Posted on 02/07/2026 9:10:02 PM PST by chickenlips
Americans love ghost stories. We may loath to admit it, but many of us secretly believe that haunted tales of things that go bump in the night are every bit as true as the more mundane facts of life, such as “the sky is blue.” We choose to believe them because they are fun and we enjoy feeling a little spooked from time to time, even though the better part of our judgment knows they cannot possibly be real. SNIP>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Though perhaps the most haunted place in America is neither a hotel nor a plantation, neither an abandoned insane asylum nor a cobble-stone alleyway hidden on a side street in an old New England city. It might well be an entire landscape, nearly 400 square miles of gorgeous and breathtaking but eerie and otherworldly terrain, in the heart of our country – a place where dinosaurs once roamed, where bison still roam, and where an infamous massacre left hundreds of women and children dead. SNIP>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Something about the Badlands has lingered with me to this day. Perhaps it was the oddly soothing feeling of its vastness. SNIP>>>>>>>
But there was a different feeling, deeper than the surface-level beauty. I was reading about the Badlands the other day, and discovered that I was not alone in feeling that the place was haunted. World-famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright traveled to the Badlands in 1935. He too was gobsmacked by the landscape and, in a letter to Robert D. Lusk, a local newspaper editor, he described it as an “endless supernatural world”:
(Excerpt) Read more at dailycaller.com ...
I got robbed at gunpoint in the French Quarter in 1976. When I die, maybe my ghost can go get my money back from vile POS who robbed me, but he’s probably long since dead.
BFL
"A blog dedicated to documenting through primary sources, the Army's actions at Wounded Knee."
Includes pictures of the officers and most of the Muster lists and First Hand Written accounts. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From the Omaha Bee, the death announcement of Indian Scout Little Bat, who was present at Wounded Knee.
(Written with 1890s newspaper rhetorical excess...)
“Little Bat” at Wounded knee....
“Little Bat’s” last prominent field service was in connection with the Sioux campaign of 1890-91. When Big Foot’s band was corralled at Wounded Knee creek by the Seventh cavalry he doubted the sincerity of the Indians, who had promised to surrender formally on the following day. He told Colonel Forsyth of his fears. The night passed without incident. With the break of day the camps of the troopers and soldiers were astir. Breakfast over, an order was issued that the redskins surrender their arms. This they refused or at least did not do. Thereupon they were commanded to stand in line and submit to a thorough search, as it was “Little Bat’s” belief that the weapons were concealed beneath the folds of the savages’ blankets.
The search had not begun when a medicine man, an aged rascal freshly painted for trouble, slipped before the lines of Indians and those of the soldiers. He began a chant which was full of meaning to “Little Bat.” It was the Sioux’s death song. That a tragedy was at hand there could be no doubt in the mind of this seasoned scout.
In vain did he try to catch the eye of his colonel, who was at the extreme end of one line. Suddenly the medicine man stooped, picked up a handful of snow and sand and flung it high in the air, at the same time ceasing his chant with a shrill cry.
“Look out!” yelled “Little Bat” to the soldiers, but before they could raise their carbines a murderous fire was turned upon them from the two columns of savages. For a moment or more the troopers were in a panic. They knew not which way to turn, so sudden was the attack. But the tide of battle was quick to turn and within thirty minutes over 200 dead and wounded Indians lay upon the field. Of the troopers thirty-five, including brave Captain Wallace, were killed outright and twice as many more were disabled—an awful penalty to pay for attaching so little importance to the suspicions of so experienced a scout as “Little Bat.” Garnier got out of the cross-fire of troops and savages by crawling on his hands and knees to an elevation where a four-inch gun was planted. Here he lay pumping his Winchester into the Indians as they fled for cover in the draws of the hills.
Since the campaign of 1890 the scout has been a familiar figure about Crawford, Chadron, Hay Springs and Oelrichs. He seldom got farther east than Valentine, which is near the Rosebud reservation. The meager press reports of his death show that he was slain by a saloon manager or bouncer. It may have been brought about by a quarrel over monte. “Little Bat” enjoyed the confidence of Generals Crook, Terry, Carr, Merritt and Miles and next to Frank Grouard was the foremost scout in the army. He was not a relative of Baptiste Pourier, who is known as “Big Bat” and who enjoys some distinction as a scout."
I do not go out into rural places much anymore since I am getting older. When younger and I did I felt anxiety that usually resulted from imagining that I was someplace I had never been, or was in a car low on gas or prone to breakdowns,
Sometimes sunsets or landscapes strike us as oppressive or threatening, and a lot of that originates in our minds. (As does beauty.) Some early Church fathers posited that some souls were unable to free themselves from their material lives. Can we sense them if they do? Based on the reports of other people I think sometimes we can.
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