In the darkest, bone chillingly coldest month of the year, I give to you two ghost stories that happened to me at this same time of year, many years ago. 

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Colonial Williamsburg, it's a part of Williamsburg, Virginia, that has been restored to the way it looked back in the 1760's. Since Williamsburg was the capitol of Virginia at the time, Colonial Williamsburg takes itself pretty seriously. There are reenactors in costume, the stores sell the same goods they did long ago, and the food is apparently cooked from the same recipes they used back in the day. You can even stay in the historical district in buildings that are in their colonial dressings. Honestly, it's just a big old tourist trap, but there are many people who don't care about that part.

When I was eighteen, my parents decided that for that Christmas, we would be staying in Colonial Williamsburg, in one of the old buildings. It wasn't terribly exciting because once you've been there once, you've seen everything there is to see, but it would be a change from the usual holiday routine, and the novelty of that was enough that I was a willing participant. 

The way Williamsburg works, you pay for your room, board, and meals in their entirety months before you actually go. It's not cheap, either. I include this detail because it means that my family had already paid quite a bit of money before I learned the nature of the building where we would be staying. Apparently, this building was reserved for the lodging of the enslaved people owned by slaveowners visiting the area. If true, it's horrifying, disrespectful, and absolutely tasteless of the establishment to use such a place as a glorified AirBnB. Happy holidays- here's a five star room where people used to be held as chattel property against their will! I've tried to either validate or disprove this, but all it says for the history of the house on the Colonial Williamsburg site is: "An original eighteenth century building." The house is called the Quarter, which doesn't bode well to me. 

But I was the only one who seemed to mind and we'd already made the commitment, so on we went. 

We arrived on Christmas Eve. The rest of my family went out to see the sights while I stayed home to take a shower. Even though I was home alone, I locked the bathroom door just like I always do. The lock was a latch with a metal bar going across the gap between the door and the frame and the fit was so snug that I wondered if I would have trouble getting out. But that was a problem for future me, so I went ahead with my shower.

I hadn't been in there long when I heard a very loud BANG!  I stuck my head out of the curtain and stared in shock. The locked door was wide open. The first thing that went through my head was how impossible that was, and yet, it was. Had my family come home? Had someone played a prank? I called out. No response. 

I threw on a towel and checked the entire house- not difficult since it was a tiny place with very few hiding spots. The house was empty. The street outside was deserted, and there was nothing in the back yard, and anyway all the doors were still locked. Once I was satisfied that I was alone I went back up to the bathroom.

"Whoever did that," I called out, "I don't want any trouble. I just want to finish my shower in peace." With that, I turned the water back on and did indeed finish my shower in peace. 

Then I tested the door. Even throwing my whole body weight against it while it was unlocked, it didn't budge. The only way I could recreate the bang I'd heard was by using the side of my fist. And for the latch to unlock itself? I had no earthly explanation for that. It was so tight there's no way it popped or fell out. I had exhausted all the mundane theories I could think of.

I don't know if whoever opened the door was angry with me for being a tourist in a place that should have been treated with more regard to its horrific past, or if it was some kind of colonial pervert. Whoever it was, I don't think they meant any harm. Nothing else happened for the rest of our stay, and I don't know why that would be, either. But this occurrence only marked the beginning of a paranormal, colonial Christmas. 

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The next town over from my hometown is Bedford, Virginia. It's the epitome of a small, quiet, agricultural Appalachian town. The tiny downtown area is stuffed with charming antique stores and cafes, and rolling outwards from the center are streets of gorgeous Victorian and craftsman homes. Before very long, trees infiltrate the streets like floodwater and eventually the small patch of civilization gives way to the forest. Bedford has been given the nickname of "tiny Ireland" because once you head out of town, you'll find pastures and mountains as emerald as Ireland itself.

And just like Ireland, Bedford is extremely haunted.

One of the most iconic ghosts of Bedford makes her home at Avenel, a historic home not far from downtown. It was built in 1836 by the Burwell family. The home's history has been troubled since day 1, as it was a plantation that exploited the labor of enslaved African Americans in order to turn a profit. The soil was already soaked with human suffering as the Burwell family, one that came from money and status, moved in.

Three Burwell children were born at Avenel to join the two original daughters for a total of five children. James Burwell, the only boy, died in infancy. The family experienced a reprieve from death for many years as they lived on the backs of slaves in comfort. Being slaveowners, the Burwell family supported the betrayal of the Union and southern secession. Robert E. Lee was a close personal friend of theirs and stayed at Avenel with his wife. Mary Frances, one of the Burwell daughters, would grow up and marry a Confederate captain. While touring nearby battlegrounds and campsites, she contracted typhoid and died just four months after her wedding. Her husband would go on to continue to fight against the emancipation of African Americans until the end of the war, when he threw himself in front of enemy fire.

The family would continue to die, one by one, over the next several decades. Their fortunes were squandered until only two daughters, Rosa and Lettie, were left. The sisters fought bitterly about what to do with Avenel, with Rosa eventually suing Lettie, who died during the lawsuit. The house then passed into the hands of the Ballard family. One of the Ballard descendants sold the house to the Avenel Foundation, who keeps it in lovely condition to this day.

The commonly told story about the Lady in White is that she is the ghost of Mary Frances, whose husband went to war and never came back. Of course, we know that Mary passed away years before he did, so this theory doesn't personally ring quite true to me. Other people say that the Lady is Letitia, who died while fighting for ownership of the home, still there in the home she spent her life in. With the length of time the Burwells spent in Avenel and the antebellum gown and parasol the Lady wears, it is quite reasonable to assume that she is one of the Burwell girls. Even before the Lady was sighted, people in the home constantly heard, and continue to hear, the sounds of rustling hoopskirts and taffeta. The apparition of the Burwell patriarch in repose in his coffin has been seen in one of the front rooms, where historical record confirms his wake was held.

