A True Hero - Forget Him Not

Not everything is as it seems, and as a Keeper of Secrets I know this much better than most.

Before I share the next story of the dead allow me to delve a little into the world of secrets, and why certain things should never come to “Light”.

First allow me to introduce you to “Light”, a word that is actually a symbol, with a meaning that would seem to have an opposite, dark. But the “Light” we are talking about has NO OPPOSITE, its impossible. Even the label of “Light” causes one to assume there is an opposite, its the way we roll.

Light versus dark, cold versus hot, east versus west, on and on we go creating opposites. As a Keeper of Secrets I do not necessarily see the way you do, by transcending dualism, the world of opposites, death and life are now. Light allows me to see even in what you perceive to be dark, my ears hear clearly, my eyes see clearly, and I feel clearly what you perceive to be dead. There is no death.

“Death is a stripping away of all that is not you. The secret of life is to "die before you die" --- and find that there is no death.”...The Power of Now

Now allow me share with you the story of Stephen Wentworth, a young man that should not be forgotten.

Every grave tells its own story, and not all stories are filled with sugar and spice.

As is the story of Stephen Wentworth, a very young Lieutenant, Gilmore Medal winner, and forgotten hero who is buried in Forest Glade Cemetery, a soldier that holds no bitterness towards those that forgot him.

I first came upon the grave of Lieut. Wentworth very early in my wanderings. The sadness I felt that very first encounter still remains within my being.

Stephen's Own Words - As Received by Obadiah Storm

Although I consider myself a man of little words, I feel compelled as of late to articulate the sorrow I feel for the many losses the families of my fallen comrades have endured,

My family, like many of those of my fallen comrades after me, sadly endured the loneliness of burying one of their own without the usual pomp and ceremony accorded those who fell early in the war between the States, a time when the body of the fallen hero was escorted by color guards, Mounted Marshal’s, and a town of mourner’s. By the time of my death the war had taken its toll, the people of Somersworth no longer found the burial of a fallen soldier a solemn event.

How soon they forget.

Yet I hold no bitterness, just sadness, a sadness reserved for my parents, a loving couple that bore the loneliness of burying a child two months before his twenty first birthday, a hero in their eyes, and yet just another loss in the eyes of a war weary community.

I will speak no longer of the events of my burial; suffice to say it was a sad day for my family.

As to the events of my death, one link of the chain leads to the next, the end of the chain coming in Deep Bottom.

Two months before my death I was wounded in the Battle of Cold Harbor. It was at this time I felt the deep premonition of impending doom enter my bones; the date was the 6th of June, 1864. The trenches were hot, dusty, and miserable, but conditions were worse between the lines, where thousands of wounded Federal soldiers suffered horribly without food, water, or medical assistance, Hell was on earth, and cries filled the air.

Our General, Grant, was reluctant to ask for a formal truce that would allow him to recover his wounded because that would be a signal he had lost the battle. He and Lee traded notes across the lines without coming to an agreement, and when Grant formally requested a two-hour cessation of hostilities, it was too late for most of the unfortunate wounded, who were now bloated corpses. On June 4, Grant tightened his lines by moving Burnside's corps behind Matadequin Creek as a reserve and moving Warren leftward to connect with Smith, shortening his lines about 3 miles. On June 6, Early probed Burnside's new position but could not advance through the impassable swamps. It was during this time I was wounded.

Although not serious enough to return to the rear, the battle was over for me, and a lot of my fallen brothers.

The Battle of Cold Harbor was a victory for Lee's army, and doom entered my mind.

My young body would heal rapidly, yet I could not shake the feeling that bad things were just around the corner, and I was right.

August 13th, 1864 we had arrived “North of the James”, it was here between the James River and Malvern Hill we were sent to engage a rebel defensive position protecting Richmond.

A shiver raised every hair on my body as I looked over the map; the place was called Deep Bottom, adjacent to a river and another southern swamp.

After a sleepless night of nerves and chills we made our way to the rear of the rebel stronghold, a flanking strategy General Grant would become famous for. At nightfall, without rest, we were ordered to relieve Gregg’s Calvary on one of the main roads to Richmond.

