It was her first day of rest in weeks. The first day she had no obligations, no engagements, and the only thing demanding her attention was her one hundred-pound Supermutt, Artos. He was sniffing his way through the yard now, investigating every scent trail that piqued his interest while she smoked the day's first cigarette. The air was cool and damp under a grey sky, a mist lingered from the passing storm. She lived for days like this. For the scent of the trees, and for the rejuvenated curiosity of Artos as he sloshed around the wet grass. A sense of contentment settled around her. She whistled and Artos trotted through the open door, he sat to the side waiting to be dried off—that was his favourite part—while she finished her cigarette just outside of the door.
She stepped inside and reached for the towel draped over the shoe rack by the door, but Artos didn’t hop as he typically would. Instead, he stayed still, his watchful eyes focused on the open door. She looked over her shoulder, fresh rain overfilled the gutters and cascaded over the awning.
“It’s okay, bubba, it’s just the rain.”
She took a playful step in his direction, and he sidestepped, his trained eyes never losing focus. Thinking distant thunder may be to blame, she reached to close the door, but something stopped it before it could latch. Her hands pressed against the resistance and the door burst open, jamming her shoulder and upsetting her balance. A sinister male figure filled the doorway, Artos lunged forward as the man forced his way into the room.
The door bounced off of her and slammed shut, a clap of thunder seeming to answer the call of chaos descending on the house. The unknown man struggled against Artos, his body colliding with shelves as he tried to keep his footing. Adrenaline rushed through her veins and instinct took over, her hands swept over his shoulders and looped around his upper biceps, linking together behind his back. Grip growing tighter, she tucked her head low and leaned back and Artos pounced at the man’s groin. He keeled over and stepped into Artos who swept his leg right out from under him, she never let go. The air escaped his lungs under the weight of her, she spun her legs to the side and braced herself on her knees. One of those knees connected with his face when he turned his face away from Artos, and his body went limp.
When he came to, he found himself bound with zip ties, her sitting in a chair a few feet away—staring at him, Artos at her feet. Overcome with confusion and rage, he began to thrash and yell obscenities, all the things he would do when he got free…if he got free. She sat silently, watching him wriggle, waiting, weighing her options from this moment. While he was unconscious, she emptied his pockets and used his thumb to surpass the lock screen of his phone and banking app. His accounts were negative and his messages sporadic, his social media was full of troll activity and misinformation posts, conspiracy theories, and hate groups. A real winner, in his own mind though, to be sure, and that’s to say nothing of where he finds himself now.
“I’ll gut you, fucking bitch!”
“Now, is that any way to speak to a lady?”
Her contemptuous tone pushed him into another frenzy, and spittle accumulated around the corners of his thin, dry lips. His phone was drowning in a cup of cleaning fluid, and when he noticed the profanities again began to fly. She pressed record on her audio recorder.
Some time passed and storm outside intensified, torrential rainfall poured in thunderous applause. The room filled with men she’d never met, and whom she’d likely never see again. None spoke, simply nodded at the index finger pressed to her lips. Still uncertain of what would come next, they all waited for their mutual acquaintance to arrive. Somewhere around the third hour of his profane ranting, she had decided to call someone whose world was vastly different than her own. Someone whose world she had hoped would never cross over into hers, but she now found cause to enlist their expertise. There existed no doubt in her mind that the recordings of the man’s provocative ranting would be convincing enough to elicit a new veneer to their alliance.
He opened the door and knocked gently on the doorframe; the pad of her finger stopped the recording. The gathering of men spoke quietly amongst themselves while she greeted the man at the door, the man that they all knew. He found a seat and she removed the bound man’s belt and folded it several times, placed it between his teeth, reached for the duct tape. She silenced the ranting with an effecting bit, and sat next to the visitor, but said nothing. Instead, she pressed play on the audio recorder and waited. The room was again void of any sound other than the desperate, vile declarations of a weak man rendered powerless in his pursuit of the illusion of power. It did not take long for the putridness of his existence became clear, and the strong index finger of her visitor brought silence to the room again. After a pause, he spoke directly to her,
“What do you want to do?”
In all the hours since subduing her attacker, she still could not decide what to do with him. Not for lack of options, bit more for what was feasible.
“That depends—what’s possible right now?”
They spoke, at length, about the bound man’s social connections and the likelihood that he would be missed. Her eyes rarely left his bound and gagged body on her living room floor, she watched him struggle to absorb the reality that took form around him.
