Ghost stories

In search of spirits and those who chase them

by Michael Koykka

I was on the phone with author Robert Ellis Cahill, discussing his research on Dudleytown, a haunted, abandoned town in Connecticut, featured in his book New England's Ghostly Haunts. "Today, I know of no brave ghost hunter who would dare to spend the night among the ruins of Connecticut's notorious ghost town, and as for me, I wouldn't visit Dudleytown again even in daylight hours." The strange thing was that somebody else seemed to be on the line, laughing at us. It wasn't coming from either of our houses. Just this eerie, hollow laughter. It cut off abruptly, and we joked about it nervously. I was intrigued.

You won't find Dudleytown on any map -- nature has reclaimed the entire town. What is left are a few insignificant cellar holes. Most people say the residents moved out because of poor farm land. Others say because of murder, madness, and ghosts.

Four brothers settled the area in the 1630s. Their great grandfather, Edmund Dudley, was beheaded by Henry VII for treason. Another relative, Thomas Dudley, was Governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, and enacted harsh punishments that would later result in the hanging of witches in Salem. Understandably, the four brothers only wanted some peace, and built a settlement in the remote hills of northern Connecticut.

Some peace. Each brother died a violent, mysterious death. One was massacred by Indians. Even so, Dudleytown began to prosper. By the time the Revolution broke out, it was home to General Herman Swift, advisor to General Washington. Swift went insane when he found out his wife was struck and killed by lightning in Dudleytown's hills.

Dr. William Clark, also a resident at the time, returned home to find his wife completely mad, ranting about ghosts and animal-like creatures. Another resident was found brutally murdered in the home of William Tanner, who went insane himself, telling others of the demons and ghosts that were responsible.

Nothing brings down property values like demons, so the residents moved out slowly over the next century. By 1892 only one man, John Brophy, was left. A streak of bad luck, including his wife's death (of unknown causes), the disappearance of his children, and the burning of his house, changed his mind.

Now skeptics may claim these tragedies were the results of nothing more than run-of-the-mill hard life. And stories tend to grow taller with each telling. Still, if there were spirits to be found, perhaps I'd find them there. My plan was to visit the site with a friend, Steve, and his faithful dog, Mandy, and record any unusual sounds. I had a cell phone in case I needed to call my wife, who was staying at a nearby hotel. Things didn't quite go as planned, however.

We arrived after dark, and immediately things got weird. Mandy was acting strange, jumping and kicking all the way up the treacherous road to the path. We got out, switched on our flashlights, and entered the woods.

Immediately we were floored by how dark it was. The sky was cloudy, and the trees covered any light that would have gotten through. The flashlights seemed pitiful against all that dark. Our eyes never got used to it.

More trouble later: the cell phone and portable recorder were both unusable -- the phone because of a lack of signal towers, the recorder . . . perhaps the "Radio Shack" logo on it had something to do with it. The phone worried me, though, because my wife had no way of knowing if we were okay, and I had no way of knowing if she made it to the hotel. Back down the mountain we hiked, looking for a pay phone. Two men dressed in black at midnight -- I thought the Phoenix would have to bail us out of jail the next day.

After returning to the tent, I listened to the night sounds. Frogs and crickets were all around us. Animals were walking right next to the tent. The flashlight batteries began to fail as I scribbled my notes. I could see my breath in the dim light.

A car approached on the dirt road about 1:30 a.m. We could see the headlights glow in the darkness. There was no reason for anyone to be out there -- the road went absolutely nowhere. This couldn't be good news. We stayed quiet and hushed the barking dog. I felt like barking myself. Somebody got out of the car, slammed the door. We were terrified at this point. They said something, perhaps they were shouting something. It had to be directed toward us. Police, maybe, or . . .

They got back in and drove away. I was shaking all over. My body wanted to fight or flee, but I just laid there shaking. This was already more fear than I had counted on. After that, I heard noises like an animal would, evaluating each for threat potential. Every snap of a twig sent a syringe full of adrenaline into my heart.

At one point I was absolutely certain I could see the shadow of a person's head on the tent. Never mind there's no light to cast a shadow with, never mind that it may have been the tent window. I could hear it walking, see the shadow move back and forth. I could hear it breathe.

Steve said sometime in the night he woke up and thought the tent roof was "glowing." He also said he heard a low sound coming from the ground, but acknowledged it may be his ears ringing. We were both hallucinating from lack of sleep.

Toward morning, different animals were making their presence known. I could hear birds, dogs, and what sounded to me like monkeys (?). Mandy became restless, growling like my stomach at every noise. A helicopter passed by overhead, and we considered the possibility they were looking for us.

I snapped some pictures -- the spot we chose was eerie, even in the morning light. Lots of vines and moss-covered granite. I was shaky from stress and lack of sleep. I came to see ghosts but went away with nothing but an uneasy feeling and some slightly strange phenomena to report. All in all, a typical day for a ghost hunter.

They say some of the residents of Dudleytown went insane up there. I must confess that several times during that long night the trip to insanity was closer than normal. Much closer.

On to part 2