Last Ghost at Gettysburg (11 page)

“So I went around, checking out the locker
room, the boy’s bathroom, the library. Finally I just poked my head
in the book storage room and there he was, sitting on a crate of
textbooks, hugging his knees under his chin, tears streaming down
his face. So then I had to convince him that he wasn’t a jerk, that
she
was the one who was losing out, and that if we didn’t
get back to Spanish class soon we’d both be in trouble. Finally, I
got him to come with me. We caught like the last five minutes of
the period. Miss Simoes was cool about it. She kinda knew what was
going on, and I think she couldn’t stand Kimberly LaFarge
anyway.

“Now, that should’ve been my good deed for
the day, but no, I took it upon myself to go ream LaFarge out in
front of her witchy posse. That led to Kim’s Joe-Jock
seventeen-year-old brother and his football buddies pushing me all
over the playground the following afternoon, which led to me
getting totally humiliated while Bortnicker was home running his
model trains.”

The last words were no sooner out of T.J.’s
mouth that LouAnne stopped short. He followed suit. “What’s the
matter?” he asked.

“You might not believe this, T.J.,” she said,
her eyes filmy, “but I’ve been in his position. Lots of times. And
in all those times I never had a friend stick up for me the way you
did for him.” She learned forward and kissed him on the cheek, as
light as a butterfly’s wing. And then she was off like a shot. T.J.
had to run double-time to make up the distance, a smile creasing
his face.

It wasn’t until they turned onto Seminary
Ridge that he realized they’d done almost five miles. He was
definitely improving. By the time they’d finished their post
stretch in the front yard it was raining softly and the wind was
picking up. Incredibly, Bortnicker was elbow-to-elbow with Aunt
Terri at the kitchen counter, slicing bananas into a heaping bowls
of cereal for the cousins and gossiping like old friends.

“You’re up? At this hour? What gives,
Bortnicker?” said T.J.

Holding a serving spoon aloft his friend
said, “Must be the country air. I felt inspired this morning. Guess
I under slept by a few hours.”

“He even helped me feed the chickens,” said
Terri, pouring them some orange juice. “Now go shower so we can
have some breakfast together.”

Some minutes later, they sat around the
breakfast nook table, Bortnicker grinning broadly as he sipped from
his ice cold glass of milk. “T.J. and I have a big day ahead,” he
quipped with a wink. “He’s gonna show me some of the museum stuff
he’s been soaking up.”

“Yeah, Aunt Terri, could you drop us in
town?” asked T.J.

“Sure, boys. I’ve got to head over to the
hospital anyway. One thing’s for certain. We’ve got enough museums
in this place to take up a week of rainy days.”

T.J. shot Bortnicker a look over his
cornflakes, and his friend smiled back. Though it was true they
were going to log some museum time this morning, their ultimate
goal today was to pay a visit to Gettysburg’s most famous ghost
hunter.

* * * *

It was clear from the first moment that the
Visitor Center and Bortnicker were made for each other. If T.J. had
allowed it, they would have spent the entire morning, but
Bortnicker grudgingly agreed to a preliminary walk-through with
more in-depth excursions to come in subsequent days. Then, Uncle
Mike wangled a couple seats on a VIP mini-bus tour for some
national scholarship winners on the condition that Bortnicker stay
as quiet as a mouse. The boys were treated to a first class tour of
the battlefield that was far more detailed than T.J.’s tour bus
trip.

* * * *

“Now listen,” cautioned T.J. as they walked
up Baltimore Street toward South, “We’re visitors here. Try not to
say anything insulting or outrageous, okay?”

“Who, me?” said Bortnicker innocently, wiping
a little mayo from his deli sandwich off his lip. “Wouldn’t think
of it.”

But when he started singing “Doctor Wu” under
his breath, T.J. could sense he was in true Bortnicker mode,
wondering aloud if Elway was crazy, high, or just an ordinary
guy.

The headquarters of Gettysburg Official
Haunted Tours was a pale yellow clapboard house on the corner of
South and Baltimore. It had a tidy front yard surrounded by a low
white picket fence at whose base tiny pink flowers bloomed. If not
for the understated Old English-style sign in the front yard that
proclaimed “Gettysburg Official Haunted Tours, Carlton Elway,
Proprietor” with a contact number, one would never know he’d found
the paranormal nerve center of Gettysburg.

