Having spent my K-12 years in Wichita, I am ashamed to say that I never went ghost hunting. Kansas is bursting with creepy legends and haunted sites: there’s the alleged gateway to hell in Stull, the ghosts of General Custer and his wife in the barracks of Fort Riley, and the plethora of spooks and spirits in Atchison. Closer to home is the Hutchinson Public Library, where the ghost of former librarian Ida Day Holzapfel is said to reside, and the mysterious little girl at Robinson Middle School who bangs on the lockers after dark. Despite these opportunities for adventure, however, I was always too wimpy to get acquainted with the spectral citizens of the ICT. So, to make up for my lost years (and to benefit future seekers of the supernatural), I took an abbreviated journey around the area’s most famous haunts.

The first stop on my list was Theorosa’s Bridge, a remote area around Valley Center where, according to legend, a Native American woman named Theorosa lost her baby when white settlers snatched the child and threw it into the rushing water. Theorosa’s ghost reportedly haunts the bridge, appearing whenever passersby summon her with the words “Theorosa, I have your baby!” Unfortunately, Theorosa’s Bridge seems to have lost its fright factor over the years. According to reports from previous investigators, this landmark once consisted of a rickety wood and iron bridge accessible only by a long hike through dark, empty fields. However, the original bridge burned down — twice — in the 70s, and the replacement is a far less intimidating concrete structure. Graffiti covers almost every surface; there is almost more artificial color visible than blank concrete. Depicted as a “place of great sadness” by almost every website I could find, Theorosa’s Bridge is more properly described now as a place of great boredom. Drive out on a Friday night, and it’s likely that the only specters you’ll find haunting the bridge are crowds of Valley Center teenagers. Any possible eeriness will probably be driven away by country music blasting through the speakers of someone’s pickup truck. The creepiest part of the journey is undoubtedly the drive to the bridge; empty, unlit gravel roads make for an uncomfortably horror movie-esque setting.

My next goal was to investigate the Vickridge Children Statues. Urban myth holds that a robber once broke into a house in east Wichita’s Vickridge neighborhood, and the children living there (home alone at the time) bolted from the house, attempting to escape over the wall surrounding their backyard. However, the robber shot and killed them, and their parents, mad with grief, erected statues of the children that mimicked their last panicked moments. Although the house is not rumored to be haunted, the statues are apparently chilling to see: the look on each child’s face is of complete terror. In my quest to find these statues, however, I was disappointed to learn that they were recently taken down, most likely due to overly curious neighbors and strangers (like me)
trying to sneak a peek.

My final phantom chase took me out to Bel Aire, where the water tower reportedly houses the trapped ghost of a man who attempted to climb the tower during its construction. The man fell to his death, and when the building crew discovered what had happened, they had two options: dismantle the project, remove the body and start over, or continue from where they had left off the day before. They chose the latter, and visitors can now hear the ghost tapping on the walls of the tower, trying to alert someone to help him escape.

The Bel Aire water tower won the creepiness competition hands down, but its success was more closely tied to the area’s surroundings than to the actual ghost story. Driving toward Bel Aire in the middle of the night was like driving into oblivion. A few houses dotted the scenery, but there wasn’t a soul in sight after my sister and I got off the highway. The roads, similar to those past Valley Center, were narrow and empty. Once we entered city limits, the tower loomed alarmingly close on our left. Its bulbous white body stood out starkly against the cloudy sky, a red airplane light topping what was easily the tallest structure around. We approached the tower and waited, but heard no tapping. On the contrary, it was the absence of sound and life that had us so jumpy. There was no one else out that night. We were alone, and terrified of unknown company. A line of trees borders the dirt road that leads to the tower, creating a perfect hiding place for shifty strangers and creations of my paranoid brain. Pre-storm winds rustled through the branches, muting any possible tower-related noises. A threatening bolt of lightning suddenly illuminated the sky, and we took the oncoming storm as permission to flee the premises.

I could have expanded my research to include Resthaven Cemetery, where numerous visitors have reported hearing children’s voices and seeing vague white apparitions. To be perfectly honest, however, I was too chicken to confirm or disprove these rumors myself. An old bridge? Okay. A water tower? No problem. But a pitch-black graveyard, with countless rows of headstones and coffins underfoot? I don’t think so. Anyone who spends the night in a cemetery is a) completely out of their mind, b) renting a room at the White Glove Motel, or probably c) both. I’m not overly superstitious, but these stories hint at more preternatural activity than my nerves can handle. If you want to play Ghost Busters in Resthaven, folks, you’re on your own.

The fear factor of my investigations proved 100 percent psychological, zero percent paranormal. However, I’m still open to the possibility of supernatural events—if someone can provide actual evidence. Have you encountered anything otherworldly in Wichita? Did the lights flicker in your Broadview Hotel room? Did doors mysteriously open and close during your classes in WSU’s Wilner Auditorium? We want to know!

(Image Credit)

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