“Hello, everyone. I’m Blake Cross and this is Ghost Trackers. In the late 1920s a death cult formed deep in the Nebraska heartland. It’s founder and leader, Maxwell, a former welder and charismatic man from Oregon, believed that experiencing intense fear was the only way to truly find yourself and bring yourself closer to God. In just over a year, he had recruited over a hundred members to his cult and it is reported that they came from all walks of life: bankers, doctors, soldiers, factory workers, political activists, and the terminally unemployed. However, despite their variance in backgrounds, these men all had one unique thing in common: a desperate desire to find inner peace.
“And they believed the teachings of Maxwell would be their path to this peace.
“Unfortunately though, for the followers of this particular cult, Maxwell’s path would bring many of them here. To Death Tower.
“Now, join me today as I climb the tower’s twisted stairs to its peak where between the years 1927 to 1929, some sixty-seven people either jumped to their deaths from the tower’s window or were thrown out by Maxwell himself.
“But it’s not the deaths that occurred here that we’re most interested in, but what has remained here since then. What causes the screams and bizarre chants that can be heard from this place late at night? Is it just the wild imaginations of those who live within earshot of this place? Or is it something more—something dark and sinister? Because as we’ve witnessed so many times before on Ghost Trackers, while the body may die, the spirit lives for eternity.
Welcome to Ghost Trackers.”
Matt made the “cut” sign with his hand and I pulled a pack of Bubbleyum out of my pocket and tossed a piece in my mouth.
“Great opener, boss,” Goldie said.
I nodded and looked up at the tower. “Yeah, the hicks in the sticks will love it. No doubt about that.” I let out a little chuckle. “Master’s degree in English and journalism from NYU and now I’m doing this shit.”
“Still better than the garbage most of television puts out these days,” Chad said.
I popped a bubble and spit the gum onto the grass. “Ain’t that the truth. OK boys and girls, it’s just me and the mini-cam from here on out. Give me an hour and then we’ll get the hell out of here.”
Matt walked over and handed me the black Sony camera. I then walked up to the tower’s door and put my hand around the handle. It was cool to the touch, chilly actually, and a good place to start filming.
I hit record. Showtime.
“I’m entering the tower now and I’ll tell you, the handle on the door here is surprisingly cold. This is interesting because as we’ve seen so many times on the show before, ghostly activity is often accompanied by a significant drop in temperature.”
I pulled the door open and was hit with the sight of a spiraling stone staircase and a smell like rotten potatoes. The staircase spiraled all the way to the top.
“Wow, this is something,” I said as I raised the camera. “As you can see there’s a tight, spiraling stone staircase that runs to the top of the tower. It looks like it loops around a good six or seven times before you hit the top. It’s also as chilly in here as the door handle was. A good—or bad—sign, depending on how you look at it.”
Ha. The dum dums would love that.
I put my foot on the first step. Nice and solid. I started walking up.
“No one’s really sure who built the tower. Some stories claim that Maxwell contracted the work to a private construction company while other believe he built the entire thing himself with the help of his followers.” I rounded the first curve. “I’ll tell you though, this tower was fantastically built. Extremely solid structure.”
I rounded the second turn.
“One thing that’s interesting is that while there are no windows until you reach the peak, there is ample light coming from the top to make it easy to see. I’ll tell you though, while the tower is a good thirty feet wide, this is no place for you if you’re suffer from claustrophobia. It’s just staircase and wall in here. Almost like you’re being squeezed upwards because there’s nowhere else to go.”
As I rounded the third and then the fourth turn the air seemed to get thicker and my breathing got a little heavy. “Phew, this is a better workout than I was planning. No wonder people wanted to take the fast way down after dealing with the climb up. OK, I’m rounding the fifth spiral now and it looks like I’ve got one more to go. I’m going to sign off for a bit until I get to the peak.”
That was the first time I’d said something like that. This climb was no joke and the bleakness of the place really sucked the wind out of your sails. But it was easily worth it. The show was doing great in its midnight slot and over 70,000 people had signed up to our website. Besides having to do ridiculous stuff like this, it was a profitable gig.
And then I was at the top.
The stairs ended at a round room with a smooth stone floor. The window was a lot bigger up here than it had seemed down on the ground—a good seven or eight feet wide and it looked like ten or so feet in height from the foot high ledge to the ceiling. I panned the camera left and saw strange markings/writings that looked scratched into the wall.
“I’m at the top and this is very eerie,” I said as I panned the camera around the room. “I would by lying if I said I didn’t want
