Orbs.

What is this? Is it an orb, of the kind the Ghost Hunters† are always seeking? Or is it a conveniently place flying object, of a dust-mote sensibility?

On Wednesday night, Brooke, Jenna, and myself, armed with chocolate-chip cookies and red wine, put ourselves in the enviable position of seekers of the paranormal (I say "enviable" with confidence because you and I both know you wish you had been there). We spent several hours, four in fact, sitting in a cell in the Old Greensboro Gaol, built in downtown Greensboro GA in 1807. We made it until midnight, when our rear-ends had had just about enough of paranormal scouting for the night. I almost finished my knitting project (which shall remain a secret for a bit, since it's a gift to be mailed today), and Jenna read some lovely Latino/a short stories, one of which is rather appropriately titled: "The Night the Lights Went Out." We made a unanimous decision that reading that particular tale out loud was not the best option in the spooky jail cell.

So, about this place. It's a two-story, granite, well, I can't exactly say "monolith," though the two-foot-thick walls certainly project fortitude (ya' like that, IRD teachers?), but perhaps stronghold? Small citadel? According to the brochure, the prisoners were apparently hung, rather than hanged, and OH how it hurts the grammarian of my heart - even as it provides rather ridiculously easy fodder for gutter humor. I like this description of their demise better (an actual detail from the Historical Marker just outside): "When the hangman pulled the lever that controlled the trap door, the culprit was...


Upstairs, to the far left, dangles a noose . . .

And, once the Executioner, a.k.a. the County Sheriff, pulls the lever attached to the stairs . . .

so does the prisoner. Dangle, that is. Down this hole.

(See that bright light? I think that must be eternity.)

Aside from that, the prisoners of this squat edifice made a home in either one of two ground floor cells, less than 2 feet from the main door, behind gridded iron doors, and had no windows or privy. Heavy iron chains are attached to the wall, "just in case." The rickety, unnerving stair to the second floor is to the right of the door, 6 steps up, pivot, 4 more...and you're facing the noose, dead (ha) ahead. To your right, from the top of the stairs, is the penthouse: a larger cell, usually reserved for the non-violent criminals. Like child molesters. I kid you not.


I took this shot facing the door, as the "chandelier" lights glinted with only the reflection of sunlight from the two top-floor windows, and the darkness encroached from the corners. Jenna had my back as I took this, and the other shots, while Brooked manned the light switch downstairs. I shouted "Off!" and the world went dark. I shouted "On!" rather hastily, as I got each shot and started to feel my neck hairs prickle as the dark crept close.

This upstairs cell is probably the only area of the Old Gaol that felt like anything at all. The air was weighty, even while the sun was up, and its stuffiness seemed like more than the usual summer heat in a closed space. It was difficult to breathe, and I definitely didn't like it. I politely asked the whatever-may-be-up-theres to show themselves, if they liked, because I am fascinated by them and don't want to disturb them. I don't know if "they" exist in that place, and much less if "they" made an appearance, but I did get that seeming "orb" just after my request. Granted, I was standing directly in front of a working floodlight, aimed at the ceiling, so it's probably weak evidence. Interesting, nonetheless.

The three of us gradually became more and more comfortable with the place, especially as we practiced our own variations of "whistling in the dark." We all chatted sporadically, Brooke enjoyed her Esquire, Jenna laughed at her reading, and I shifted any nervousness I had towards the open door to the building, watching for pranking teenagers or more questionable visitors. The only visitation we experienced as we sat in the musty, hot cell downstairs, was a black cat. I caught a glimpse of a twisting shadow outside, and then the glint of green eyes in the dark beneath the trees. He ran away before we could get over to him, but it was a rather appropriate high point to our night.

No EVPs, no shadows, no electromagnetic readings. Just three women enjoying a steamy summer night in an old Georgia gaol, half-hoping for a spooky experience, half-relieved that all stayed quiet on the paranormal front.

And then...




~~

† See also: TAPS official website, and the Georgia Ghost Hounds. Yeah. I'm a nerd. You knew this.

§ No Jennas were actually harmed in the making of this blog.