“I have an old mattress protector, but that does nothing for his blood in the mudroom; this carpet needs replaced…”
Her visitor’s eyes widened slightly in unanticipated surprise. His tongue rolled across his teeth, his hand toyed with his bearded chin,
“Leave all that to me…,” he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, matching her posture, “what do you want to do?”
She turned away from their subject and rested her chin in the crook of her shoulder, unsuccessfully searching for a more eloquent way to say,
“…I want his balls, in a jar.”
He made little effort to restrain his glee, scooching forward with a smile growing across his face,
“Okay—and what do you need?”
Together they made a list and some of the gathering dispersed in intervals to acquire various necessities, including a few bacon cheeseburgers to reward Artos. Every possible angle was considered in graphic detail, every consequence weighed, alibis created, contingency plans outlined. A perfect crime was curated, so to speak, in fantastical detail, right in front of the subject’s eyes and still he chomped and grunted against his bit. Her attention again turned toward him, the established internet troll who spouted inflammatory hate speech for reasons that amounted to sheer entertainment. Since he had regained consciousness, she had not engaged with him once and still he found it appropriate to spew venom in her direction. Even now, she had few words for him. She retrieved her tactical knife from the coffee table and closed the space between them. The knife opened with a flick of her wrist and the room again grew still, and with his face in her hand the troll, too, became still. With skillful finesse she fileted the duct tape from his cheek, shearing his days-old stubble smooth. He swallowed hard but never moved, her guests on an edge far sharper than her blade. Leaving half shaven, she ripped the rest of the duct tape off in one swift motion and stood. The man on the floor writhed in pain, flailing against his restraints, grunting and cursing her once again. She returned to her seat, roll of duct tape and belt in hand. She sat back and toyed with the items in her lap, methodically folding the belt and securing it with the tape.
“When you’re finished moaning, I thought we might have a chat.”
He grew quiet and rolled onto his side to face her,
“About what, whore? Huh? You can spare me the details of your fuckscapades with all your friends, alright—I don’t need hear anymore of gabbin’; I’m callin’ your bluff.”
A smile grew across the visitor’s face, but she expression remained emotionless, her hands still busy with the belt and tape. She allowed her pensive silence to the air, broken only by the sound of tape stretching and tearing. Before he could open his reeking mouth to speak again, she crossed the room with a new bit and secured it in place,
“Now that I won’t be interrupted, we can move forward. A bluff this is not, and you would do well to come to terms with everything you’ve heard about your immediate future. I am not one to play games, and to be quite honest, you’ve made this far too easy a decision to make.”
She shook the old mattress cover out over the open floor and a few of the men helped move him onto the vinyl cover.
“Strip him, leave his wrists and ankles bound. Stand him up.”
Her eyes scanned every part of his naked flesh,
“We’ll have to remove the tattoos.”
A sturdy folding stool was brought around, and he was helped to his knees, his chest pressed against the seat of the stool. Several jailhouse scratch pieces covered his back and shoulders, the classic mix of anti-Semitic, xenophobic symbolism to match the drivel he’d spouted at every opportunity.
“Blow torch.”
From that point forward she spoke with direct, concise commands, and in what felt like minutes he became unrecognizable and unaffiliated. She stopped once he fell unconscious, cleaning and treating his wounds and burns with homemade salves and poultices, waited for him to come to, then repositioned him for the next phase of his disappearance. Somewhere between the searing removal of the fifth tattoo and the disintegration of the third fingerprint, she noticed his resolve dissolve. It wasn’t until the red-hot, two-millimeter rod pierced his orbital socket that his fate truly sunk in, but his defeat was superficial compared to what she had prepared for him.
She sat on the coffee table across from him, he on his knees, she leaned forward and rested her elbows on her thighs. He met her gaze; she watched his blood begin to boil. She nodded at one of the men standing beside him; the man removed his bit.
“Glad to see you’re still hanging in there. How’s my bluff?”
Her guest choked back a laugh, but a renewed loathing rage filled his eyes. She waited for him to speak. Most men in his position would beg mercy and forgiveness, even swear to change their lives, but not him. No, he was bred and born of the toxic waste that poisons society, and he chose to maintain the same constitution. Having spent his life inciting chaos, at thirty-seven he finally found himself in the wrong place, testing the right one. She sat straight and slid her slender fingers into a fresh pair of black nitrile gloves,
“Burning me up don’t change the fact that you’re a whore—don’t change nuthin’.”