We didn’t stand a chance; the rebel sharpshooter’s pinned us down, and riddled us to death.

How I got home was a courtesy from my enemy, a few days after that fatal day the rebels returned my body to the Union, in an exchange only a warrior would understand.

Here I lay now a forgotten hero.

A small note from Obadiah: On the day Stephen Wentworth died 1,844 Union soldiers were killed, 9,077 were wounded, and 1.816 was missing or captured. That is 12,737, almost the same population as Somersworth today.

The Dead Do Talk - And I Hear Them

It's very rare, very rare indeed when I'm allowed to share with you the insight of a spirit that deserves to be heard. It's not that the stories of the others are of least importance, if truth be told all have a depth of insight rarely encountered in the world of the living, but some just penetrate deep into your soul, resonating with the depth of your being, as you well surely see.

As a Historian of the Dead, and a Keeper of Secrets, attached to a section of New Hampshire that contains a sort of door that allows one if properly trained, to cross into a dimension where the dead can, will, and often communicate that which they feel must be revealed, I found myself upon this dimension just the other eve when I came across and aberration I have seen many times before but had been unable to contact. Sometimes communication has to unfold when the time is just right.

I am under no illusion that most will find what was shared with me that night confusing, or beyond belief, but it is not up to me to justify my abilities or belief system. You may believe the dead are gone, poof, no more, but I assure you just because your senses do not allow heightened experience don't think for a minute that all perceive the reality with limited senses.

Enough of an introduction, now the story, true to what I intuit. For those that would like to respectfully view the grave of Abel Stacy, he is located in the center of the Forest Glade Cemetery in Somersworth.

Who was Abel Stacy, and what secrets did he take to the grave?

In my experience with the dead, rarely does my awake consciousness allow me to talk with the departed, yet for some reason Abel allowed me direct access, although not verbally, to his train of thought.

Abel Stacy died in Somersworth 30 January 1879 and is buried in Forest Glade Cemetery.

During his life amongst the living Abel practiced Botanical Medicine, an alchemist of sorts, a “Keeper of Secrets”.

I had seen the ghostly Abel many times during my nightly forays to Forest Glade, yet he always appeared at the edge of the cemetery grounds and seemed to have little interest in my presence. I sensed he was more curious with his surroundings than the presence of a living entity walking amongst the dead.

Many times I would see his energy silhouette exploring the many plants, shrubs, and trees that bordered the burial ground, occasionally looking my way as if acknowledging my presence, than resuming his foraging.

Early one morning, close to Dead Time, when the veil between the dead and living is the thinnest, I observed Abel exploring a newly delivered planting that had been placed on the grave of a recent interment.

At this time I saw something I had never witnessed before, Abel seemed to be picking flowers from bouquet, an impossible task for one existing in another dimension, yet there in his hands were the colorful vibrating energy auras of the flowers, and yet, the actual flowers were still in the bouquet. It was as if Abel brought forth the essence of the flowers into the world of the dead, an alchemical transmutation.

As I stood visibly puzzled, I could hear Abel say “Don’t look so surprised my friend, there are many mysteries that are yet to be revealed, and one is the healing power of the flowers I hold within my hand.”

Although I spoke not a word with my tongue, I found myself communicating with a spirit that seemed receptive to my none verbal questions.

“Those flowers you hold in your hand or flowers in particular?” I asked.

“Depending on your condition.” he mentally responded.

Next he began explain how the energy contained within the flowers could work with the energy within our own bodies to bring about desired change.

“First you must understand that many diseases already exist within your body, they just have not manifested themselves yet. If it’s not bacterial, viral, or parasitic, all disease needs to manifest itself is the proper conditions and environment. In essence, the disease is already there just waiting for all the conditions necessary to bring it forth.”

I clarified what he said to see if I understood what he meant, “What your saying is, every disease already exists in a state of potentiality, and only arises when conditions allow it to raise its head.”

