April Slaughter (19 page)

“Those bowls have started singing on their own too,” said Debi. “It has happened about four times now that I can recall, and it’s always when I am the only one here to hear it and the mallet is sitting on the counter nowhere near them.”

I half-jokingly asked if T.J., the elderly little dog, ever seemed to react to anything strange.

“Actually, yes,” she said. “He used to do this very specific little dance just for Gean when she was alive that he’ll occasionally do when there is no one else but me around. I’ll catch him looking off somewhere doing that funny dance. He never does it for me; he only did it for her.”

Crystals Rock Shop is another one of those little unexpected finds—a place you’d never think of when you hear stories of paranormal happenings. While it cannot be proven that the collection of rocks and gemstones in the shop attract paranormal activity, it certainly seems plausible given the spiritual power that many of the specimens are thought to possess.

Debi loves and maintains the rock shop, but she is convinced that she is not the only one making sure the business runs as it should. She believes that the spirit of her dear friend Gean is still an important presence in her life and in the lives of all of those who visit the quaint little shop.

WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, my parents often thought it was strange of me to request a visit to the local cemeteries rather than playgrounds or parks. I have always been fascinated with them and find walking among the headstones to be a relaxing and tranquil experience.

My favorite cemeteries are those that seem to have been forgotten or neglected, as they have a mysterious character about them. I am drawn in by their uniqueness and the colorful histories they possess, oftentimes unknown by most people. I make a point to read the names of those that are legible on each headstone, and I feel a bit of sadness for those that are not. If a name is covered in debris, I will stop to brush it away. It is something I have always done, and my own special way of paying my respects.

As far back as I can remember, I have heard countless stories of haunted cemeteries wherever I have traveled, and Texas
is no exception. In my experience, however, I think people tend to label cemeteries as haunted simply because of their obvious association with death; a subject that creates fear in many. People like to be scared, even if only briefly, and cemeteries often provide the perfect setting for such an experience.

Allen and I recently made a trip out to east Texas to visit several locations, including Dabbs Cemetery, a place I had learned about via the Internet. According to an article written by Bob Bowman, east Texas historian and author, a man once mistaken for dead was buried alive in the cemetery, only to dig his way out a short time later. It is said that he made his way to a nearby home, where he then died. In an effort to ensure that he would not be able to escape his grave a second time, the locals constructed a cage of wooden stakes directly above his burial site. No evidence of who this man was or where the grave might be exists today, but locals still tell the story and believe that he may be one of many restless spirits seen roaming about the grounds at night.

Several people I spoke to about the cemetery believe that being on the grounds after dusk can have dire consequences and consider any amount of time spent there as a rite of passage. A young local woman told me that she and a group of high school seniors had taken a trip to the vicinity shortly after graduation. As they approached the cemetery that evening, the students saw the apparition of a woman in a white dress floating above the ground carrying a lantern. They did not dare to venture any closer and quickly vacated the area.

Shadowy figures are said to dart about the headstones at night, moving far more quickly than a living human could and causing anyone visiting the cemetery to leave within minutes of arriving.

In my research, I had also read that Dabbs Cemetery was racially segregated and had been ever since it was established in the mid 1800s. I had never heard of this practice until I began traveling around the southern part of the United States. Apparently,
it was fairly common to keep the African-American burial grounds separated from the Caucasian.

My journey to Dabbs Cemetery was an interesting one, as the directions I found were a little confusing. The cemetery was not in the middle of town; instead, it was reached by traveling unpaved back roads. The drive was gorgeous, and it was fun for my husband and me to travel off of the beaten path looking for this supposedly haunted graveyard.

As we pulled up, my attention was immediately drawn to the African-American side of the cemetery. The entrance was unmarked and there was nothing to indicate that anyone had been in that particular section to take care of the grounds in months, if not years. There was no gate; only a simple gravel entry from the road. I could not make any sense of the layout, as many of the headstones and grave markers were not arranged in any organized fashion. Some areas had no markers at all, though I suspect that graves are probably located in them. It made my heart ache to think that some people may not have had a proper burial at all, but were simply placed in the ground and forgotten.