He had developed a slur, drool dribbled down his chin. She stood and placed a jug of formaldehyde, syringe, and a specimen jar on the table then slowly paced the room a moment and came to rest with him at her feet.
“Ya know, I keep trying to feel bad for you, to feel some semblance of empathy or sympathy—pity, ”
That familiar sound of tape forcefully separating from itself again filled the room, only, he flinched this time. She wore her smirk proudly. Duct tape gripped his phallic shaft and the back of her gloved hand held it against his mons, her other hand working the tape to secure it against his pelvis. The men on either side of him held him in place, but he didn’t resist much at all until her gloved hand tightened around his testes,
“Now that’s disappointing,” her hand released him, “is there anything about you that isn’t underwhelming? Little balls, little dick, big ego…but still, not the biggest—or the smallest,” he tried to spit in her face, his rancid breath barely reaching her. She grabbed him by the face as she stood, pressing her thumb hard into his jaw, “It appears your mouth is dry,” and she spat between his forcibly parted lips.
The blow torch clicked on behind him, but he was too busy thrashing and cursing her existence to notice. She found it intriguing, the way he hyperfixated on his hatred for her, a hatred he had held long before this moment. He stalked her, attempted to rape her; she’s not likely to have been his first. The embodiment of involuntary celibacy, if the forums and social media groups she found on his phone are to be believed.
Lightning flashed in the windows, punctuating the wind that ripped through the shudders.
“We wouldn’t want your sugar to drop,” she shoved the severed teabag into his gullet and covered his mouth, one hand held him hard at the nape, “swallow.”
He gulped hard; choking and gagging on blood and sac skin, struggling against an empty gut that wretched and heaved, nothing coming up.
“I wanted to keep these,” she held his exposed testicles in front of his face, “hence the jars behind me, but honestly, these dainty things aren’t fit for Artos…”
Artos sniffed the at her offered hand and tasted the blood that dripping from her knuckles, he huffed and walked away.
“I almost expected them to be bigger, worthy of display, given the cojones it takes to be so loudly and proudly…impuissant.”
She popped each titchy testicle into his mouth and pressed her palms across his mouth and nape,
“swallow—that’s a good boy.”
A new set of three men walked into the room, led by her guest. She tapped her fingers across the troll’s cheek and rose to greet the new guests. Slipping her gloves off, she nodded at the new men. These men, whom she would never see again, bowed ever so slightly and offered her a small box encrusted with black opal and onyx. Delicately she accepted the gift box and nodded in appreciation and gratitude, but the man with the box gestured that there was more. Her thumb opened the clasp and she lifted the lid, her hand reflexively cupped her throat. She glanced at the men, entirely in awe of their gesture of gratitude. The box alone was worth a small fortune, and the gifts it concealed were far more sentimental than she could have ever anticipated. It wasn’t until she exhaled that she realized she was holding her breath, she drew in slow, deep breaths as she again bowed to her newest guests and placed the box on the safety of the bookshelf.
She grabbed Artos’ old training collar and secured it around the eunuch’s neck and yanked him to his feet. Were it not for the two men beside him, he might not have stayed upright while she fastened a handwoven leather lead to his new collar. Then she sliced a hole in the center of an old sheet, slipping his head through the middle, securing his new attire at the waist with a leather strap. What remained of the salves and poultices was packed into a small satchel that was the hung around his neck. She led him over to her foreign visitors and bowed respectfully, offering the braided leather to the men. They looked him over, scrutinizing every inch before graciously accepting the exchange. Their heads bowed one last time, and without a single word they turned and led the eunuch out through the mudroom.
The shelves were re-mounted, the carpet replaced, the house deep cleaned like it was going up for sale. Standing in her steam-filled bathroom, she gazed at her exhausted reflection. She hadn’t slept in what felt like days. She dressed and walked through the house to sit with her only remaining guest.
“Why’d you call me?”
Thunder rumbled overhead, and she opened the door to her patio. Standing in the doorway, she lit a cigarette and drew in a long, slow drag,
“I knew you’d come.”
They sat in their pensive silence, listening to the rain. She snuffed out the butt of her cigarette and crossed the room to him,
“Let’s get some rest,” she helped him up and gestured toward the guest room, “sleep well, love.”



