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Horror at Dakota Uprising

by
Eric Moen.  
November 30, 2014  

Minnesota Paranormal Investigators - No Charge to Investigate your situation.

 
Horror At Dakota Uprising

It is said that opposites attract. Such is not the case within the paranormal. Sinister attracts sinister. Torment begets torment. Past vile atrocities beckon present acts of torture. Evil exists and likes its own. This is the story of one such paranormal investigation that took place in a rural area of Minnesota cloaked in the dying season of a dark November night.

Fear. Empathy. Foresight. These, along with the sense of foreboding serve the experienced paranormal investigator better than any KII meter or voice recorder ever will; instincts are the true tools of the trade.

The history: One of the greatest acts of terror that has taken place in American history had occurred on the land of the house we were to investigate that November night. The Dakota Uprising of 1862. This war began in the Minnesota River valley in August of 1862 and ended in the mass execution of 38 Dakota men in Mankato Minnesota on December 26, 1862. The dwelling we were to investigate was rumored to house a family of three white settlers which were brutally killed by Native Dakota tribesmen somewhere within this time period of the mid 1800's.

The house is old. Built in the 1800's, it now stands vacant; without running water, without electricity. Only a wood burning vault affords any creature comforts for a tempestuous Minnesota climate. Standing there as a testament of time, stubbornly anchored into the Earth with its limestone foundation, foreboding and dark, the house stood before us.

Rumors of not so pleasant recent occurrences circulate amidst very few. Unspeakable things that shall remain unspoken of now. Some things are best left unsaid. However, if one listens carefully enough, voices can be heard. Pain, torment, and dire terror have their ways of being voiced. Silence is often broken in the stillness of the night. More will be revealed as this account unfolds.

The night was warm for November. The interior of the house was unusually colder than outside. Of course it was dark as there wasn't any lighting other than our flashlights. The old cliché of being watched was somewhat true, but the feeling of terror of was even greater. The feeling of pain and distress permeated the walls. Four of us entered the house. I say house as opposed to home, as the word home conveys being lived in. This house conveyed being died in. I could only imagine what had taken place within the tomb of this dwelling; both from the not too distant past as well as the recent. Upon doing a cursory walk through, we happened upon the basement door. One curious aspect about that door was the latch. It latched from the outside as opposed from the inside so as to lock things in the basement – prohibiting anything, or anyone, from emerging from the dark recesses of the limestone basement. Why was this? We could only conjecture. The rumors we were told began to gnaw at our psyches. What did this house have to tell us? Voice recorders were on.

We set up the equipment. Voice recorders and OuterRealm-Pods (energy detecting pods that signal approaching entities with lights and sound) were being used that night as there wasn't any power to set up the night vision cameras normally used on investigations. This location had such a sketchy past, and was in such an uncomfortable locale, that I was very hesitant to setting up an elaborate array of paranormal equipment anyway. I felt the urgency to leave in a rather hasty fashion that night. I did not like this house. I was fearing the living much more than the dead at this point. There was evidence of squatters as well as other trespassers in search of scrap materials inside the house. The last thing I wanted was an ugly confrontation with unwanted guests. At this point, I was literally in fear of my life.

We had built a fire in the stove to take the chill out of the air. Being ill versed in the ways of wood burning stoves, particularly ones that were fashioned out of 55 gallon oil drums, I quickly smoked us out. We had ventured out of the smoking interior to catch some fresh air. I decided to return inside the house and went upstairs by myself to absorb the energy (and smoke) of the house by myself. When the rest had returned, they were excitedly talking about mysterious lights in woods on the back side of the property. There was a trail in the woods, but who would be out walking through the woods at 1 am? The more peculiar aspect was that the lights disappeared as quickly as they appeared. Were these lights paranormal? Were they the uninvited living elements in search of a free night's lodging? Or scrappers looking to strip the house of its dignity? We would not find out.

As the rest joined me upstairs, visions of Hollywood horror movies scripts formulated in my mind. Scripts where paranormal investigators were brutally, slowly, butchered. Or was this residual pain that was seeping out of house's framework? Perhaps the EMF pump was exercising its influences upon the environment coaxing out past evil. Perhaps it was only an overactive imagination. The fear was palatable. We then left to explore other parts of the house.

The basement confined us, encased us, like that of being buried alive. Thoughts of buried bodies ran through our minds. Were the rumors true? Are there remains screaming out with lifeless voices speaking of horrific acts of brutality? Feeling totally trapped with all of us huddled within the bowels of the basement, one single, solitary, facet of the house occupied our thoughts: the outside lock on the basement door. We got the hell out of the basement.

A boy screams - crying out: “LET ME OUT!” This was the EVP we obtained on our voice recorder as we opened the basement door. This was what the house spoke to us that November night. Horror of a child being trapped.

The end

© 2015 Eric Moen of Midwest Outer Realm Followers Inc.