Episode Transcript
[00:00:05] Speaker A: Good evening.
[00:00:06] Speaker B: I'm Ben and welcome to the show where you and I gather around this campfire to hear some of our fellow campers scariest experiences. Whether you're a new or returning camper.
[00:00:16] Speaker A: I am happy to have you. Tonight we will hear a very special.
[00:00:20] Speaker B: Story, a story that I have previously told to our camp counselors and founders as a bonus episode tonight, you're going to hear my story.
As always, before we begin the show.
[00:00:33] Speaker A: If you would like to check out.
[00:00:34] Speaker B: Our camp's bonus episodes, head over to patreon.com do you want to hear a ghost story? We'll gain early access to ad free episodes, get a shout out at the end of one, and much more. Now, without further ado, do you want to hear a ghost story?
[00:00:51] Speaker A: There isn't much to do in Bloomington Normal, a town situated halfway between Chicago and St. Louis, a suburb located in the middle of a cornfield hours away from the city.
It's not a place where ornate Victorian homes are plentiful. So it's no wonder that growing up, my friends and I would often find ourselves sitting around on park benches, staring off into the cornfields, wondering about who these people were who built our town's most impressive homes.
We often thought mostly of two buildings, the Duncan Manor and the David Davis Mansion. My encounter took place at the latter. During high school, I was assigned a project on David Davis, and I was asked to research his role in our local town history.
I had done all the research, learning how Davis was one of Abraham Lincoln's first and most prominent supporters, even running some of Lincoln's campaigns. Davis eventually went on to accept Lincoln's nomination to the Supreme Court.
But the story of David Davis that most intrigued me had nothing to do with the man himself.
Rather, it was the mansion he built. Known as Clover Lawn, it was built in the early 1870s, and as with many homes of its kind, it wasn't just a monument to history. It was a place where the past and present met.
According to a local ghost tour, the spirit of a young girl was said to haunt the building. Cold spots, whispers, and that general unnerving feeling of being watched were all reported by former employees.
Being an, let's say, adventurous high school sophomore, I decided to go and try to face this history myself around the holidays. The mansion used to run tours with guides dressed up in 1800s attire, and I signed up. The mansion was beautifully decorated for Christmas wreaths, garland, and that whole Victorian holiday vibe.
But despite the outward cheerful decorations, I couldn't shake that feeling that the air was just different inside the house.
The tour guide led us from room to room, explaining the history of the mansion and the Davis family. But I found that I couldn't quite focus on the tour.
Instead, I was constantly drawn to those dark corners in each room, the corners that the Christmas lights didn't quite light up.
Every now and then, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, as if someone was breathing on me or had just brushed up against me. But whenever I turned around, no one was there. But it was when we reached the second floor that everything became truly strange.
As soon as my foot hit the landing, the air felt thicker, almost as if the whole world was pressing down on me. The second floor hallway was stretched out in front of us, but it was dimly lit. The old portraits of the Davises were on the wall. I stared at David Davis as I walked past him, but there was something about this hallway. Maybe it was the way the candles flickered off the sconces, casting long dancing shadows. Or maybe it was the silence.
Silence that was unbroken except for the occasional creak of floorboards beneath our feet.
We walked past some closed bedroom doors, but when we walked past one, I thought I heard a faint rustling coming from the other side of the door.
So, standing at the back of the group, I paused, letting the group venture ahead, and I stood still, listening through the door.
The sound came again, like fabric was brushing up against the other side of the door. I stepped closer, moving my hand closer to the old brass knob. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, but something compelled me to stop and just listen. I pressed my ear against the door instead and held my breath. That's when I heard it.
A voice. A faint, almost barely a whisper coming from inside the room. It was a woman's voice, soft but urgent, as though she was trying to speak to somebody just out of reach, but didn't want to be heard by eavesdroppers. I couldn't make out the words, but it sent a chill down my spine.
I pulled away from the door, becoming aware of just how cold it had become. My breath misted out in front of me. Before I could take a step back and rejoin the group, the door punched open only an inch. It was just enough for me to see inside the room. It was really dark, but I could make out the shape of a bed, the old linens. And then something, or no, someone standing at the foot of the bed. It was only for a moment, but I saw her. She was in a long dress. She had her back turned to me and her Head was bowed slightly, as if she was praying. The air around her seemed to almost shimmer, and I again started hearing this whisper.
I took a step back, and the sound sent an echo down the hall. When I looked back at this figure, she had turned around.
Her face was pale, with deep, almost sunken eyes that seemed to stare straight into my soul. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. I shook my head and blinked, and she was gone. The door was fully shut.
I grabbed the handle, but the door was locked. It was as if the door never opened in the first place.
My hands were shaking when the tour guide came back to me. No lingering this way, please.
The guide began talking about this part of the house, how it was used as storage, and how servants would sometimes live around here out of sight of the Davis family. She mentioned the ghost of a young girl, but I was barely listening anymore. My mind was on the figure in that room, wondering if I had imagined it or if I'd seen the spirit. As the group moved onto the attic, I felt the temperature drop even further. The guide's voice became distant, like she was speaking from the other side of a really long tunnel. I again stood at the back of the group, trying to shake off that feeling that had settled over me. That's when I felt a cold touch on the back of my neck. It wasn't like before. It wasn't a fleeting breath. It was deliberate. It was a hand. I turned, half expecting to see someone standing beside me, but the space was empty. There was nothing. Only the dark. In that sense, that someone was watching.
To this day, I can still picture her watching me from the shadow of the house. Whether she was a ghost or just a trick of my mind, I'll never know for sure.
But I learned that the David Davis Mansion isn't just a house filled with history.
It's a place where the past never let go. When I handed in my report a few days later, my teacher asked me how my visit to the mansion was. I didn't know what to say, because after all, I wasn't sure if what I experienced was real or not. So I suppose in a typical high schooler fashion, I just jutted out. Yeah, it was cool, I guess.
But the truth is, the David Davis Mansion stays with me.
Not as a memory, but as a reminder that there are many things in this world that I don't and never will understand.
[00:08:34] Speaker B: Thank you so much for listening to my story. It's not one that I share with many people, and I am very happy that I got to share it here.
[00:08:42] Speaker A: For show announcements.
[00:08:44] Speaker B: I don't really have much to say other than thank you all for being here. I'm really glad to have you all as campers on this journey.
[00:08:51] Speaker A: Please keep sharing the show with anyone.
[00:08:53] Speaker B: You think might like these stories or someone you're just trying to scare. If you're enjoying it, go ahead and leave a review. I would love to hear from you. Until next time.
