The Barn

Before I do a ghost hunt, I try to get as much background information as I can on the location I’m going to investigate. On occasion, the story told by local town folks is often more adventurous than the actual hunt. Such was the case with an abandoned barn I located in Red Oak, Texas, a small town thirty miles or so south of Dallas….

As the story goes, a man by the name of James Sharp built a house in Red Oak back in 1915. Not long after its construction, lightning struck the wooden house, and it burned beyond repair. Sharp, a prominent oilman and banker, decided to build a new house on the same spot as the original one, only this time he’d build it out of stout, red brick, and he wanted it to be the exact replica of his current home in Oak Cliff, Tx. (Dallas County). Before the second house in Red Oak was completed, however, Sharp was found dead in his home in Oak Cliff. He’d been shot behind the left ear. Rumor has it that a jealous mistress shot him. His death certificate doesn’t testify to nor deny that rumor, though. It simply states, “Cause of death—the loss of two to three ounces of brain matter.”

After Sharp’s death, the property in Red Oak was passed down to Sharp’s son, Matt, who not only completed the house but, between 1918 and 1928, built three barns, a pump house, a generator house, and a coach house. Matt lived on the property with his wife until tragedy struck again, just before the Great Depression in 1929. At that time, his wife was found in the dining room, poisoned, and Matt was discovered hanging in one of the three barns. The assumption was Matt did the poisoning, then hung himself, but without witnesses, the truth of what really happened never came to light. Once again, rumors filled in the gaps. One rumor claimed Matt had a mistress in addition to his wife and when the two women discovered each other, they joined forces and killed Matt in a jealous rage. If there’s any truth to the rumor, I suppose the mistress had the last word since Matt’s wife wound up with a gutful of arsenic.

The same year Matt died, a man named Jonathon Maybrick leased the largest of the Sharp’s barns and turned it into his residence and a funeral parlor, which he named the “13th Street Morgue.” (Why he leased the barn and not the house is beyond me.) Maybrick stored the hearse in the southern most section of the barn, (which was built out of brick, just like the house) converted the north section into a home, and turned the second story over the center section of the barn into the funeral parlor and embalming room. (Which makes this stranger still because every two-story funeral home I’ve ever been in has the service area on the first floor. Imagine hauling bodies up a flight of stairs all day…)

Though his construction budget was limited, Maybrick was able to turn the former hay barn into a state-of-the-art facility that included some of the same embalming equipment we find in funeral homes today. He also built a crematorium in the area, something very revolutionary in those days.

The land west of the building was used to bury paupers. Most of the stones in the graveyard are blank, and to date, no one has found any records of who might be buried there.

This is a retake of an old photo of the barn. Circa: 1935. The wooden door on the far left is the entrance to the hearse storage area. The two windows above are in the funeral home section of the building.





Below is a picture of Jonathon Maybrick, his wife Velma Sanders-Maybrick, and their two children, David and LeAnn. They moved into their new home in the spring of 1936.







The Maybricks did very well in their new business and became quite the socialites. Although they buried the Governor’s mother-in-law and nephew, Maybrick’s most
notorious funeral was that of a criminal who murdered the sixteen-year-old daughter of local farmer, Alfred Helm.

Helm was a widower who always kept his three children close at hand, mostly indoors. One afternoon, however, Helm sent his daughter, Abigail, to the bank. Abigail went as she was told—and walked right into the middle of a bank heist. The robber, thirty-eight-year-old Raymond Reynolds, shot and killed Abigail and the bank teller. When he tried to escape, Reynolds was shot to death by Red Oak’s only police officer.

Two days after the shootings, Reynolds’ mother went to the 13th Street Morgue to arrange a funeral for her son. At first, Maybrick refused. Handling the funeral of a murderer was certain to have negative repercussions, especially in a small town. But Reynolds’ mother’s pleas finally wore Maybrick down, and he agreed to do the service.

