Paranormal Photography: Capturing Spirits Through Time

William Mumler & the Birth of Ghost Photography

William Mumler, regarded as the first spirit photographer, operated in the early 1860s. He gained notoriety for capturing an image of Mary Todd Lincoln, seated solemnly with ghostly hands resting on her shoulders—a presence attributed to her late husband, President Abraham Lincoln.

At the time, photography was a new and mysterious art, easily misunderstood by the public. Opportunists like Mumler capitalized on this uncertainty, using double exposure techniques to superimpose spectral images onto his photographs. In the aftermath of the Civil War, when mourning families desperately sought proof that their loved ones remained near, Mumler’s business flourished.

One of his fiercest critics was P.T. Barnum, the famed showman and skeptic. Determined to expose fraud in spirit photography, Barnum led the charge against Mumler, even testifying against him in court when his deception was finally uncovered. Given such scandal, one would think spirit photography would fade into obscurity—but even today, as technology advances, ghostly images continue to surface across the world.

A photographer can swear by their experience. The conditions may seem unexplainable. But a healthy dose of skepticism is always necessary. Then again… not every ghostly image is a mere trick of the camera. Or is it?

Mary Todd Lincoln. Photo originally by William Mumler

The Face in the Squadron Photo: A Ghostly Goodbye

A simple World War I squadron photo holds a secret that has baffled skeptics for decades. The war had ended, and the RAF airmen stationed aboard the HMS Daedalus breathed a sigh of relief—no more losses, no more tragedies. But that sense of security was shattered when Freddy Jackson, an engineer, accidentally walked into a plane propeller, a fatal mistake that devastated the men who served alongside him.

Two days later, as his squadron gathered for a commemorative photo, they unknowingly captured something impossible to explain. When the image was developed, an extra figure appeared among the back row—Freddy Jackson, smiling as if he had never left his comrades’ side.

Squadron members immediately recognized him, despite the impossibility of his presence. The photograph, taken in 1919, remained hidden in private collections for decades until one of Jackson’s airmen, Sir Victor Goddard, finally published it in 1975. Since then, the photo has circulated across paranormal communities and skeptic forums, yet attempts to prove it was hoaxed or manipulated have failed.

Perhaps Freddy’s sudden, tragic end tethered him to his fellow airmen, unwilling to leave behind the friendships forged in war. Or maybe, just for a moment, he wanted to reassure them—letting them know that wherever he had gone, he was at peace. His subtle smirk and relaxed expression might have been all the comfort his squadron needed.

And isn’t that enough?

Freddy Jackson’s ghost. Original photo credit: Sir Victor Goddard

Ghost Photography in Practice: My Own Paranormal Capture

Working in haunted locations has uncovered countless eerie images—orbs flickering through cemeteries, figures appearing in windows where none should be. Over time, ghost tour guides whisper stories of the most unexplainable captures. And now, one of those stories is mine.

Few people know the full truth behind it. Only James and I do.

It started as an ordinary night. A quiet Monday in St. Augustine, nothing out of the ordinary. I had gone to a trivia event, later meeting James as usual—our tradition was simple, walking to our cars together, chatting under the glow of haunted streets. That night, James was finishing a small ghost tour inside Scarlett O’Hara’s, a well-known historic pub with a reputation for eerie happenings.

The place was empty—his four guests, the lone bartender, and nothing more. Dark corners, unfinished renovations, quiet anticipation. The upstairs was closed off, so the group gathered in a secluded space, listening as James unraveled his tale. The bartender, though familiar with the story, was captivated hearing it in a new light—grounded in our historical research, shaped by fresh perspective.

Once the guests left for livelier bars, the bartender approached us with an offer.
“Do you want to see upstairs?”

We didn’t hesitate. After all, the upstairs housed the infamous bathtub where an unsolved murder occurred 150 years ago.

Climbing the narrow staircase, excitement coursed through us. Neither of us had ever explored this part of Scarlett’s before—when the second floor had been open to the public, we had lived elsewhere. Now, in the pitch-black room, surrounded by abandoned renovation tools, it was finally our turn.

I snapped a few photos, eager to document the moment. Then, for fun, I suggested a selfie—a cheeky memento to share with our team. We posed, made faces, and planned to send it later. The night wrapped up uneventfully, and James looked forward to his family outing the next day.

It wasn’t until morning that everything changed.

Reviewing the photo, I noticed it was too dark to make out much detail, so I adjusted the brightness to lessen the shadows. That’s when I saw it.

