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
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 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.