Despite his best efforts to keep the Reynolds’ funeral quiet, news regarding it began to travel fast, and it soon leaked to Alfred Helm. Helm was not pleased to hear that his child’s murderer was getting a nice funeral while he had to bury his dead daughter on his own land with his own shovel. The town expected an enormous uproar during the Reynolds’ service, but on the day of the funeral, all remained quiet.

A few weeks passed, and with Christmas approaching, the Reynolds’ funeral had already settled in the back of most everyone’s mind. Everyone except Alfred Helm…

At 1 a.m. on December 13th, Helm broke into the 13th Street Morgue dressed as Santa Claus and strangled Maybrick’s children, his wife, then finally Maybrick himself. When he completed his grim task, Helm settled into a chair in Maybrick’s living room and shot himself in the chest. The police found a note in the pocket of his Santa suit that read, “Please watch over my children. They are the product of an unholy mind.”

Maybrick and his family were laid to rest in the graveyard near their new home, and Helm was dispatched to Tulsa, Ok. for burial.

The barn still stands today. Since the death of the Maybricks, it’s never been rented or purchased, though the deed to the property has been made available for purchase by many of the distant relatives who’ve held it.

To date, the 13th Street Morgue is known as the second most haunted place in Texas. It’s said that the spirit of a man can be seen hovering in the barn’s midsection. I didn’t witness any paranormal activity during my visit, but if ever a place deserved a hovering spirit, it’s this one.







13th Street Morgue—October 2004

THE REAL DEAL

Hollywood has a long-standing history of misrepresenting “real life.” In general, people are more attractive and more successful and seem to have a lot fewer problems than the rest of us. Hollywood’s representation of “real death” is no different. With few exceptions—the movie Seven, for example—Hollywood tends to give the impression that only beautiful people die.

Here’s a typical Hollywood image:

A body lies flat on a tray in the morgue with the head and shoulders exposed under a sheet folded as though they had just been tucked into bed. The face has an almost blissful look on it as it lies there. If it weren’t for the stab wound or gunshot wound, the body would look as though it had been prepared for viewing at the mortuary.

Here’s a more realistic image:

The only way a person is going to lie perfectly flat in a morgue is if he or she died perfectly flat. In most cases, a cadaver assumes nearly the same posture it had when it died—with the exception of any areas of rigor that were “broken” as the body was moved, examined, and strapped down for transport. More often than not, a person’s legs are bent at the knees and the hands are not straight down at the sides and the sheet covering the body is usually stained with whatever substance is present on the body.

In reality, the eyes and mouth are commonly open or at least “ajar” and the hair is a rat’s nest. “Bed head” has nothing on “dead head.” I’ve seen bodies on TV that were recovered from a wooded area, but that same body lying on a slab in the morgue doesn’t have a single leaf in its hair. I can only assume that the experts in the crime scene unit meticulously collected every leaf and twig from the hair—to the tune of a classic rock song—and that one of the leaves was traced back to a rare breed of ficus located in the lobby of the building where the killer’s gynecologiest’s office was located.

Hollywood cadavers are in fairly decent physical shape and have the same level of hygiene as an actor in a body wash commercial. In reality, here are some of the more common findings underneath the sheet:

–a person with morbid obesity
–a person with neglected toenails and/or fingernails
–a person with questionable personal hygiene
–a person with nonexistent personal hygiene
–a person unaware that the concept of personal hygiene even existed
–a person that assumed water was only meant to be taken internally

All of these elements are commonly found but rarely portrayed by directors. I’m sure there’s a valid reason for this disparity between fiction and reality. Playing devil’s advocate, I would argue that portraying death too accurately is probably taboo. If that’s the case, then it must be the last taboo. After all, we live in a world no longer afraid to broadcast reality television, presidential sexcapades, and images of Janet Jackson’s bare breast.

EVERYTHING YOU WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT EMBALMING BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK.

Before we get started with our little embalming guide, I’d like to clarify something. There’s a significant difference between an autopsy and an embalming. An autopsy involves a large Y incision, which literally opens the deceased from stem to stern. Its primary purpose is to determine cause of death, and it’s performed by a pathologist. Funeral directors do not perform autopsies, unless of course they happen to be a pathologist. But most funeral directors do embalm . . .