“Potentiality sounds about right, I call it the Field of God,” he responded gently, “a place where everything exists and only becomes visible when everything falls in place for it to arise.”

“In life,” he continued, “I attempted to cure the ill and informed through the use of botanical preparations, relying on the medicinal quality of certain plants to aid the body in curing itself.”

“A physician of sorts” I responded.

“Not in the traditional sense. My way was to find the best way for the body to heal itself, to reverse the conditions that allowed the disease to surface, as you may say, there by allowing the potentiality of health to arise. Most physicians, in my time amongst you, believed in the use of apothecaries and chemical preparations formulated to kill unwanted conditions, often using barbaric techniques to eradicate disease from the body with unwanted side effects. I used the bodies own vibration, magnetic, and energy system to return the body to its natural balance by using nature to heal nature.”

“What did you mean by Field of God?” I asked.

“Everything that will ever exist, including life, disease, death, and the future already exists, everything is already present, its just waiting for the proper conditions to manifest on the plane of what you call the living. Change is inevitable, impermanence is fact, and everything is either coming into or going out of existence, in and out of what I call the Field of God. I am dead, a fact I know, yet some day when the conditions are aligned I’ll be back. You are alive, yet some day you’ll be dead, but fear not everything recycles in the Field of God.”

“Time to go for now, the moon wanes,” he said as he seemed to disappear in the Field of God, “see you again my friend.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

Forget Not Your Knights of Pythias

It was the most beautiful of full moon evenings to roam the many avenues and pathways of Forest Glade last night, the clear cool air a pleasant surprise after the hot grass scorching weather we have been experiencing as of late. I assure you even the dead although clothed in a blanket of cool soil remember and avoid the overly hot and humid nights.

But last night all the right conditions came together to make roaming and listening to the stories of the dead a pleasure.

I encountered a gentleman that shared a candid conversation on the future of fraternalism, his fears, and his hopes. I assure you I will make our conversation known, it sometimes takes a bit for this Historian to put the pen to the paper.

It has been brought to my attention, by the higher ups, that it would be wise that I share the meaning of many of the engravings visitors may encounter in Forest Glade Cemetery. With that in mind I present with the stone George W. Merrow a brother of the Knights of Pythias.

If you look closely at the triangle above George's name, you will notice each angle has an engraved letter F, C, and B, Friendship, Charity, and Benevolence, with the K of P alluding to Knights of Pythias.

Founded February 19th, 1864, the Order is founded upon naught but the purest and sincerest motives. Its aim is to alleviate the suffering of a brother, succor the unfortunate, zealously watch at the bedside of the sick, soothe the pillow of the dying, perform the last sad rights at the grave of a brother; offering consolation to the afflicted, and caring, with all a brother's love, for the widow and orphan. Brotherly love and charity are the Pillars on which it rests; Friendship and Truth the bond and surety of its preservation. Peace on earth and goodwill toward men is the Orders objective.

I assure you when you come upon a stone engraved with the symbol of the Knight of Pythias you came across a good man.

The Devil Was In The Water

The telling of this story still pulls at the center of my being. Even in death more times than not the spirits I encounter during my visits to Forest Glade are male, far to often the loudest of the ones who desire to speak. I have learnt the gentleness of women even in death avoid midnight hours preferring pre-dawn the time when the machismo men sleep. It was during one of my pre-dawn wanderings I met Mary Clements.

As I came upon her ghostly silhouette her radiating grief slowed my pace. The morning was clear, lit by the setting crescent moon, yet as I approached the kneeling silhouette of Mary Clements the air seemed to fill with a fog, a fog like mist of thousands of ever so small tears.

As a Historian of the Dead it’s not really that unusual to come across a grieving spirit, but in Mary’s case the grief was overwhelming. Before I could tap into Mary’s story my perception scanned the grounds around the kneeling departed soul. What I saw brought a tear to my eye.

The following is the story of Mary Clements, may God relieve her soul.