A full-bodied figure.

It wasn’t part of the background. It wasn’t a trick of the light. It had depth, definition, presence. It was wearing a hoodie, standing directly behind the bathtub. A space far too small for any full-grown person to hide or crouch without being seen.

Immediately, I texted him: “Who the heck is behind you?”

James didn’t reply until the next day. When he did, he told me he had chills—a moment of unease while visiting Animal Kingdom, the ghostly presence lingering in his thoughts.

James is Seneca Native American, and while his culture doesn’t believe photography steals souls, there is a deep-rooted belief that spirits captured in photos can attach to the people who take them.

That idea troubled him deeply.

He began showing the photo on his ghost tours, searching for answers. Who was this? Could anyone debunk it? Was it just a trick of the camera?

Then one night, we got our answer.

A local joined James’ tour and immediately recognized the figure. “That’s the bouncer from Scarlett’s. He was murdered right outside the bar.”

Three years prior, the man had been killed while protecting the patrons he swore to keep safe. After kicking out an aggressive drunk who had been harassing a group of women, he followed the man outside, ensuring the women remained unharmed. But when the drunk refused to leave, a confrontation broke out.

Six gunshots rang out.

The bouncer was left for dead, and the killer claimed Stand Your Ground, dividing the town in a heated legal battle over justice and consequence.

When we finally showed the bartender our photo, she recognized her former coworker immediately. His hoodie, his stance, his presence—it was him. She sent us the news article confirming his story, solidifying the reality of what we had seen.

We hold this story close.

We never shared the photo with his family, out of respect for their grief. But we honored him quietly, telling his story on our tours, sharing the legacy of a protector, a brother, a friend—someone who lost his life defending others, who perhaps is still watching over them in the afterlife.

We left shots for him frequently, placing them along the fence outside Scarlett’s in memoriam.

Time moves forward, and stories shift.

The bartender passed the photo to other ghost guides. Our personal encounter became legend. Details changed, facts blurred. We were suddenly traveling psychics, the bouncer became the victim in the bathtub, and the timelines were warped beyond recognition.

Scarlett’s changed hands, and access to the upstairs vanished once again—reserved for private parties, lost to history once more.

The house’s historic charm was overtaken by pool tables and thumping club music, transforming a once-beloved local haunt into a rowdy college bar, frequently raided, thick with chaotic energy.

I haven’t been back in a long time. But I felt the shift the last time I was there.

The energy is heavier now—not from spirits, but from the living.

The spiritual aura it once held is replaced by the intensity of reckless, living chaos.

I can no longer tell the bouncer’s story on my tours.

But his story must not be forgotten, so I share it here.

James and I at Scarlett O’Hara’s. Copyright: Kindred Spirits Tours, LLC

A Blood Moon’s Unseen Forces

For centuries, celestial events have shaped our beliefs, guiding our understanding of the world from our small vantage point on Earth. The moon’s influence over tides, timekeeping, and folklore has dictated how we perceive the unknown. Some Native tribes in this region view a lunar eclipse as a moment of disruption—a disturbance in the natural order. When the moon darkens, so does the space between us and the spirits, giving rise to powerful dreams and visions.

I can’t speak for everyone, but I know the Blood Moon that fell during a partial lunar eclipse last September led to an evening charged with eerie energy on tour.

It was another night on a haunted pub crawl. James and I both worked 5 to 6 nights a week, so many evenings were spent in haunted bars entertaining guests. This particular night I was off. Our friend, Ryann, had finished her tarot readings on the porch of our former employer and tagged along on the tour as well. At this point, I could have recited James’ stories from memory, but there was something about the way he told them; the way the crowd would fall silent and enraptured by his every word, tone shifting from drunken laughter to serious as he spoke. I was under his spell as much as any other guest.

Ryann and I waited for him to join us at Barley Republic, an Irish themed bar with a dark civil rights story. Because we were bound to the script of the company, we kept silent about what had truly happened in this former residence.  James launched into the corporate-approved story—one I’d heard a hundred times—but somehow, in his voice, it still felt alive. You can hear these stories echo through town as a shambling trolley turns the corner toward the cathedral. His adept way of sharing made it something else, no matter how many storytellers are repeating this tale. As Ryann sat on the stairs leading to the employee back entrance of the bar, I felt eyes on me. I knew whose eyes they were. Little Cecelia. 