Embalming is primarily done to disinfect and preserve the remains of the deceased. Disinfecting is important for all who have to handle the body and for the safety of the general public. Many years ago, deaths due to Typhoid Fever, Malaria, and other highly contagious diseases, put funeral directors and others who came into contact with the deceased at a very high risk of contracting the same disease. Secondly, it has been a tradition to have a period of visitation of the deceased. This is known as the wake or calling hours. Without embalming, the deceased would become un-viewable within a short period of time because of the constant chemical changes occurring in the cadaver as it decomposes. Embalming hinders this natural process.

Once the deceased has been wheeled into the embalming room, they’re placed on a stainless steel or porcelain table, (see picture below) not unlike those used for an autopsy. The clothing is then removed and either cleaned so they can be returned to the next of kin or destroyed. A careful inventory is done on jewelry and/or glasses so they can be returned to next of kin or replaced on the deceased after embalming.



The mouth and eyelids are then closed. The prime consideration for the lips is to have them meet naturally. If the mouth is closed too loosely, it may part during the viewing. (Talk about clear out a funeral home!) If the mouth is closed too tightly, the area under the nose puckers, giving the upper lip an unnatural expression, as though the deceased is scowling at the mourners. Eye caps, (see below) which look like opaque contact lenses



with small fish-scale ridges over the surface, are placed on the eyeballs, then the lids lowered. The ridges on the eye caps help keep the lids closed.


The deceased is now cleaned with a disinfectant spray or solution. Once cleaned, the funeral director positions the body. He or she relieves rigor mortis (the stiffening of muscle tissue due to chemical changes in the body) by flexing, bending, and massaging the arms and legs. Then he or she will move the limbs to a suitable position for embalming, usually the legs extended and arms at the sides. To begin the embalming process, which is the removal of blood and replacing it with a formaldehyde based fluid, a small incision is usually made on the right side of the lower neck to locate the carotid artery and the jugular vein.

Incisions are made in both vessels, and a tube connected to the embalming fluid pump is placed into the carotid artery. (See below) Another tube is placed into the jugular vein, which will cause the blood to travel through the veins, then flow out of the body for disposal. Approximately 3 gallons of fluid and water are circulated through the body for thorough disinfecting and preservation. In most cases, this will be the only point of injection of the embalming fluid. There are times when clots and other factors stop the flow of fluid throughout the whole system. When that happens, other points of injection are necessary in order to do a complete and thorough embalming. There are many factors that go into the process which cannot be explained here due to space limitations, but some of the factors that the funeral director must assess before embalming are the cause of death, the weight of the deceased, the general overall condition of the body, any disease associated with the deceased, etc. These factors determine the types and strengths of fluids used and the type of embalming necessary to complete the task. Many fluids have a dye added to them, which gives the body a pinkish glow. It also acts as a guide for the funeral director, for he or she can see the fluid as it travels through the body. This type of embalming is known as arterial embalming.


Jugular Tube

Embalming machine

The next step called cavity embalming, is the application of full strength fluid to the internal organs. A small incision is made along the side of the abdomen, and a long, hollow metal needle, called a trocar, (See below) is placed inside the abdominal and thoracic cavities. The funeral director aspirates both cavities. (Aspiration is the removal of blood and other bodily fluids through suction.) A suction pump, either water or electric powered, is used to remove these fluids. The trocar is then attached to a gravity fed system, which allows full strength fluid to be put into each organ. All incisions are then sutured closed.


18” TROCAR

The funeral director then washes the body with cool water, often adding a soapy, germicidal solution containing bleach to kill viruses and bacteria. He or she then cleans the fingernails, uses solvents to remove any stains on the body, washes the hair, then applies other chemicals to remove scaling on the hands and face.

Hairdressing is normally done after embalming has been completed.

