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

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!