Cecelia, or Sweetheart, is the young girl who died on the property. A victim of the Civil Rights movement’s unrest, Sweetheart loved hearing James as much as I did. A small 12-year old spirit, her life was cut short by evil people who hated her family for the color of their skin. But in death, Sweetheart still liked to sit on the stairs, listening to the stories. She could be just as moody as any preteen today, some nights tossing chairs, some nights playfully moving glasses. She is known to appear to women that look like Ryann and I. She appears with fat, heavy tears in her eyes stating her braids are too tight. This story touched us all. James would sometimes tell it out of respect, as one evening he was telling me the story and Sweetheart appeared to him and waved. He felt an obligation to tell it now, but only if he believed the crowd was willing to listen with reverence. 

As James began his standard stories, I noticed Ryann’s sweater. A small piece of fabric on her sleeve was pinched and tugged. It had a rhythm to it, as if the spirit of the young girl wanted her attention. Ryann, frozen, remained still while looking me deep in the eyes, I could hear her say “are you seeing this?” In that way you don’t have to say anything when you know your good friend’s expressions. I lightly nodded, back turned to my love as he continued. When he finished the story, I grabbed his arm and said, Cecelia is here. He nodded and began telling her story. We knew what she wanted.  Once he was finished, he told another story of the most dark and evil man in town. Sweetheart had returned to her home, but something far darker was stirring. No longer content to seethe beyond the wall, he was stepping forward. When James finished his stories, he walked the tour to the next bar, holding my hand tight because he felt the same thing I did. The dark and angry spirit had begun to follow us. I told James not to look back. Keep walking forward. The guests who were chattering and laughing had no idea of the terrifying hulk of a spirit who was stalking just behind. We walked forward, hands clenched, feeling the weight of something unseen just behind. It lingered, watching, waiting. But as we neared the entrance, the air shifted—and there he was.

We turned toward the next bar, I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw a familiar spiritual face. A young man who is a protector of the people in the bar. His presence alone made me pat James’ hand. “Don’t worry, our friend is here” As we crossed the threshold of the next bar, the angry spirit drew back. We don’t know the perimeters a spirit can go, but we have learned a strong protector works the same no matter what, a bouncer can bounce both living and dead if he is strong enough. 

The next bar was when we began to put it together. The activity, the strength of it alone, it was clear why once we got upstairs and looked out the window. That Blood Moon, with a slight shadow on the corner, was making this night a free for all for the spirits. 

During his next story I decided to check out a bit. I was reading some research on my phone in a corner as Ryann sat on the opposite end of the room. James holds court in the middle, telling his tale. I know he and I were ready to get home, completely done with all of the wild activity. Not Ryann though, she loves paranormal investigations. As I sat in my corner, I began to feel compelled in my research. The document I was reading was from the Civil War Era and was connected to the bar. I could swear the ghost wanted me to learn more. He was almost hovering over my shoulder like an instructor during a lesson. I minimize the window and text Ryann to take a picture. I got up because I am in enough spirit photos for a lifetime and she captured the window behind me. In the window, there are three faces. I thought it was dirt at first, ever the debunker at heart ( yes even mediums can be skeptical, you probably should be) but the faces were in one of a series of photos with nothing else changing. When I say we were all ready to get out of there, I mean it. This was true evidence so after the story was done, we shared with James and the tour group. They all began taking their own pictures and talking. One admitted she felt someone touching her backside while James was talking. The activity was not just centralized on the three of us, it was scattering. Spiritual shrapnel was hitting everyone up there. James began to answer questions about the spirit world as I grew quiet, completely drained by the constant activity of the night. 

There was no extra stop that evening after the tour, no hanging out with our friend after. Ryann was amped to talk about everything, but the weight of all the emotions, not just ours, but the feeling of a crowded concert in a room of 10 people, had left James and I ready to hide in my car. Talk together or sit in silence until we were both ready to go home. We did talk about how crazy everything was, how “loud” the world became, but in our little bubble, those kinds of conversations were safe. Away from the eyes of the living and dead, we could always be ourselves. 

Another night in the books. One we’ve told again and again—and still, it lingers.

St. Augustine Ghost Stories: The Lonely Grave & All Souls’ Night Encounters

If you are even the most casual lover of the supernatural, you know October 31st has a significance. All Hallows Eve symbolizes a time when the veil thins and spirits can roam freely amongst us. That’s partially true. The time beginning with the winter solstice is a slow part of the veil. It thins more with every shift of the moon. Spirits begin to peek out and shift, culminating on that dark evening in October. It doesn’t just end on November 1st. The veil is not a solid door that slams shut as the sun rises. It is fluid, more like a gossamer curtain shifting in and out. Spirit activity often lingers long after trick-or-treaters have settled into sugar-induced slumber. It was the evening two days after Halloween, where our guests may have felt safe from the real spirits, that left both myself and a small group forever changed by what we witnessed. The energy of All Hallows Eve lingers, culminating in sacred moments like All Souls’ Day.