Any hair stubble on the deceased is shaved with a razor. Facial hair and any visible nose hair are removed from all bodies, including women and children who may have excess facial hair due to medication or because they have downy hair on their upper lips and cheeks. Ear hair is also removed. Beards and mustaches are carefully trimmed.

The final steps are dressing and casketing the body. It is common to use a full set of clothing, including underwear, stockings or socks, and sometimes shoes if desired. Once dressed, the funeral director will begin cosmetizing the face and hands of the deceased. Usually a special mortuary cosmetic is used, although the use of store bought cosmetics is common. Cosmetizing is the true art of the funeral director. It is through the proper application of cosmetics that a more life-like presentation will be made.

The body is then placed in a casket and adjustments are made to the clothing, hair, and cosmetics. This final step is very time consuming. It’s done carefully for it’s the culmination of all that funeral director’s hard work. The deceased’s head, hands, and shoulders are then set in more life-like positions before they’re wheeled off to take front and center stage in the viewing room. It’s show time.

If Only They Knew

I was recently invited to speak at a science fiction convention in Gulfport, Mississippi. While there, a group of new friends invited me to have dinner with them in a restaurant that was located in the hotel. The name of the restaurant was The Blowfly Inn. Now, considering the work I do in funeral service and crime scene investigations, I didn’t find that name to be conducive to nurturing an appetite. Even worse, when the server came to the table with our food, each plate had a plastic blowfly perched on one of the side dishes. Mine sat atop the fries. Now don’t get me wrong, the food was great, but that name needed major work. Whew, if they only knew…

Blowflies have an extraordinary sense of smell. They locate a dead body within minutes and exploit their biological niche: reducing a carcass to a skeleton.

They will wriggle through ripped screens, cracks in houses, or doors that don't close snugly in their search for food. Once blowflies locate a body, they land and immediately lay eggs. A female blowfly lays up to 300 eggs at one time, and with numerous females visiting a corpse, the number of larvae (maggots) can be immense. The larvae hatch within a day, ready to go to work. Their front ends are armed with mouth hooks which they rake through decaying flesh. Their rear ends consist of a chamber, in which their anus and posterior spiracles are located. (They also have anterior spiracles). Spiracles are used for breathing, and the possession of spiracles in a posterior location means maggots can breath-feed 24 hours a day. Between their heads and tails is a muscular, segmented body, a simple intestine and a pair of very large salivary glands. They wriggle easily through a corpse, secreting digestive enzymes and spreading putrefying bacteria which help create their soupy environment. In warm weather, they can consume 60 percent of a human body in less than a week.

After six days, the maggots crawl away to a dry place and turn into pupae. The pupae’s outer skin hardens to form a protective casing -- like a caterpillar creates a cocoon before emerging as a butterfly or moth. The full cycle from egg to adult takes about 11 to 14 days -- quicker in high temperatures, slower when it's cooler—and it’s that consistent cycle that makes them invaluable to crime scene investigators.

But to name a restaurant after them?







Uh, I don’t think so.

How Far Would You Go?

As a writer, you’re given a certain amount of creative license when penning a story, and although I appreciate that freedom, I find myself getting pretty anal when it comes to certain details.

For example, when writing about mental institutions, I could have fostered an innocuous enough building and location from my imagination to pass mustard. But what about the feel inside the building? The energy that’s exerted by the patients who live there, the families that visit them? Yes, I could have easily made something up, but I figured there were a few readers out there who’d experienced the inside of an institution in one way or another. They would know phony when they read it. So, to remedy the situation, I visited mental institutions, many of them. Some new, some ancient, some abandoned. But I left each location with a sense that I held something tangible, something real I could share with my readers.

In truth, though, I think I take research a bit too far some times. Take the coffin incident for example…

I was writing a scene in Grave Intent, where a secondary character finds himself locked in a casket. Not having experienced such a tragedy, I began winging it on imagination alone. But the scene simply wouldn’t jell. When I finally finished the first draft and read it, it felt two-dimensional. I wrote it again. It still stank. By the third draft my frustration level had peaked, and I shoved my chair away from the computer, knowing there was only one solution to this problem. I would have to experience it. Now you would think a logical person would take into consideration that the number of readers who’d actually been trapped in a casket was minimal enough to make the whole issue moot. Then again, we’re talking about a rational person…I’ll tell you, I’ve pulled some crazy stunts before, all in the name of research, but this one ranks in the top three.