Her crying was long and deep, yet the sound was barely perceivable, where she knelt was not where she was buried. The ground appeared wet although the weather had been dry, the tears of the dead. As she looked my way I heard what she needed to say;

“Samuel had been first to come down with the fever, although he thought little about it. He was my strong boy, twenty two and full of life, he complained little when the fever took his early manhood strength.

My regret is deep for I thought nothing of it; he was so strong, so young. Then the sweating and strange rose colored spots appeared out of nowhere.

I tried, God I tried, but I could not bring his fever down.

By the second week the fever stilled remained, but now my mild mannered Samuel became confused, his conversations made no sense. I prayed, iced his head, and prayed more, God please don’t take my Samuel.

It was during his confusion I knew he had the “nervous fever” a deadly killer that spread through bad water.

By the third week the fever seemed to subside, but the unusual swelling in his abdomen was a bad sign. A mother knows things others don’t; my precious Samuel was leaving home for good. My grief was too much to bear; I was soon to bury my child, a task no mother should bare.

Even before the loss of Samuel, my little Hiram began to burn up. I was so focused on his bigger brother that I forgot to protect Hiram, but what could I do?

By the time of Samuel’s funeral Hiram’s body was ablaze with the nervous fever.

Hiram was only fifteen, young and sensitive; he idolized his big brother Samuel. He followed his older brother in life, and now in death, he died twenty four days later.

The devil was in the water! By the time Hiram passed we knew the water was bad, and I also drank the water.

Halloween 1850, forty nine days after Samuel died and twenty five days after Hiram died, I died. Taken by an invisible devil that lived in the water, a devil named Typhoid.

Here I pray, here I mourn, and may the tears I shed be shed for all mothers that suffered the loss of a child."

I Have No Dog In This Fight - A Warning

As the Historian of the Dead and the Keeper of Secrets in the region known as Somersworth I have the duty to tell the stories of the dead, but before we continue allow me to share a secret with you, a secret you may believe or you may not depending on your level of awareness, everything has consciousness.

You may be asking, what does “everything has consciousness” mean and why write about it.

Call it a warning; the citizens of Somersworth are about to make a decision that has to be made, not making it has a dire consequence as making the wrong one.

The old High School is now closed. Allow me to share with you an observation you might find hard to believe, or you may not.

Structures, buildings, and homes are alive, maybe not in the way you perceive life, but they have an energy that is present as long as these structures are inhabited. Take away their interaction with life and they will also surely die.

From the day any structure, building, or home is designed to its completion energy created by interaction with the living gives these structures life, in the case of the old High School for years this stately structure has felt and absorbed decades of energy from the many children that passed through the doors. Shut the doors and the energy slowly dissipates, left vacant to long can be disastrous.

This can dire situation can be seen on a smaller scale in and about some of abandoned homes in our town. No matter how many live in a house and no matter how hard they treat that home the damage is always worse when empty. Nature is quick to reclaim the dead.

With that said, I have no dog in this fight, the possibility of reuse is up to the concerned citizens of Somersworth, all I ask is we don’t leave it nature to make the decision.

Read If You Dare - The History of Somersworth NH

What you have here is rare, very rare indeed. You have a history of a town as told through voices of those that lived it. Rare is a history told in this format, personal stories of love, stories of loss, and plenty of stories of death, a condition I know well.

Allow me to introduce myself; because of a strange twist of fate I am known as Obadiah Storm, a name conferred upon me during a ceremony that was once relatively common but is now rare, I am the Historian of the Dead and the Keeper of Secrets in my town.

Before you shake your head in disbelief please allow me to explain. I belong to a very old secret tradition of “listeners”, an order of highly intuitive and attentive individuals that have the ability and responsibility to tell the stories of the dead, something that must be done.

Under optimal conditions the stories of the dead would be revealed on a one to one basis, but conditions have certainly changed.

Years ago it was not uncommon for families visit cemeteries to walk amongst the stones, remembering and sharing stories of the deceased. Children were connected to long gone histories and tales of relatives and family friends, ancestory was important.

All too often today's cemeteries have become abandoned parcels of land devoid of contact with the living, a true death that even the dead don't deserve. A cemetery can only be kept alive with contact of the living.