November 2nd is traditionally the Catholic holy day known as All Soul’s Day. It is the day to pray for and remember the souls that have left this mortal coil. On this hallowed day, the Catholics of St. Augustine held a vigil in the oldest cemetery in town, Tolometo Cemetery. Souls have been buried there “from time immemorial” according to Father O’Reilly, a priest active in 1799. There is an energy near these iron gates that was pulsing stronger as the graves were adorned with tealight candles, left to burn until complete. 

As the sacred energy of All Souls’ Day lingered, it set the perfect stage for what would become one of my most unforgettable nights. It had been a long night of tours for both James and I. His group was fascinated by his stories and when I met up with them, I was barraged with a round of questions to confirm some of the experiences he shared. We invited them to join us on our way to the car, as we passed by this beautiful and haunting cemetery to continue our stories off the clock. 

Some joined and a small group walked with us to the cemetery gates. James knew I had just visited the cemetery the week before for the one afternoon they allowed you in. I had so much new knowledge and stories that I could not wait to share. As I took a spot in the center of the gates, I began telling what would become one of my favorite stories. The Tale of the Lonely Grave.

When people think of a grave all alone, they think of Baby James, the five year old buried in isolation near the front of the gates. A few footsteps away, there is a crypt rising against the edge of the cemetery almost abutting the house next door. I had always been curious about this grave. Legends swirled about who was buried there. When I found out the beautiful truth it was something I had to share.

It’s the story of a man who lived before therapy. He fought his depression by going to church daily and having long conversations with the priest, asking for absolution from whatever sin caused this. He anguished daily until one day it became too much and he took his own life. Catholics do not traditionally bury the victims of suicide in the cemetery, but the local priest gave him a burial because in his mind, the man died from an illness. The illness of depression. The compromise was he would be buried far away from the dead who did not commit a mortal sin.  I love to share this story. It's such a comfort that even then, people could recognize depression is not a choice.

As I finished telling that, I began my next tale. As I open my mouth to speak, I catch James out of the corner of my eye. He is looking at his shoes. I thought he may not want to look inside the cemetery. I can feel that electric feeling like before a storm raises all the hairs on my arms. I turned my body to point at the chapel and I saw him. A figure wearing a long white nightshirt. The white color of the almost floor length shirt was clear, but also hazy. I could see the hint of a body beneath, features were blurred, but I could see him walking casually through for a moment before just disappearing from my vision. His steps made no sound and the candles around him flickered undisturbed. It was so clear and quick it felt like no time had passed between him being here and gone. I exclaimed, "who is that?!" At the same time, a woman with us who was listening screamed. She was pointing in the cemetery. I said, "did you see him too?" I look at James and he is looking at me knowingly with a small smile. It entertains him that after all my experiences, they still surprise me. The woman on the tour was shaking and her boyfriend was holding her. She told us she's seen things before, but never so clearly. I look at James as I realize the candles encircling the graveyard, paired with the lingering energy of Halloween, seemed to create a portal. The graveyard teemed with flickering shadows and ethereal lights, bustling with an energy as vivid as a weekend market but infinitely more haunting. The guests were abuzz, Storytime came to an abrupt halt as we all stared into the cemetery, the glow of phone screens adding to the flickering candlelight.

Orbs floated on screens as voices rose, adding to the glow of candlelight—a moment alive with supernatural awe. I leaned on James and watched as we realized we had given these few guests a brief glimpse of what we see every night. I know that night changed lives and perspectives. If anyone there was a skeptic, they were a skeptic no more. I believe it was the man buried in the corner. Since then, at the very least, an orb appears floating near me as I tell his story. He may be grateful he is finally not “The Bride” or some other random legend. He is seen. 

Nights like these are rare, but when the stars align and the moon shines over the darkness, it can pull back the curtain on the afterlife, leaving skeptics and believers alike peering into the veil, forever wondering what truly lies beyond.

Ready to uncover more of St. Augustine’s haunted past? Join Kindred Spirits Tours for an unforgettable ghost tour experience!

