We weren't supposed to be inside Fort Lauderdale's Evergreen Cemetery that night. But a photographer and I hopped the fence anyway. All that came to mind was that ridiculous Scooby Doo episode in which the fence suddenly disappears behind a mysterious fog and the gang is confronted by the dastardly ghost of Ebeneezer Crabb.
The trees swayed back and forth, bending toward us disapprovingly. A cracked cement path wound around the graves, taking a massive after-life roll call: Degville, Vincentius, "Crazy Gregg" ("the Godfather of Spring Break"), Dichtenmueller, Murgatroyd (Heavens to!), Lowell. Yep, they were all present and accounted for.
At the north end of the cemetery, under one of the numerous shade trees was a small wicker chair and a black sign: Babyland. It pointed toward a gathering of tiny headstones, the largest of which was shaped like the head of Mickey Mouse, with eyes peeking out over tall weeds.
To the right of a massive gnarled tree covered in moss and to the east of Babyland was what looked like a small house. Crickets chirped an ominous tune in unison as we walked closer. A white-and-gray marble building marked "Huizenga" loomed before us. Now, I'm pretty sure we were the only people in the graveyard that night. There could have been someone else lurking around, trying to scare us, which would have been pretty wrong, but it was possible.
As if on cue, the wind picked up at that moment. A sound like change jingling in someone's pocket broke the crickets' symphony, and I looked at my friend, who was a few feet behind me. It's in situations like this when the mind unwillingly unlocks those caverns of anxiety and fills them with adrenaline. The wind suddenly becomes a sinister harbinger, and the smallest sound is like thunder crashing.
She quickly snapped three digital photos, lighting up the immediate area with a flash. I looked at the viewer. Two of the snapshots showed nothing, but the third displayed two bright orange streaks of light: one jetting out of a headstone, the other from a tree branch. Ruh-roh! It was time to g-g-g-get outta there. We started walking, then running, making sure not to look over our shoulders.
We had been sent to Evergreen by Brian Roesch, a South Florida ghost hunter whose knowledge of Fort Lauderdale history has spurred him to investigate the paranormal. Evergreen is just one of many supernatural hot spots, Roesch says, and it is also one of South Florida's largest intact cemeteries. In 1911, a funeral director moved many bodies from what is currently Southside School on Andrews Avenue to the newly created graveyard in southeast Fort Lauderdale. There are Civil War veterans buried here. Victims of the deadly 1926 hurricane are interred in unmarked graves. There's a Jewish section and crypts of members of Fort Lauderdale's founding families including the Stranahans, Bryans, Kings, Cromarties, and Olivers.
"Ghost hunting is more an obsession for me than a hobby," the 33-year-old Roesch says while strolling through Evergreen Cemetery at dusk just a few weeks before Halloween. "It's fun to walk around and take pictures, but there comes a point when you want answers."
The term "ghost hunter" causes most people to think of that frantic guy with the big white mustache from the TV show Sightings, the one who's always desperately calling out for paranormal attention ("There's a ghost! There's a ghost in the mirror! Hello? Hellooo?"). That's not Roesch's bag. He is an immediately likable guy, dressed in a button-down tropical print shirt and black dress pants, his hair neatly combed to the side.
He's a big brother type: affable, conversational but also a bit reserved. Roesch has been investigating haunted Fort Lauderdale for the past three years. According to him, residents who live across the street from Evergreen claim to have seen an apparition of a lady walking by the gates of the cemetery, and there have been sightings of this same "lady in white" near the Huizenga crypt, where H. Wayne's parents are laid to rest. "I've been to this location several times in hopes of spotting the apparition myself," Roesch says, adjusting his sunglasses and wiping sweat off his brow. "But with no luck. Every time I walk past that crypt, though, my heart starts racing. I set up my EMF meter, which measures the electrical frequency in the air, and it started going crazy."