T.J. and Bortnicker stood at the gate under a
golf umbrella Aunt Terri had lent them. They looked at each other.
“You sure this is the guy we want to see?” asked T.J.

“Are you kidding? Even if all this stuff
wasn’t going on I’d want to meet this guy. I’ve watched his
documentaries a hundred times. If his findings are true, your
soldier isn’t the only spirit gallivanting around this place.”

“Okay, but listen. Don’t tell him anything
about what happened to me, or that guy Weinstein. Let’s see if our
guy comes up in discussion.”

“Leave it to me, Big Mon,” assured
Bortnicker. “Just follow my lead.”

They entered the house, a bell tinkling to
signal their arrival. An overweight girl with teased hair in her
mid-teens sat behind a counter reading a paperback, her gum
rhythmically snapping. She looked up to see her reflection in
Bortnicker’s oversized glasses.

“First tour’s not till 6:00 P.M.,” she said
dully.

“But we’re not here for a tour, not yet,
anyway. My friend and I are from the Bridgefield High School
newspaper, and—”

“The what?”

“Oh, excuse me. We’re from Bridgefield High
School in Connecticut, and we’ve come a long way to interview Mr.
Carlton Elway for our school newspaper. You see, many students in
our school are interested in the paranormal, and Mr. Elway’s TV
specials are quite popular. So, it’s natural that we do a story on
him.” He suddenly produced his tattered notebook and a pencil as
T.J. wandered off to a far wall that was filled with cubby holes of
travel brochures for the local attractions. “Now, I wouldn’t want
to leave you out of the article, so would you be so kind as to give
me your name?”

In response, she pointed to the plastic tag
pinned to her Gettysburg Official Haunted Tours golf shirt that
read “Tiffany.” She never stopped snapping her gum.

“Yes, Tiffany,” said Bortnicker, dutifully
recording her name in the notebook. “That’s great. Now, is Mr.
Elway available?”

“You’ve found him,” said an elfin, bearded
man with thinning brown hair and twinkling eyes as he casually
leaned against the doorjamb of a background office.

T.J. sidled up alongside Bortnicker, still
playing the role of cub reporter, who said, “Mr. Elway, it’s truly
an honor. We represent—”

“I heard you from my office, son. You two can
come on back. And Tiffany, a shipment of Part One DVDs just came
in. Could you restock the shelves in the gift shop and please check
the hoodie sweatshirts? I think we’re low on size small.”

She slowly nodded, folded back a page corner
in her paperback, and waddled off to the side room that served as
the gift shop.

The boys sat down across from Elway’s desk
which was cluttered with books, ledgers and a personal computer.
Elway settled into his well-worn office chair and rearranged some
papers. “I’m sorry about Tiffany. She’s not the most, ah, ambitious
member of my staff. Actually, the woman who handles the weekday
early shift is home sick today. We have a small staff of ten guides
who handle our tours. All are well-versed in the town’s history and
the battle, and we pride ourselves on being the most authentic of
the tours. We even wear period clothing, as uncomfortable as that
might be, to help transport our customers back to the 1860s. Now,
what can I do for you boys?”

“Well, sir, I’m Bortnicker—”

“Bortnicker?”

“Yes, sir, with a B, and this is my friend
T.J. He’s the nephew of Mike Darcy.”

“The park ranger?”

“Right. We’re visiting from Connecticut and
would like to ask you some questions about your business. Would
that be okay?”

“Well,” the man smiled, displaying uneven,
yellowing teeth, “as long as I don’t have to disclose any trade
secrets. There is a lot of competition for the tourist dollar in
this town, you know.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” answered
Bortnicker.

“Our questions are paranormally related,”
said T.J.

“Well, I’ll answer what I can. Now, what made
you come to me?”

“Mostly your documentaries,” said Bortnicker.
“I’ve watched them numerous times, and I know them pretty much by
heart.”

“You’re very kind. So what do you need me
for?”

“Well,” said Bortnicker, searching the
ceiling for the right words, “what would lead the average TV viewer
to believe that all the stories you tell are authentic, and not a
lot of hooey?”

The ghost hunter regarded the bespeckled boy,
his eyes narrowing a bit. “That’s a fair enough question. Let me
try to answer it without being too verbose.