Echoes of the Past: A Step in Time Through St. Augustine’s Haunted Legacy

I have always loved wandering around the historic St. Augustine streets. The clack of my boots on the brick roads gives the narrow, dark path a rhythm. The streets feel alive. The sound resonates through history. Bricks with names like “Graves” next to an Auntie Ann’s Pretzel perfectly encapsulates the essence of this town I love, somehow modern and ancient at the same time. The names remind me that I am one of thousands to step through the city. One day, I’ll be just another echo in the past—a ghost story in a town that feels crowded even on its emptiest days. Walking to the parking garage on a dark street, I see someone sitting on a stoop. They take a sip of a bottle and I have to look twice. They have that shimmer, as though they are not fully uploaded into reality yet. I pick up the pace and hope he doesn’t stand up to follow me. I am not a fan of the drunk spirits.

I am a medium. I know it’s quite the claim—one I don’t share lightly. To me, it always sounded too unbelievable. When I moved closer to St. Augustine and began working ghost tours in the historic district, I noticed how many shadows the city hosted. Bodies without bodies, shuffling through the motions of life. Most don’t even notice the way I pause to stare before shaking my head and refusing to acknowledge what I saw. Some do see me though. A wise man once told me, “If you see them, they see you.” and this fact made my frequent stops at the cemeteries a mostly terrifying experience. Staring through the gates and seeing shadows form into people and those people begin to slide or crawl closer to the gates. If they approach, they usually want one of two things. To be heard or to be released. I can only offer one. 

So, I made it my goal to learn their stories. Not the legends created to make the tourists “ooh” and “ahh”. Not a quick script to captivate a large crowd. I love all of those things. I am a frequent guest on the Ghosts and Gravestones Trolley (mostly to get into that Old Jail). I wanted to create something for people like me, for the spirits who are lost. The idea that someday we may die and become legendary sounds great until your hard work in life gets boiled down to a grave robbery and a shambling ghost tale. If I’m going to join the unliving someday, I’m going to make one heck of a story. And for now, I’m going to tell them. 

“Ghosts are history’s way of reminding us that the past is never truly gone—it lingers, waiting to be told.”

— Steven King

From Passion to Paranormal: The Origins of Kindred Spirits Tours

We focus on history first. Every ghost story begins with a living soul (well, most of them). They lived, loved and died. For one reason or another they stayed. Spirits long for their true stories to be told. We tell our tales with reverence and research. The company was started by two people who fell for each other over spiritualism and texting historical documents and that energy carries through the stories we tell. 

We chose the pub crawl as a venue for these tales because it creates an intimate setting. By settling in cozy historic taverns, the atmosphere itself becomes a conduit for the past—stories linger in the air, just waiting to be told. Instead of standing outside a building, we gather, raise a glass, and speak like friends—breathing life into history. Guides truly guide you through the history and hopefully leave guests with new experiences to bring home to tell themselves. 

Passion is the foundation of this tour. You will never have a moment of rehearsed, drab tales. Every night, we honor history with fresh stories, shared in good company—with spirits in every sense of the word. 

I began considering this venture while working with a different tour company. My boyfriend and biggest supporter, James, was already leading pub crawls. On my nights off, I’d head out ahead of him to chat with the bartenders. I am a local personality and we quickly discovered the locals here loved us and encouraged us to branch out on our own. It’s no small feat to have the kind of tour that the waitresses listen in on. This love for storytelling extended beyond the taverns—into the streets, where my vision began to unfold. One evening as he and I told our personal experiences, I saw the vision so clearly:

Imagine sitting in a dimly lit tavern, sipping a signature cocktail, as a story of love, loss, and lingering spirits unfolds around you. Tales told by two people who loved to teach about the spirit realm and get excited to share research. A truly unique experience fueled by both the guide and the guest. In that moment, Kindred Spirits Tours began.

From those early conversations with bartenders to the tours we offer today, that local spirit has always been at the heart of haunted pub crawls. We share not just stories, but a connection to the community that made this dream possible.

When you take a Kindred Spirits Tour, you have that sense of community as well. The community’s support and encouragement radiates through every tour we give. From the suggested drinks to the friendly staff, you will feel that camaraderie that exists with locals. The locals have shared chilling tales and hidden histories with us—ones we’re excited to reveal in future blogs. But the best way to hear them? Come take a tour and discover the stories that aren’t in the guidebooks.

As my dream started to take shape, James and I included a close friend, Ryann, and the tours went from dream to reality. Here’s what makes each tour a unique and unforgettable experience, crafted for every guest—even the most seasoned ghost tour aficionado.