In death, as in life, Andrew Jackson is kind of a dick. At least, that’s what I learned Monday night on my professionally-curated ghost tour of Lafayette Square. Apparently our spectral seventh president makes a habit of blowing cigar smoke in tourists’ faces. When Mary Todd Lincoln spotted Old Hickory haunting the White House, she noted that the president was particularly vulgar, muttering profanities to himself. Not that she’s an altogether sane witness, but would you expect any different from a president who was, objectively, batshit insane?
I was skeptical of the whole ghost tour idea, but then I found out that D.C. is considered “America’s Most Haunted City,” according to D.C. Ghost Tours. If we can’t trust a ghost tour company, who can we trust? After that, I was more than excited—if a bunch of hippies and their talking dog got to have supernatural adventures every week, I could spot a ghost in the District, right? I strapped on my Proton Pack, started humming the Ghostbusters theme song, and headed out to find some ghouls. Maybe D.C. Ghost Tours would be my gateway to the paranormal.
Meeting my group didn’t do a whole lot to assuage my initial skepticism. They were mostly middle-aged tourists and one little girl. She was visibly terrified, and the woman, who I assume was her wicked stepmother, was not helping—graphic accounts of real life murders do very little to sooth a terrified nine year old. Though I doubted our group, I immediately perked up when I met B.J., our “Spirit Guide.” A skinny, bearded man in full Victorian garb and carrying an oil lantern? Now we’re ready for some ghost hunting.
The tour itself was a kind of “Hollywood Star Tour” for the dead. We were led to the sites of the more historically significant hauntings in Washington, primarily located around Lafayette Square. Ever wonder where the ghost of Dolly Madison hangs out these days? Want to see where Philip Barton Key was shot in the groin? Take the tour, because I was too busy munching on Scooby Snacks to remember.
This was no haunted hayride. B.J. had a lengthy description of the history of every haunt we visited. Although far from scary, these mini history lessons actually made some of the supernatural claims seem fairly credible. If you were an arrogant Civil War general, wouldn’t you haunt the museum that displays your severed leg, a la Daniel Sickles? I know I would. Unfortunately, nobody on the tour spotted any ghosts—not surprising, but disappointing all the same. As our group dispersed, there was palpable dismay. It was as if everybody had just realized that B.J., our trusted Victorian Spirit Guide, was simply Old Man Jenkins in a rubber mask.
