I love ghost stories. In fact, I dedicated an Sunday enterprise piece to a few local ghost hunters and the business that could be brought to several in-need historic sites, if they only marketed themselves as “haunted.”
Last night, the partner-in-crime and I had tickets for a historic ghost tour of downtown York. I couldn’t wait.
When we got there, the tour was, more or less, a history lesson with a few “…and this place might be haunted” statements tossed in.
Let’s just say I learned more about the Vatican-style domes on York’s old courthouse than the ghostly folklore I expected. No likey.
There’s nothing wrong with history. In fact, I love history. But I wanted to be spooked. It was Halloween, after all.
I started tweeting, but quickly became bored and giggly.
We snuck out mid-tour. We craved wine at the OffCenter Grill more than another lesson about William Goodridge, York’s very own ex-slave, turned barber, turned Underground Railroad conductor.
Then, for some reason, we decided to drive all the way to North Hopewell Township to visit the Hex House, where witch doctor Nelson Rehmeyer was murdered in 1928.
The bartender at the Yorktowne convinced us it was a good idea…
On the way, we drove through some questionable dirt roads, but it was truly nothing special.
Want to know the most exciting thing that happened on our adventure? A man overflowed a urinal at the Arby’s we visited in Shrewsbury for a nighttime snack.
Yep. That happened.
In a last ditch effort for a scare, we drove through the Prospect Hill Cemetery, where the partner-in-crime’s ancestors are buried.
There, I stubbed my big toe on a low lying headstone trying to get a picture for this blog.
Halloween just isn’t what it used to be, kids.