“I majored in history at the University of
Maryland after growing up not two miles from this spot. Throughout
my childhood I heard tales from different townspeople, including my
parents, about sightings on and around the battlefield. This made
me concentrate on Civil War studies at Maryland, and led me back
here. At the time jobs were scarce, so I took a position at the wax
museum in town and started putting together some of the stories I’d
heard for a book on Gettysburg paranormal phenomena.

“Well, just from casually asking around, the
tales started piling up. Townsfolk, tourists, rangers, lots of
people were seeing things that had no plausible explanation. From
orbs flying around the cemetery to ghost regiments marching in
broad daylight, to the sounds of voices and small arms fire in the
woods. Then there were all the private dwellings in and around town
that served as battlefield hospitals, places of untold suffering
and death in the days during and following the battle.

“So, I purchased really good film equipment,
as well as ultra-sensitive audio recorders, and went all over the
place shooting footage and recording sounds at all the sites I’d
heard about.”

“Even at night?” T.J. cut in.

“Well, that’s a touchy subject,” said Elway,
one eye closing a bit. “As the nephew of a battlefield park ranger,
I’m sure you’re aware that nobody is allowed on the grounds after
dark. But I have gotten some images at dusk and dawn that are quite
interesting.”

“I’ll say,” said Bortnicker. “But not only
outdoors. I remember in Part Two when you investigated the report
of a Union soldier gliding down the stairs of some woman’s
home—”

“That was Part Three, actually, but yes, she
had seen such an apparition. Too bad it wouldn’t manifest itself
for me, but I intend to keep trying. So far, I’ve only been able to
capture orbs, dark forms or milky shadows, though other people like
that woman have claimed to see soldiers plain as day.
Unfortunately, when they try to make contact the apparitions have
either vanished or walked away through walls or whatever. I’ve also
captured some disembodied voices, which was included in Part
Three.” He settled back further into his chair, tenting his fingers
before him as he spoke.

“As you may have learned from the
documentaries, there are two types of hauntings: residual and
intelligent. Residual hauntings involve a scene from the past
replaying itself like a film loop, over and over, with the spirit
or spirits involved being oblivious to their surroundings. That’s
how different people, including an entire tourist group from
Germany, could see soldiers marching through the Peach Orchard in
the dead of winter.

“The intelligent hauntings are far more rare.
That’s where a spirit or ghost tries to, in some fashion, make
contact with us in the present time.”

“Why?” asked T.J., inching forward.

“Well, most of those soldiers who died during
the three days of Gettysburg were young, or in the prime of life.
They were violently wrenched from this world way before their time.
Many were rolled into shallow graves, either whole or in pieces,
some to be subsequently reburied, others to be forgotten; that is,
if they weren’t dug up by scavenging animals. There are hundreds of
men out in those fields we don’t even know about. There might be
men buried in your Uncle Mike’s backyard, for all we know. Now, if
you were one of those poor souls, wouldn’t you want to tell someone
your story?

“But, little by little, the land does give up
its secrets.” Elway’s voice dropped to where it was barely above a
conspiratorial whisper. “Just a few months ago after a hard rain a
ranger conducting a battlefield tour spied a shin bone protruding
from the ground out near the railroad cut, where there was some
heavy fighting the first day of the battle. A team of archeologists
investigated the site and unearthed an entire skeleton, minus the
bottom part of one leg, a tattered leather belt with cartridge box
encircling the skeletal waist. Yes, the dead are everywhere in this
place.

“Anyway, to get back to the business, I got
my book published locally, which led to some national recognition,
and other books. Then, somebody from the History Channel contracted
me and asked if I had enough footage to help fill out a one hour
program. I said sure, if they could supply actors and reenactors to
help tell the story of each vignette.

“The rest, if you’ll pardon the pun, is
history. There are now three installments of the documentary that
are regularly aired on TV and sold on DVD via the Internet and just
about every tourist shop in the state of Pennsylvania. The capital
that’s generated has enabled me to begin, and then expand, our
ghost tour business. During the warmer months we’re booked solid
every night, seven days a week, with multiple groups operating
simultaneously. The explosion of paranormal investigation-type
shows on TV has only heightened the interest.”