However, all four of the sisters kept journals recording the ins and outs of their lives while they lived at Avenel. They all wrote of rappings on the wall that kept the family awake at night. On one occasion, some unearthly force created such a ruckus that Mr. Burwell believed a burglar had broken in and even grabbed his rifle to confront the invisible intruder. These same knockings are still heard today, and in the early 2000's, when a paranormal show came to Avenel to document the hauntings, one of the rooms began to shake so violently that the camera crew fled.

Whatever walks the halls of Avenel did so before any of the Burwells died. The voices of man and children have been heard, and perfume with no earthly source has been smelled inside its walls. To me, Avenel does not seem to be so much haunted as it is... restless.

What stands out to me the most about the story of Avenel is not the deaths of the Burwells, but rather the way they lived their lives. For decades, they chose to maintain a luxurious lifestyle by enslaving people and denying them their fundamental human rights. They were in favor of betraying their country and spilling the blood of thousands in order to preserve that lifestyle. They squandered their wealth on investments instead of sharing it with their community. They fought amongst each other until there wasn't anyone left alive to fight. It is my personal opinion that these choices, the pain and strife that the Burwells caused each other and the community they were a part of, that is more responsible for the restlessness of Avenel than the death of any one person.

Perhaps the Lady in White is Mary Frances, or perhaps she is Letitia. Perhaps she is merely a manifestation of the pain and regret of the Burwells, concentrated in one geographical spot in Bedford, Virginia. I hear she's been moved on, though I'm not sure if it's true. Personally, I don't believe that Avenel will be able to rest until the legacy of the Burwells, and that of the many other families like them, is properly addressed. I don't know of a way to heal that pain, and it's an injury that reaches out far beyond one tiny, quaint town nestled in the Appalachains. Until then, I cannot say that we have seen the last of the Lady in White of Avenel.

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There are so many people in this world who do whatever they feel like doing and face no consequences. No one ever knows, or if they do, these people can charm, lie, pay, or intimidate them into keeping their mouths shut. They can hurt, they can cheat, steal, fight, seduce, smuggle, and even kill to their heart's delight. They aren't like the rest of us. The rest of us have to follow the rules, stay within the lines, do as we're told, and if we ever cross those lines, we get punished severely. We get fines, tickets, community service, jail time. We lose what little good social standing we had to begin with. We get society turning its back on us, leaving us in our shame. Most of us don't get the things we want, or even half of it.

For some of us, there's no way we'll let those bastards get away with it.

Most of us fear death. It's unknown. It takes us away from the ones we love. We no longer walk the earth, no longer laugh or sing, no longer taste food or wine. But what if, instead, death was a way for us to transcend social norms? Those awful rules that keep us from pursuing our heart's desire no longer keep us at bay. Those consequences to our actions no longer apply. 

There's one woman who shares a hometown with me who may have spent her afterlife dragging the powerful back down to earth.

Roanoke, Virginia, is at the bottom of a green valley deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Its nickname is the Star City of the South. But before the giant neon star that gave it that name was erected at the top of Mill Mountain, there was something else watching over its inhabitants.

Let's look backward through time at the turn of the century.  Roanoke is a railroad town, and the coal that was torn out of the belly of the Appalachians and shipped off to power the rest of the country passed through Roanoke by train. Even though it's still quite small, Roanoke's the largest city in the region by far, so every wealthy coal merchant and politician in the region found themselves in Roanoke.

They were living the high life! I imagine they spent their time in clubs, smoking cigars, drinking absinthe, having their way with women of the night. Why would they care about their wives and children at home alone?  What did anything matter, if it didn't immediately gratify them? These men had everything they wanted, and they weren't going to start treating the people around them better out of the goodness of their hearts any time soon.

In early 1902, their immovable hedonism met a supernatural force. 

One by one, as these wealthy pillars of society drunkenly stumbled home in the wee hours of the morning, they would hear another step of footsteps behind them. Unlike their shambling shuffles, these footsteps were steady and confident. The men would turn around and their bleary, glassy eyes would find a woman close behind them. 

She was dressed all in black, with a black turban hiding most of her face, except for her eyes. They were hypnotic, magnetic, dark, and they stared right through their quarry. She was short in stature, but her presence was enormous. The man in question would have never seen someone quite like her. She was mysterious and intense, yes, but there was something about her that wasn't quite right. There was something about her that was downright unnatural.

Suddenly, they would feel fear. Who was this woman? Why was she following them? What was wrong with her? They would try to move faster, stumbling and unsteady after a long night spent with bottles and opium. She would continue to follow, relentless, silent but for her steady footsteps. No matter what anyone tried, they couldn't shake her.

Quietly, she would follow these men to their homes at a time both in the day and in history in which the strict social bounds of the day demanded that a woman should never be outside so late, and certainly not unaccompanied. But that did not stop this woman. No matter how late the hour, or how long the walk, she escorted these men straight home. When they eventually made their way to the gate of their home, they would open it, step inside, and then look back. Invariably, the woman would be long gone, vanished into thin air, her work complete.

This didn't just happen once, or even a few times. Even though she only followed married men, the entire town was in terror, and the hauntings were documented in the local newspaper, the Roanoke Times. 

I imagine the biggest shock wasn't her unearthly presence, her unnatural behavior, the impossible way that she would appear and disappear. It wasn't even her brazen violation of social norms that struck fear into people's hearts. It was her ability to do what nothing else at the time could. It was the way that she made these untouchable men feel fear. She was not someone who could be bought, charmed, or even killed. She was judgment. She was the manifestation of the guilt they should have felt but didn't. She was the conscience they'd left years behind. 

She did what no one else could. She made sure that they wouldn't get away with it.