Manifestations: Prospect Hill

A nonfiction piece about my experiences at a nearby battlefield.

            I used to bike along the mile and a half road that stretches deep into the woods, the one off of Lansdowne Road. Not anymore, though. I outgrew that bike. The road winds through the trees, built into a landscape of man made trenches and overgrown floras that scratch against the passing vehicles as they are engulfed into the foliage. The air smells like copper coins the deeper you go. The Sun shines less too.

I’ve been on this road over four dozen times, and every time I reach the end, at the hilltop, it feels different. When the Sun rises, the spiritual energy is unreal. She raises the dead for me. As I stand where men died in the tall grass that isn’t bothered to be mowed anymore, I am overwhelmed by how absolutely lonely I feel. It’s as if my heels have sunk into the moist ground while dead, boney fingers wrap around my calves, pulling me into the soil that isn’t fertile anymore. I am trapped. Just as they are.

            In between December 11^th and 15^th, 1862, the Civil War shook Fredericksburg and claimed it as the site for one of the deadliest battles of the war. 13,000 Union soldiers lost their lives compared to the Confederates 5,000. After hearing about the deaths, President Abraham Lincoln said “If there is a worse place than hell, I’m in it!” Most of these deaths took place at both Marye Heights along Sunken Road, and on Prospect Hill. Nicknamed “Dead Horse” Hill, Prospect Hill was Lieutenant General’s Thomas J “Stonewall” Jacksons home of operation until the battle was brought to him. Swooping sixty-five feet above the battlefield, Prospect Hill was perfect for seeing all whom marched forward carrying Union colors. Even though there are beautifully rendered paintings on most of the information platforms at Prospect Hill, I can see the canon blasts and horses without their riders when I close my eyes and listen. As the battle raged on, the Confederates holding the Union and significantly decreasing their numbers, Prospect Hill was named “Dead Horse” Hill, for how easy it was to aim and fire upon Union Soldiers and their horses. Across the train tracks at the bottom of the hill, there is now The Pyramid Monument. Built in 1898, it stands to commemorate the Battle of Fredericksburg and to be seen by those passing through by train. Legends say that the bones of long dead soldiers were thrown in the pyramid to be preserved. The Sun saw it all.

            I understand that not all believe in the spiritual realm that I consider to be beyond death, but I’ve heard the whinnies of horses echo off the hilltop at dawn. The ultimate form of energy, the Sun, peeks from behind the trees in the East. She casts reaching, conscious shadows towards the canons where I usually sit and listen when the 7:30am AMTRAK train rolls by. This is how I see the world.  A recorder sits by my side; I rarely ever catch anything on tape. For me, it’s mostly personal experiences. As mentioned before, the train tracks lay at the bottom of the hill, constantly producing the energy that spirits need to manifest themselves.

I think animals have a sixth sense when it comes to spirits too. I’ve taken my three dogs numerous times to Prospect Hill and on many occasions they seem to be playing with someone in the empty field. There are spirits trapped on Prospect Hill, I’m not sure how many. Recently, my Boxer, Crush, has passed. Soon, my family and I will take his ashes to Prospect Hill and spread them by the pyramid monument. My hopes are that he’ll find someone in his afterlife to love him as much as we did among all the death that Prospect Hill holds. I believe he will, due to the Stone Tape Theory.

Developed in 1970 by Steve Goodman, it’s theorized that this location (among many others) experienced enough trauma and tension that the horrific events could have been “recorded” by inanimate objects around the site such as the trees, the rocks and the canons. If we tie this in with the energy given off by the naturally occurring electromagnetic fields that cover the Earth, this is a perfect location for a spirit to absorb enough energy to manifest itself.

            I’ve seen this happen on Prospect Hill. I was alone, and it was a lovely midday in fall, probably the opposite of what most think the atmosphere should be like for a spiritual encounter. The Sun shone, the birds sang melodies I’ve never heard before, and it was quiet enough to hear the leaves speak to each other.  The trail I chose to walk was quiet and has a sign that has information about the battle that occurred on Prospect Hill. This trail was utilized to get supplies off of cargo trains and to transport the dead off the battlefield. With each step, my center of gravity sank and my equilibrium was off enough that I felt as if I wasn’t in reality any longer. I felt the ringing in my ears that blocked out all sound for a few seconds. The birds stopped singing, the leaves fell silent, and a presence was influencing my movements.

I turned to go back. As I pivoted my foot and rotated my hips, I felt a wave of invisible vigor hit me. I blinked, and tried to move forward. I was being held back by imperceptible waist high water that seemed to be all around me. My breathing condensed as I looked up to see a man walking away from me. He looked as if he was carrying something, his head was bowed while taking sluggish steps. He stopped, turned to the left, and walked into the woods. I didn’t hear anything crunch beneath his shoes. Along with the water, he disappeared. But I wasn’t scared. There was no reason for me to be. I didn’t feel as if I were in any danger and I believe this was one of those stone recordings.

Though I have had experiences that far outweigh this one in intensity and emotion, the spirits at Prospect Hill seem to be more significant to me. They are ever changing, and as I step foot on the grounds, I realize that I’m always experiencing the presence of someone new. Perhaps I’m always helping someone new. I hear them, I see them. And I hope in that way, they find peace on this hilltop where the Sun shines less and the air smells like bayonet tips covered in blood, lodged into the ground to be preserved forever.