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Michael Medved slept overnight at Gettysburg once (decades ago) and has spoken of his account of seeing ghosts there.

From Michael Medved’s book Right Turns about his ghostly encounter at Gettysburg:

On another occasion, I impulsively hitchhiked to western Pennsylvania with a lovesick fellow freshman who wanted to visit his girlfriend near Pittsburgh; along the way, we slept on the battlefield of Gettysburg. A farmer in the vicinity had dropped us off on a dark, lonely road (Highway 15) after eleven at night. We walked more than two miles across fields and pastures to the border of the Gettysburg National Military Park, looking for a place to camp for the night. Only briefly discouraged by the elaborate fencing and numerous signs that ordered “No Trespassing” and “No Camping, we clambered through the wooden rail and barbed-wire barriers that protected the federal land and what Lincoln had called “this hallowed ground,” On a chill, hushed, moonless November night, we marched over the famous battlefield, climbing up behind the key Federal position of Little Round Top where so many determined Confederates lost their lives. In fact, more than fifteen thousand young Americans on both sides were reported killed or missing, with nearly fifty thousand total casualties in the three-day battle—a fact I foolishly recalled to my already queasy pal as we tramped along Cemetery Ridge. We began to sense shadowy, larger-than-life military figures looming out of the misty night on all sides of us—part of the statuary on the monuments to the various regiments and states who participated in the great struggle in 1863. “This is creepy. It’s horrible,” my friend said with a shiver. “We shouldn’t be here at all.”

He was right, of course, but I argued that at this point we had no choice but to throw down our sleeping bags and try to pass the time till dawn. We tramped over damp, frosty grass to within sight of the Pennsylvania Memorial—a huge, four-story Victorian monstrosity with cannon and sentry statues, multiple columns, soaring arches, and a dome, all of which seemed to offer some sense of protection or reassurance. Nevertheless, sleep remained completely out of the question as we exchanged hushed, frightened words with the sleeping bags drawn up to our eyes. The noises we heard all night could connect to rational explanations—birds, owls, foxes, raccoons, deer, or other creatures that might normally wander through open country. The visual shocks made far less sense, however: about 4 a.m., shivering and shuddering and trying to catch some sleep, we both suddenly sensed moving figures not more than thirty yards away. “Do you hear that?” I hissed, grabbing his arm. My friend pulled his head deep into the sleeping bag and tried to cover his ears, but I propped myself up on my elbows, peering through the darkness and felt my blood race when I saw a small squadron of uniformed figures—perhaps eight of them, not more than a dozen—carrying weapons and running at full tilt along the ridge. They looked gray and shadowy, but notably lighter (almost illuminated, in fact) than the gloomy mist behind them, before they careened out of view in about six seconds.

Of course, Civil War reenactors love the battlefield at Gettysburg, and their costumes and equipment often look chillingly authentic. But why would a group of modern-day history buffs and weekend warriors suddenly turn up at four in the morning, running away from the Pennsylvania Memorial and disappearing into the silence within seconds? We remained too terrified to talk and waited through the excruciating minutes until the dawn—which was announced ahead of time by the mournful lowing of some cows that must have been let of of their barn by a farmer behind the ridge. At first light we jumped up, threw together our packs, and ran in panic from the haunted battlefield.

Though I never shivered through any further ghostly visitations, I continued to spend the great majority of my free time on sporadic, largely unplanned voyages of discovery and exploration.