Here’s what happened . . .

Having access to a casket was the easy part because many of my friends are funeral directors. Choosing one of them to lock me inside a casket, however, was the challenge. Although I trusted my friends, did I trust all of them with my life? Uh, nope. And just how many of them would think I had completely flipped off my rocker? Damn near every one of them….except ‘Jay’, a twenty year veteran in the business and an avid adventurer. So I asked him, and, as I suspected, he gave me this crooked grin, eyed me for a long moment, then said, “Aw, what the hell, okay, I’ll do it.”

Early the next evening, after Jay’s staff had left for the day, we went into the casket selection room, and I chose a bronze sealer with off-white satin interior. The high-end, air-tight model made Jay nervous.

“Ten minutes and you’re out of air,” he said, his expression pensive. “You sure you want this one?”

“Yeah, why? You are going to unlock it, right?”

“Well, yeah I’m going to unlock it, but what if it gets stuck? Suppose something goes wrong with the lock. I mean, it’s not like we go around testing these caskets. Once they’re locked, they usually go in the ground.”

“Let’s test it before I get in then,” I said, getting a bit nervous myself.

So we did test it—three times, and the casket reopened each time without fail.

With Jay hovering like a mother hen, I slipped off my shoes and climbed into the casket. My body sank into the plush mattress, and I let out a little sigh. This was more comfortable than the mattress on my own bed.

“When you’re ready to come out, just knock on the inside of the lid or the sides, and I’ll unlock it right away,” Jay said.

“Okay, but let’s practice to make sure you can hear me.” I signaled for him to close the lids.

The moment that tiny space grew dark I beat on the side of the casket with an elbow, then quickly pushed open the lid above my head. This was going to be tougher than I thought. “Did you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

I took a deep breath. We eyed each other for a moment. “Okay then,” I said, drumming up as much courage as I could. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

As soon as the lid closed, I heard the echo of the lock slipping into place….

I have never known darkness so complete. Not one molecule of light existed in this confined space. That alone caused my breathing to grow rapid. Tight spaces don’t usually bother me, but tight, dark spaces are another story. I was able to move my arms, but the range was limited. I brought my right hand to my face, touched my nose, still not believing the depth of the darkness. Only three fingers fit between my head and the lid above me. Leg movement was nearly impossible. A few inches straight up was about all the room I had before hitting the bottom lid. The sides of the casket pressed against my shoulders. A sardine in a can had more room than I did.

With each passing moment, every scent seemed to grow more concentrated—the new mattress—layers of satin—metal. The smells quickly became overwhelming, and my nose burned each time I inhaled.

Sounds, even those created by me, were muffled. The rustle of my clothes against the lining of the casket, my breathing. I coughed to test the effect, and the sound fell flat, like a rock dropped into a shallow pond. A thumping sound came from outside the casket, and I held my breath, listening. More thumping. Jay was walking around the casket. Walking away from the casket? I had to mentally push, shove, squash, stomp that thought out of my head before I completely came unglued.

I closed my eyes, which made no difference in my surroundings, and focused on my character and the scene I’d written for him. What would he be doing right about now? In my mind’s eye, I saw him thrashing, so frantic to be free. I knew his confinement, knew the darkness, understood his helplessness. That vision grew so vivid, I found myself beginning to hyperventilate. Wait . . .I tried drawing in a deep breath, but only managed to fill a third of my lungs. I wasn’t hyperventilating . . .I was running out of oxygen!

My eyes flew open, and I slammed an elbow into the side of the casket. Rapid thumping outside now. Quick, muted footsteps. The clank of metal against metal—Jay sliding the L-key into the lock? A click—then nothing. I felt my eyes grow as wide as doubloons. Ramming my elbow harder against the casket, I yelled, “Let me out!” My voice sounded muffled by a thousand pillows. “Let-me-out!”

