—a sacred site that invites quiet reflection. The Ho-Chunk Nation, who now care for the land, call it an important cultural and spiritual place and welcome respectful visitors. The historical marker explains the mounds are representative of those built by the Effigy Mound Culture between A.D. 700 and 1000. Some mounds contain a single burial; others may hold a dozen. Standing there, I feel a sense of time stretching backward beyond imagination. These historic mounds have endured more than a thousand Wisconsin winters. It’s up to us to make sure they can exist for a thousand more.

As the wind rattles the leaves, I’m reminded of the “Seven Generations” philosophy—a guiding principle encouraging us to decide wisely, considering the impact they will have on those yet unborn. The breeze lifts up a flurry of dry leaves, and in an instant, they are gone.

Time reshapes both land and people. Visiting Newport Park by River’s Edge or strolling along the River Walk and viewing the Wisconsin River inspires images of what the Dells was like when it was a thriving lumber town. As Others Before You: The History of Wisconsin Dells Country by the Dells Historical Society points out, between 1814 and 1848, lumbering grew rapidly. It’s easy to imagine the sight of men on timber rafts floating along with the logs, their voices echoing across the water. Shouts of “Rapids ahead!” or “Grab your peavy hook—we have a jam!” or “Here comes Devil’s Elbow!” play in my mind. Rafting was dangerous work. Many raftsmen lost their lives. It’s haunting.

I got a similar chilling feeling when my husband and I visited a cemetery that contained the graves of early loggers, settlers, and their children. Star Lake Cemetery, in Vilas County near Eagle River, holds many unmarked graves. We walked among rows of wooden crosses, the ground soft beneath our boots. A sign said “1894–1914” and listed twenty names, some as vague as “Baby Hanson.” What must it have been like to be a woman back then, to lose a baby—and maybe a husband too? In the lumber era of the late 1800s, Star Lake was a thriving city. Now, it’s a ghost town.

Every place has a heartbeat—whether it’s watchful gargoyles at a speakeasy, sacred water, burial mounds, or quiet cemeteries. This Halloween, I won’t need to take a ghost boat tour or visit a haunted mansion to stir emotions and send chills down my spine. History is haunting enough.