The Caucasian side of the cemetery was easily viewable from the African-American side, but was sectioned off by a chain-link fence. The plots were neatly manicured, with flowers and trinkets placed at many of them. There was a large metal sign with the name of the cemetery adorning the gated entrance. A pavilion sat nearby with picnic tables available for visitors. The stark contrast between the two sides added to my sense of sadness.

As I wandered around the unkempt side of the cemetery in the daylight, I had the overwhelming feeling that Allen and I were not the only ones present. There wasn’t anyone else around, but the area felt crowded to me. I routinely visit places known to have paranormal activity and I have become fairly used to the different sensations that can occur when I am in the presence of something unseen. I feel alerted, slightly more aware of my
surroundings. It wasn’t frightening at all, and I mentioned the feeling to Allen.

“Do we have a digital recorder with us?” I asked.

“We have one in the car. I’ll go get it,” he said.

Allen quickly returned with the recorder and switched it on. I knew it would be difficult to hear anything upon playback if there was much movement, so we kept still for awhile.

“My name is April and this is my husband, Allen,” I said. “We thought we’d come out for a visit today. Is there anyone here with us that is willing to say hello?”

Neither of us heard anything out of the ordinary as we stood listening for a response. Upon playback of the recording, however, what sounds like a small girl’s voice answers with an emphatic, “Hello!”

Less than five minutes into the recording, we also heard a male voice with a heavy southern drawl speaking.

“How y’all doing?” he asked.

A lot of people interested in researching the paranormal will often conduct sessions of recordings to review later for possible EVP capture. At times, I find it best to make statements and ask questions, pause, and then immediately play the recording back to see if I have obtained a response. This helps me to maintain a two-way conversation as best I can when someone is possibly trying to communicate with me. I imagine it must be frustrating for those on the other side to be engaged in a conversation and not have their statements or questions immediately acknowledged while we expect responses to our own. If you spoke to someone who refused to talk to you, you would most likely stop trying and walk away. I didn’t want whoever was communicating with us to stop, and I was thrilled to hear them engaging us shortly after we started recording.

It is widely believed in the paranormal field that most phenomena occur in the nighttime hours, which has always baffled me a bit. Most of us (though not all) tend to be busy and carry out our activities during the day and then rest and recharge our energy supply at night as we sleep. I am not sure it is all that different once we depart this life for the next, and assume that any hour of the day or night could prove to be a worthwhile time for investigating. Some of my best paranormal experiences have happened in the daylight hours, so it is difficult for me to believe that it is necessary to wait for nightfall before attempting to encounter interesting phenomena.

The African-American side of the cemetery, though poorly maintained, was quite serene and peaceful as I walked among the graves audibly inviting anyone who wanted to join to walk along with us and talk. Allen and I walked in different directions at one point, and he approached a section of graves that were heavily covered in brush and fallen trees.

“April, come over here for a minute and look at these markers,” he said.

“Wow, I wouldn’t have even known they were here if you hadn’t found them,” I said. “I thought this was just a patch of woods back here.”

We stood quietly observing, and again we heard something interesting when we reviewed our recording. Several footsteps sounded as though they were quickly approaching the two of us. A soft voice muffled something we could not decipher and everything fell quiet. Nearly every time we paused to speak in hopes of a response in the cemetery, more footsteps were heard, and they certainly did not belong to either myself or Allen.

We decided that we should drive around to the cemetery entrance on the Caucasian side before heading out on the road. We spent about thirty minutes walking over the recently mown grass around the graves, but we were unable to hear or record anything while we were there. It had an entirely different feel to it, and not at all “crowded” like the other side had been.

I don’t believe that every cemetery is haunted, as people are already dead when they arrive there. It has always seemed to me that they serve more as a place for the living to remember those they have loved and lost, rather than as magnets for ghosts. There isn’t a doubt in my mind, however, that Allen and I were not the only individuals in the cemetery the afternoon of our visit to Dabbs. We had a ghostly visitor or two approach and engage us in conversation, even if only for brief moments at a time. Their footsteps and their voices are forever captured on our recording. It is my hope that on a visit in the very near future, I will not only be able to hear their voices again, but to see their faces and perhaps understand why they still walk the lonely landscape of Dabbs Cemetery.