From Bell Witch country,  we were headed to Bourbon country-Bardstown, KY to spend our last night of our journey (and my birthday) experiencing a different kind of spirit(s) altogether. On our way, we were to make a stop at what turned out to be the scariest place on our agenda.

While planning our trip, Grace had researched some spooky places to visit along our routes. She found a place called the Gates of Hell Cemetery. No brainer, right?

Gates of Hell, also known as Kasey’s Cemetery, also known as Grandview Cemetery, is a 300 year old cemetery that served as the grave site for families living in the area in the 1700s. Louisville Magazine states- “It is most popularly known as a hotspot for cult rituals.  Today, most of the location’s visitors will confess a terrifying experience about their trip to this local paranormal goldmine: most commonly reported incidents include unexplained car troubles for those who park near the cemetery, the rearranging of personal items left inside cars, unexplained cell phone malfunctions of those venturing onto the property and perhaps the most terrifying of them all, shadowy figures appearing near the crumbling gravestones.”

We plugged the address from the internet into the GPS, which took us along recently paved yet car-and-a-half width farm roads where the locals don’t share nicely and nearly drove us into the ditch more than once. The GPS cheerily announced that we had arrived when we were outside a cow pasture. Clearly not a cemetery.

We decided find someplace to eat and regroup/look at the phone while not being run off the road. The closest “town”, and I cannot remember the name, had but one establishment, a gas station that promised “broasted chicken” on the window signage, and we were hard pressed to find a parking space. It was Sunday, and I am guessing this was the local after-church hotspot.

As we walked toward this fine dining establishment, I said something to Grace about Gates of Hell, maybe about where we might be dining. A local man whom I can only describe as an extra in Wrong Turn perked up at the mention and looked a little more than interested as he climbed into his pickup truck. We scuttled inside, and got the customary mass hairy eyeball treatment from the good folks of Bohonkville as we interrupted their post church gas station broasted chicken feast. We opted to eat protein bars in Jasper.

Fortified, we decided to make one more go at finding the cemetery. We discovered that there were multiple names, and tried a different one. We turned onto a dirt road. The cemetery is supposed to be at the very end of St. John’s Road. By a quarter of a mile in, we debunked the car-trouble-because-of-ghosts theory about the cemetery. Yeah, people have car trouble because the road is so rutted and full of deep potholes and gullies that it would take out the undercarriage of your average Civic. Fortunately, we were in a 4WD Subaru.

As we got nearer the end, with cornfields on either side and no way to turn around, we both got uneasier and uneasier. We both sported the paranormal investigator stiff upper lip for the sake of the other, but later confessed that we were both uneasy as, well, hell.

We finally got to the end, and as promised, there it finally was. An overgrown little cemetery with broken bottles and beer cans along the edges, but some flowers and tributes on graves as well as lots of evidence of vandalism.  One couldn’t ask for a creepier little cemetery.  It was so isolated. We both kept mentioning that we wished my paranormal investigating brother-in-law Mike was with us. Safety in numbers.

We started along the narrow dirt path, taking photos and noting burial dates on the way. There was a cold breeze, despite the temperature on the car gauge being 81 degrees.

I felt like we were being watched. Not in a supernatural way, either. Like there were real people crouched behind the tombstones, I kept expecting someone to run out of the woods. I shoved down my fears, because we had gone to such trouble to get there, and it was the kind of place Grace and I love to explore.

 

We drifted among the broken bottles, weeds and cracked headstones for a minute or two, each of us quiet. We turned on the SB7, and tried to talk to whatever was there. The whole time, my feelings of foreboding kept intensifying. We got a few bleeps and bloops on the SB7, and after about two minutes, I couldn’t ignore my instincts anymore. You can hear me on the recording saying “I want to leave”. (this clip is of that moment, with a few bloops and bleeps in the beginning)

 

Grace didn’t hesitate a second. She said OK and we walked briskly to the car. She fired it up with no issues (thank you, Subaru!) and we picked our way slowly past the ruts and gullies back to the main road, shaken, with matching headaches and discussing what had just happened.

Turns out, Grace had that feeling of impending doom five minutes before we even got to the dirt road, to the point of nausea. She felt like the circle of trees was closing in on us once we got there, like we were trapped with nowhere to go. Neither of us mentioned it at first, we shook off our feelings for the sake of the cause. But Oprah says always listen to your instincts, they are there to protect you. I doubt if anything truly bad would have happened, but I’m glad we decided to go with Oprah on this one and avoid being sacrificed to He Who Walks Behind the Rows.

Maybe we will return someday, but we’re bringing Mike!

After all that trauma, it was time to get a lil’ somethin’ to steady our nerves. On to Bardstown and bourbon!

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