Normally I would share my stories of the dead within the gates of the holy burial ground I'm assigned too as the Historian of the Dead and the Keeper of Secrets, but sadly I rarely encounter visitors, and when I do they usually run in fear, not because I'm scary looking, which some say I am, but because they aren't use to bumping the living amongst the dead, a truly sad state of affairs.

A listener is not necessarily a rare ability, its just one rarely discussed. My abilities should not necessarily be confused with the ordinary run of the mill psychics, of whom I do have respect, individuals that try to use an extraordinary sense as a way receiving images that may have meaning, or may not. My abilities, as you will see, is listening at a level that exceeds the vibrational auditory level experienced by most individuals. I have the ability to hear the dead at a range that involves listening with all five senses plus.

Because I am able to tap into this high level I also, for progression reasons, able to hold a conversation, not in images but an intuitive conversation with the deceased.

I do understand your skepticism, I've been there myself. In order to be a good listener it requires that you shut off the judge, that little voice in your head that plays “know it all” when the truth is it knows nothing.

It may seem strange to most but although I can actually hear the dead during the day the night offers much better conditions for one on one conversation. Just like the living the dead reside in what is known as a bardo, a very old word meaning an in-between state. We, the living, are in the bardo between birth and death, the deceased are in the bardo between death and rebirth. Accept what I share with you, or discount it, but at least consider it.

What you call soul, another may call spirit, which ever you choose we all have certain things we have to workout within the various bardos. In the world of the living your work may be spiritual, personal, or even collective in nature. In the realm of the deceased the soul or the spirit has its work to do also, but for some their work can not be done because of attachment for various reasons to the world of the living.

When this happens it may become necessary for me to intervene. Often just by allowing the dead to tell their story we are able to release the hold these departed ones have on this moment. Others I sense just stay around only because they just aren't ready to move on.

The truth is that the energy of spirits will slowly dissipate in due time, depending on how strong the spirits attachment is to the living world.

Those souls with unfinished business, or strong attachments to life or loved ones tend to linger in the “in between” until their family members pass or memories fade of why they wander in the first place.

Attachment is extremely dangerous during the death process, even worse is anger, dying in anger rarely allows the spirit to rest. This individual can walk amongst the in between for eons, unless this energy can be dissipated through some otherworldly intervention or banishing ritual, not something I recommend if your not sure what your doing.

For now, I think it would be wise to stick to stories I have received from some of the restless that want their story told, or need to have their stories told so they can enter the celestial realm.

Because of karma I have been assigned to a cemetery in southern New Hampshire, a burial ground named Forest Glade, nicknamed by the locals as the Black Cemetery, which has to do with the black iron fence that encircles the grounds.

Its not that I haven't heard the conversations in other locations it’s just that for some reason beyond my understanding I am much more in-tune with Forest Glade. I have no doubt this is where I will reside in the future.

Take my word for it that each and every story I present is real as intuitively related to me, doubt is understandable but with a small amount of research you will find the dates, times, and events I reveal to you are very accurate.

Between the stories related to me I will explain how I came by authority bestowed me; a tradition I fear may just disappear in the annals of history unless other listeners step forth. I promise that each and every spirit you are about to encounter is buried within the confines of Forest Glade, finding their grave will be easy, I will give you all the instructions you need. All I ask is that if you visit you provide the deceased the utmost respect as due, each and every individual spirit presented here is part of a history that has lead to this moment. The bigger picture is available to all those that refuse to be confined by limitations of belief.

As you hear the stories you will also be hearing the history of Somersworth itself, the smallest of cities, a city also stuck within a bardo.

The first story I would like to present to is that of Woodbury Lord a young man whom I met on one of my first evenings roaming the cemetery.

His story is one of sadness, but much less bitterness than I would of expected from a young man whose life was filled bad deals.

His grave is located directly behind the small chapel located behind the main-gate into the cemetery. On the stone you will find the familiar Civil War engraving bearing the 2nd N.H. Reg.