More clicking sounds that seemed to go on forever before—light! The top lid flew open, and I bolted upright, gulping air.

When I finally collected myself, I looked over at Jay. “What took you so long?”

He held up the L-key. “I got nervous, and it kept slipping out of the hole.”

Now that would have made an interesting broadcast—Author Suffocates in Casket Due to Nervous Funeral Director—more news at 10!

So tell me, how far would you go?

Could it Be?

As morbid as it may sound to some folks, I have to admit I love visiting cemeteries, especially old ones. There’s just something about wandering through that silence, those ordered rows of etched concrete that fascinates me. To me, the epitaphs, dates, and the occasional picture on each headstone tell a story about the person buried beneath it. And I love listening to a good story.

The fun really begins, though, when night falls, and shadows take over the tombs.

Over the last few years, I’ve visited hundreds of cemeteries, specifically to track paranormal activity. My camera’s caught flying orbs near Poe’s grave in Baltimore, squiggly strings of white light that wove through tombs in old family plots in Nebraska, and child-size shadows perched atop two headstones in Atlanta, Georgia. Strangely enough, the cemetery purported to be the most haunted in America, Big Woods Cemetery near Lake Charles, La., offered nothing but hungry mosquitoes.

The most fascinating experience I’ve had in a cemetery came from one in Mire, La., where my maternal grandfather is buried. Late one evening, after bringing my youngest daughter (who was fourteen at the time) and two of her friends to the movies, we went out to get burgers. While we’re eating, my daughter decides to tell her friends about some of the weird things her mom does for fun…like ghost hunting. The friends get wide-eyed, of course, and have a million questions, their last one being, “Can you take us to a cemetery and show us how you hunt for ghosts…like now?”

Well, by this time, my daughter’s giving me this, “You’ve gotta, Mom!” (Interpret…Because they’ll think I’m so cool!), look. Geez…

Now I’ve got two fourteen-year-old girls, and one fourteen-year-old boy hounding me to go to a cemetery. I envisioned angry moms pounding on my front door later that night, insisting I be taken away to a mental ward.

Okay, what’ll it be, daughter—moms, daughter—moms—ah, hell, the daughter won.

To minimize the potential for any lasting psychological damage, I think of the most benign cemetery I know, St. Theresa’s in Mire, La. It’s a small cemetery that sits on a corner lot in the middle of town. Beside the cemetery is a Catholic church and across the street is a Chevron station and City Hall. Streetlights are everywhere. I mean really, the spookiest thing about the cemetery is the creak of the gate when you open it.

So, we go inside…

I always carry my digital camera and a flashlight in my car, which were the minimal tools we needed for this adventure. The kids stayed close to me, whispering to each other, looking over their shoulder every few minutes as we walked through the graves. Somewhere in the distance a car backfired, and my daughter’s female friend gasped so loud, I thought she’d swallowed her tongue. We had a good laugh over that, and before long the kids began to relax and wonder off on their own to different tombs. All the while I’m snapping pictures, hoping for an orb or two, but getting absolutely nothing. As you can see in the pic below….



Then we happened upon my grandfather’s grave, (Below) which I hadn’t visited in over ten years. I was three when he passed away, so my daughters never knew him.


Well, for some reason, I get this overwhelming urge to ‘introduce’ my grandfather to his youngest great-granddaughter. So I call my daughter over, show her the tomb, then say aloud, “Pop-pop (that’s what the grandkids called him), this is your great-granddaughter, Sarah.” The moment the words are out of my mouth, another urge hits me, and I start snapping pictures.

Below is one I took while standing at the head of his tomb…



This image, which essentially stood at the foot of my grandfather’s tomb, wasn’t seen by any of us. Had it not been for the camera, we would have never known it was there. Is this my grandfather stopping in to say hello? Your guess is as good as mine. But it sure is cool to think just maybe…