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Many people have their theories and opinions of me. I’m not unaware of some of the less than desirable qualities I am said to possess, but I also know many of them to be untrue. Truth be told  I am a great many things, good and bad, and those many things are often mistaken one way or another. It is never my intention to hurt others, though I am well acquainted with the potential, unintended impact of things I have said and done. I am not free from the burden of the consequences of my mistakes, and I still make them. Mistakes. Everyone makes them, seemingly few take legitimate accountability. Too many, in wheeler shame and fear, make accusations that make them more comfortable in the aftermath of those mistakes. They give room for resentment and anger that they then cling to as means of protection against their own reflection, against…the truth.
Subjectively I have held opinions that take a great deal of objective perspective taking and humility, and even more still, self-acceptance. I’m sure I still hold some, and until I am presented with hard evidence of the contrary those opinions are all I have as navigational tools. I am not alone in this; no one is. Still, it can be lonely to know oneself so intimately. To stand against lies and misconceptions about one’s character and intention takes resolve, it takes courage. Persevering shows you your own strength, but it also unveils the cowardice around you. Cowardice, though damaging, is not something to gawk at or rebuke. Everyone has their own journey, their own reasoning to justify their position. Admittedly I cannot wrap my head around clinging to the comfort of what is known for what amounts to fear, but I do not condemn it. I simply refuse to accept it for myself.
Fear has two sides. On one side, it’s helpful, useful. It allows us to learn and grow, to adapt and overcome obstacles and to progress. And evolve. It creates a sense of hesitation, room to plan and strategies our approach so that we may accomplish an endeavour. On the other side,  fear has fangs. It’ll sink its teeth into you and its venom will incapacitate you. It may not be right away, but eventually, if you’re not careful, fear will consume every part of you and influence every decision you make. Given an opportunity, fear will shift from a temporary hesitation and morph into an excuse as to why we can’t have the thing(s) that we so desperately want…but are too afraid to permit ourselves. They become frozen and nothing changes…change has become a harbinger of fear. So, we get comfortable with where we are, we settle for less than we deserve, and we make ourselves believe it’s enough to the point reluctance in the face of the inevitable. Risk becomes a dirty word, sometimes to our own detriment. We become afraid to buck against the system. We focus our energy on clinging to the reasons we can’t do something instead of looking for ways we can, and we go nowhere.
Denial. We all experience it, but many readers are experiencing it as we look at our own reflection. When you look in the mirror, what do you see? Do recognize yourself? Are you someone your teen-self could look up to, to aspire to be? Is your heart happy, your soul fulfilled? My experience suggests most will deny their disappointment with the cookie cutter life they’ve built. In truth, they are deeply unhappy, left longing for something they cannot pinpoint. They tell themselves they’re happy, because they have built the life they were told they want. Tell me, at the end of the day…how many people are genuinely happy in the life they have created? I’ve not met many…
Every unhappy person I’ve met, when asked, told me of dreams released and broken as sacrifice for the life they were told to want. Most do not hate the life they’ve built, but they are missing something they cannot articulate. Afraid that pursuing their missing link will upturn their unremarkable life, they stifle the voice calling from deep within and they leave well enough alone. This is not an inherently wrong choice, the important thing is that someone is healthy—which is far too often not the case.
I have had the honor of being there in the final moments of lives well-lived, and some less so. Nearing the end, people become vulnerable in their reflections. Some find comfort in knowing that the family that surrounds them, their children, have built lives for themselves, yes, but above all, that they are happy. Others have confessed, in lingering coherence, that they wished they had followed their dreams and instilled the same values in their children. Children that are often estranged, resentful. If these experiences have taught me anything it is to not left fear define you. Do not let fear choose for you, lest you live—and die—in regret.



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It’s not often I write about myself. Mostly, I’m never sure what people want to know, but the weight of not knowing what I want to share overwhelms the desire to write anything personal at all. Still, it’s been a while since I’ve shared a raw moment (outside of therapy, of course) and since I am still working on a couple of profiles and other projects, now is just as good of a time as any.