Before we begin with Woodbury's story it should be noted that Somersworth that Somersworth was a cotton town at the time the Civil War broke out. The large Mills located on the Salmon Falls River were by far the largest employer of Somersworth residents. Everything at this time seemed to revolve around cotton and when the threat of separation of States reared its ugly head townsfolk never thought twice about volunteering. Many of Somersworth's barely legal signed up in large numbers to prevent what would be a disaster to Somersworth's mill dependence on cotton, a pipeline that would surely be cut off if the South separated from the North, something that couldn't be allowed to happen.

Woodbury was one of those young men that felt the pull of the inner hero, the warrior each and every young man has an image off inside his mind. What Woodbury didn't realize, as you will surely see, by far the cost may surely outweigh the truth.

A gentle reminder, each and every person and place in Woodbury's story is factual, verifiable at any library.

The following are in Woodbury Lord's own words, as I have sensed them to be.

“Thank you for visiting my sad lonely stone resting in the shadow of this lovely chapel. Allow me to introduce myself.

My parents named me Woodbury Lord, but of course you may call me “Woody”, a nickname I received early in life, twice, first when I was a very young lad, and second when I returned from war with this wooden leg, the real leg taken by the hands of a Confederate surgeon, a butcher of sorts who plied his trade in a hellhole rebel prison located in Richmond Virginia.

Sadly I only roamed amongst you for a very short time before my life was taken from me by the hand of a friend.

If you must know, his name was Lorenzo, and where he rests, I know not.

How I came to rest so young among the souls of the departed can only be explained through a chain of events that were beyond my control, a chain of events that would end only for me when Lorenzo thrust that knife deep into my right side.

In the summer of 1861, I like many others from Somersworth, mustered into the 2nd New Hampshire Regiment to serve the North in what was called the “Great Rebellion”.

Seven short weeks later I would see the horrors no man should look upon in what was called the First Battle of Bull Run.

To describe the horrors of that day, or to describe the treachery that resides in the hearts of men at war would only cause undue fright to those that hear the tales. Suffice to say it was there I received the wound that would eventually cause me to loss my leg at the hands of that southern butcher of Richmond.

How I ended up in that Richmond prison, I remember little. Wounded and captured on the battlefield I was placed on a train. With little water and one cracker a day, in four days we prisoners arrived at Libby Prison, the name used in the annals of history.

Over fifty was our number, members of the 2nd New Hampshire, captive, starving, housed together in a building that once stored tobacco, now used to house America’s sons.

The stories I could tell of this hellhole I shall spare you, except for one, it was here, in this place no man should ever see, I meet two of the meanest the south ever breed.

The first was our guard, Wirtz, a man of ill manner and temperament, known as the “Dutch Sergeant”; he was the worst of the worst, only to be outdone by his superior, Lieutenant Todd.

For those of you that his name might not ring a bell, this despicable Lieutenant Todd was the brother of President Abraham Lincoln’s wife, a true hater of his sister’s husband and policies, a confederate to the bone.

Lieutenant Todd, when upon the street near our windows one day overheard some a conversation that did not suit him, drew his sword and rushed upstairs. Here he stabbed the first man he came across, wounding him so that he had to be removed to the dispensary.

Gloating over his victim he could be heard saying “Every dam Yankee ought to be served the same way.”

A favorite expression of his was, “I would like to cut Ole Abe’s heart out”.

Tall, fat, and surely cruel to the end, where he died I know not where.

Ten months I was imprisoned in Johnny’s hellhole, after which half starved, legless, and harmless I was paroled to make room for a new batch of sad unfortunates.

No use to the cause, I made my way home.

Planted deep within my mind was the demons of war, the atrocities man was capable of, and sight of brother killing brother, nightmares I could not shake.

For a year I tried, tried to forget the war, tried to sleep at night, and tried to find the good in man, yet all I found was war.

Within one year from my return home I would be dead.

I hold no ill will against Lorenzo, which would serve no good. In his own way, Lorenzo was also a causality of a war, a war that pitted brother against brother, and neighbor against neighbor.

This must never happen again.