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.