               The last several months have been…heavy. Academically, I’ve enjoyed the time off from constantly worrying about papers and projects and assignments and deadlines. Geographically and spiritually, I’ve felt stunted and stagnant and stuck; it’s no secret that after I lost everything and returned to the hell that birthed me, I’ve wanted nothing more than to leave again. Rebuilding from rock bottom’s basement is not small feat, though, and it takes more than financial stability and a destination to make a successful move. After finding prospective employers and living arrangements, there’s still mental/emotional stability to consider and physical health. It takes a lot of energy to start over from the absolute scratch that you managed to stitch together after losing everything. The emotional toll alone is debilitating, and it depletes your energy reserves and can trigger or at least facilitate depressive dips. Cognitive fog settles in and makes every little task tedious and daunting to so much as begin, so of course, the idea of finishing anything seems an improbability. Life doesn’t stop, though, so no matter how sweet the afterlife sounds we keep moving until we stop breathing. For me, that sometimes means disappearing for awhile.
Now, I’m back on the grind – much of which I’d rather not, but I want the live on the other side of it all. I’m sorry if that means I have to let you down from time to time. My interests, as much as I enjoy pursuing them, can get heavy...
It’s not uncommon to encounter people that cannot wrap their head around my fascination with true crime and the occult. I find it mind boggling how my fascination with the dark corners of the human psyche is stigmatized, but it’s somehow normal to exist in blind ignorance to how common it is to know someone who has survived violent crime. Naturally, I deep dive and collect statistics and provide evidence and testimonials – and I’m labeled as pretentious, delusional. Which is intriguing, given that I’ve personally encountered abusers, murderers, and serial sex offenders, and I’ve lost friends to domestic violence, murder, and mental illness. I have friends who have survived gang violence, and some who have survived domestic violence, kidnapping, substance abuse, and mental illness. My obscure interests are not really all that unfathomable, and without such interests we would not know much of what we know about [deviant] human behaviour. Behaviour science is largely built on interviews with serial and especially violent offenders, especially some of the most prolific and notorious in history. Without the work of pioneers like Samenow, Ressler, Hare, Teten, and Mullany, who knows how many more Masons, Ramirez, Bundys, and Kempers would be roaming free entirely undetected.
To be clear, I am in no way leveling myself with the pioneers of the field. Though I have followed their work more closely than the average person might care to. The time investment it requires to build a working understanding of deviant behaviour is not for the faint of heart. The cruelty that people like them, people like me, study and analyze is not solely based in morbid curiosity, though I am sure that’s how it comes across at times. You discover a lot about yourself when you explore the darkest crevices of human depravity, and you learn a lot about the people you think you know. So many interviews show coworkers and loved ones shocked when someone they thought they knew is charged or convicted of the unthinkable. Some of whom maintain confidence that they’ve got the wrong person. Serial killers and serial rapists manage to woo and marry women they’ve charmed into believing the intricately spun webs of lies, from behind bars. As disturbing as that may sound, it's fact. In my own experience, some find ways to creating dating profiles; some have claimed to have earned internet privileges, others have asserted that they were on a contraband phone. 
We know these things happen; we know people like Bundy and Rader and Gacy exist, and yet, as a society we shame and oust people with taboo interests that we don't understand for ourselves--that we've been taught to fear. That kind of rejection can destroy someone or fuel someone, and not always in the best of ways. For me, rejection has become a necessary obstacle in my growth pattern; I allow it to inform my progress and perspective as I evolve. Which is why I allow myself the occasional vanishing act.

 
Thank you for tour patience and understanding, and, as always, thanks for reading!

                   Ed Kemper was denied parole, again, on July 9th, 2024, with the prosecution declaring him to still be a danger to society. This comes as no surprise to those familiar with this notorious serial killer, as the heinousness of his crimes is overshadowed only by his lack of both remorse and empathy. Today, Kemper resides in a medical prison where he was moved after several trips to an outside hospital due to complications with his severe diabetes. Other than that, unverified sources say he is otherwise relatively healthy and can still walk though he frequently uses a wheelchair to get around. Another source said that Kemper recently met with a journalist numerous times, in person and over the phone, insinuating that there should be a new book or documentary coming in the near future. Disappointingly, no title or release date was given; but he has been featured in several newer works. As well, since being incarcerated Kemper has recorded thousands of hours of audiobook narration and assisted the FBI in the development of their Behavioural Science Unit, though most recently he’s said to have accosted a female staffer while transferring into his wheelchair. This of course only worked against him at his parole hearing earlier this month, where he was denied (for the twelfth time). His is not my most familiar case, but not for lack of intrigue. I’ve watched some interviews and read a few articles, but I’ve not yet dove into the depths of his mind.
