(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator
George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere
in Time.” The column below, which was titled “Scariest experience was in
ancient Aztec temple,” was originally published in the Oct. 20, 1994 edition of
The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
With the coming of Halloween and the time for ghostly tales,
which much talk is hinged on the happenings of the supernatural, many
experiences come to mind.
As most of my readers know, I have had an avid interest in
the supernatural since early childhood. Many are the times, as a small child, I
sat wide-eyed and spellbound as my darling grandmother relayed ghost stories
from the past as we sat around a warm, cozy fireplace on those chilly winter
evenings.
I have been asked on numerous occasions by various people
about what my most frightening experience was. When I answer that I have had
several such experiences, they want to know which was the most hair-raising.
So, since the time of Halloween is fast approaching, I have been asked to share
my most eye-popping, feet-tingling experience with you, my readers.
Shortly after the close of the Korean War, upon my return
from the U.S. Marines, I decided that I needed some time to get my thoughts
together and do a bit of reassessing myself. So, I mounted my newly purchased
Harley Davidson motorcycle and headed toward the state of Oregon.
South of the border
After a short stay with my older brother, who lives near
Portland, I ventured back down into the state of California. Deciding that I
needed to see some of old Mexico, I headed south of the border. I secured a
room in an old hotel on the outskirts of Mexico City and began to wander around
the area looking for something exciting that I might be a part of.
Each morning I would ride around the countryside looking at
the sights and the people who lived in the area. Then one morning I came, by
chance, upon the ruins of an old Aztec temple. The temple was in a bad state of
repair; the high wall around the ancient temple had fallen in many places, and
the old temple yards were grown over with tall weeds and heavy underbrush.
The thick heavy underbrush had grown through the cracks in
the ancient stone courtyard. Parking my transportation, I ventured forth into
this place of mystery. As I walked around on the ancient, crude rock floors,
the echoes of my footsteps ricocheted off the heavy stone walls almost as
though someone was hitting the stone floors with a hammer. Even in the broad
daylight, the shadowy and faded light around the temple walls caused the hair
on my neck to tingle and stand at attention.
The owners of the old Del Sol hotel were both very nice
people. Both the owner and his wife could speak fairly good English. I talked
at length with them about the stories they relayed to me about the ancient
Aztec temple.
Certain amount of danger
I mentioned about going there and spending the night, to see
if any of the stories they had told me were true; I wanted to see for myself.
Each advised me against going there during the hours of darkness, saying that
there might be a certain amount of danger within the walls of the ancient
temple.
They informed me that several had gone there with these same
intentions, to spend the night to see and hear if the stories were true about
these spirits from another time. Each had returned, almost frightened out of
their minds, relaying stories of hearing horrible sounds and seeing human
bodies being strapped to the huge white marble sacrificial altar.
Returning to the ancient temple during the daylight hours, I
wanted to familiarize myself as much as possible with the area in which I was
going to spend some time during the hours of darkness. As I entered the very
large room where the huge marble sacrificial altar was located, it seemed as if
I could hear the faint sounds of a distant drumbeat.
The altar was about 20 feet high with steps on two sides
leading up to the huge white marble slab on which those selected victims of
another time had been put to death. The white marble was stained heavily with
the blood of those who had been sacrificed here hundreds of years before. As I
stood there beside the altar, a feeling that I have never experienced before or
since came over me.
Altar room
The ceiling in the very large altar room was almost 80 feet
above the floor. The sounds of the air currents circulating across the huge
open area created a sound that I could never describe. But determined to go
through with my plans, I returned to the old hotel to prepare for a night in
the huge altar room of the ancient Aztec temple.
As I traveled the 18 miles back to the hotel, little did I
know that the owners of the hotel had recruited one of the hotel workers to
accompany me on my venture. An old man known by the name of Barbaree, who I
thought to be about 60 years of age, was to be my companion that night in the
ancient temple. He had volunteered to go since he had been in the temple at
night before as a boy, and he also wanted to ride the distance to the temple and
back with me on my motorcycle. I was to find out later that this was to be his
first ride on a motorcycle.
The evening shadows had begun to gather around the Del Sol
hotel as Barbaree and I mounted my Harley and headed out into the open country.
Near the old temple wall, we dismounted and made our way into the large room
where the ancient marble sacrificial altar stood. Selecting a spot about 30
feet from the base of the altar, we settled down to wait.
Increase in volume
The winds in the high stone ceiling gave off sounds that
seemed to come from another world, as we sat there huddled against the cold,
rough stone pillars. My partner and I had been in the temple for about two
hours as the noises seemed to increase in volume around the great altar room and
in the tall ceilings.
Sitting close together, I could feel my companion shaking as
though he was very cold or frightened. Then, without warning, out of the
darkness, a shrill scream pierced the stillness at the top of the sacrificial
altar. Looking up toward the blood-stained marble slab, I saw the dim figure of
what I thought to be a woman dressed in a long gown being held down on altar by
two men dressed in long robes.
A third man or priest stood above her with a long knife
pointed at her heart. Again the scream echoed across the ancient room and up in
the high ceilings. Struggling to get my breath, I looked again toward the
altar. Down came the large knife, the blade disappearing in the chest of the
woman.
The shadowy figure with the knife seemed to be cutting
something out of the woman’s chest. Then he got to his feet, holding something
about the size of a grapefruit in his right hand high above his head. Dark
drops of what appeared to be blood fell from the object in the shadowy
robe-clad figure’s hand.
Loud, chanting voices
What appeared to be loud, chanting voices and hands clapping
all around us pierced the shadows in the huge room. The sound of heavy
drumbeats seemed to push the loud chanting up into the tall ceilings. This went
on for what seemed to be a couple of minutes.
The faint light around the marble altar had begun to fade as
the shadowy figures around the marble slab disappeared from sight as though
they had never existed. Quietness settled throughout the massive altar room;
nothing moved except two men, who, frightened almost out of their wits, were
trying to make their way to the outer wall where there transportation awaited.
No one at the hotel Del Sol mentioned or asked any questions
as to what we had witnessed that night in the ancient temple ruins. Perhaps
they already knew.
I was glad because many weeks were to pass before the
memories of that frightful night allowed me a fair night’s sleep – a night free
from hair-raising nightmares of that night in an ancient Aztec temple south of
the border.
(Singleton, the
author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the
age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born on
Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County and served as the administrator of the
Monroeville National Guard unit from 1964 to 1987. He is buried in Pineville
Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns
are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County
Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week
for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work
and memory alive.)
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