               Now, at seventy-four years old, Ed Kemper is said to be just as paraphilic as ever. One unverified source mentioned him recalling sexual acts with his mother’s severed head to a staff member; the staff at his current facility are not in the habit of engaging in his more insidious fantasies and recollections. Valid. However, because my curiosities are never quite satisfied by the prosecutorial perspective. So, I’ve decided to reach out to Edmund himself. I’ve only just sent the letter, so I’ve not yet much to report. However, I’ve heard that he’s loquacious so unless he is no longer interested or able to respond, I suppose all there is to do now is patiently await his reply.
               I’ve mentioned that I will be writing incarcerated individuals (primarily of the serial killer variety) to a few acquaintances, and there seems to be a common, poorly masked abhorrence of the endeavour. In the interest of transparency, my desire to write violent offenders is not some convoluted infatuation that needs explored in therapy—though I’ve done that, too. What I’ve discovered is that what started as a simple morbid curiosity has evolved into an in-depth exploration of the darker crevices of the human psyche and experience. There’s a strange comfort in that darkness. Something that settles in a sort of reckoning with the fragility of life. Some say that you can’t truly appreciate the good that life has to offer until you’ve been touched by death. I know that my own encounters with death have taught me more about myself and about life than any therapy session or failure ever has. In some ways, I’ve dedicated my life to developing a relationship with death. One that even I don’t completely understand, and still, something sucks me in like gravity. In some strange and possibly disturbing way, it helps me feel grounded. I’ve experienced suicidality and the loss of friends and loved ones, I’ve extinguished the life of another being, and I have worked in hospice. I’ve engaged with legitimate psychopaths and murderers, most of whom I was entirely unaware were holding immense secrets and dark fantasies. At least this way, the interaction is at face value; their records are public record…like their location and inmate number.
               So, I’ll continue to find and write inmates incarcerated for violent crimes, and I will hopefully get some responses that permit conversation of substance. Dennis Rader, better known as BTK, and The Green River Killer, Gary Ridgway, are also on my list; along with lesser known dangers to society.
                

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If the Appalachia region has anything, it’s urban legends and stories of cryptids and creatures that lurk in the trees. These stories are made evermore eerie by the ruins and abandoned structures reclaimed by nature sprinkle throughout the hills. Somewhere between the skin walkers and mimics, there are stories of ghost towns with ominous histories. One such town, is Livermore, Pennsylvania.
As the story goes, an unnamed witch was taken with the beauty of Livermore and settled herself in the town, enchanting and bewitching her neighbours. This mysterious woman was later burned at the stake and with her last words cursed the town. I spent some time digging for an historical record of such an execution in the state and came up empty. What I did find is room to entertain the possibility that an unsanctioned execution could have happened. The town of Livermore, Pennsylvania was established in 1827 and never grew to more than two hundred and eleven people. Small town, vigilante justice would not have been entirely unheard of at the time and superstitions likely ran high—especially in some podunk canal town. With  her last words, this witch is said to have damned the town and its people to ruins and floods. Again, there is no evidence of her existence . However, two centuries ago, it would have been easy enough to erase someone’s records of existence. Identities were easily stolen and created than they are today, and it’s still an issue. Sometimes, the only proof we have of a birth or death or execution are the stories passed down through generations. The legend of the witch who cursed Livermore is one such story, but the devastation she’s said to have promised is supported by history.
The Johnstown Flood of 1889 was catastrophic and left Livermore residents displaced at best. Newspapers from across the state featured requests for donations and relief for the surviving state residents affected by the damage. More than two thousand lives were claimed by The Great Flood of 1889. Still, the town reached its peak population the following year and for the next thirty-five years the population steadily declined. The Great St. Patrick’s Day Flood of 1936 claimed an estimated eighty lives, though those records are also difficult to confirm or disprove. From then on, the town’s population steadily declined until  Livermore was condemned in 1952. The remaining fifty-seven residents were then evacuated and the town was razed and flooded, in part for the construction of the Conemaugh Lake Dam which was intended to prevent future flooding. During this process, the local cemetery was moved, and many believe this accounts for a great deal of the unrest experienced by those who come to explore the area.
The legends and reported experiences of visitors has attracted countless visitors to the area over the years. This has unfortunately resulted in increased police patrols in the immediate vicinity of the cemetery, to minimize vandalism and criminal trespass. However, sources say that activity is experienced on the trail, as well as some great visuals of the cemetery.
Should you choose to visit for yourself, please be respectful of those both those living and not.
 

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